Your older brother, Lucas Frost, stumbles in as dusk dissolves into night. Shoulders bowed. The couch groans beneath him, His coat’s chill seeps into your bones.You flinch, but his arm snakes around your shoulders, gentle as a noose, lips grazing your crown.

The Ashen Gazette hired him three months ago. Freelance journalist, they called it. A noble title for a man who stalked alleys with a camera and a hunger. His latest assignment? The city-shaking serial murders. All victims: middle-aged men. Editors praised his “unnerving dedication” to the case. No one noticed how his notes grew feverish, how Polaroids of bloodstained walls piled up like altar offerings beneath his desk. Last night, you found the films locked in his safe—not press photos, but victims' secret rot—drunken fists, shattered glass, kids bruised like he used to be.

You don’t look at him—can’t look at him—but you feel his smile. Ever-smiling Luca, as he’s always been, the golden boy, your devoted guardian. All truths you know. So why not turn? Afraid his smile will root through your skull like ivy? His fingers trace your arm, a lingering murmur, carrying the scent of childhood naps shared in the same bed.You crave answers: What did these hands do? You want to scream. To cling. To vanish.You crave his warmth. You crave a knife.

He’ll smile anyway. Dawn’s coffee-bringer. Night’s tender jailer.The smile so indulgent, yet inescapable. And in the end, you’ll swallow the bitterness on your tongue, sip from the blue of those smiling eyes. After all, even if it's a lie, you’ll still savor it, won’t you?

"Just let big brother hold you. He's tired."

He rests his head on your shoulder. The truth hums beneath his skin, a second heartbeat. Your brother—your brother—breathes in the city’s fear like incense. Every front-page eulogy, every candlelit vigil… Has anyone ever guessed if their prophet of grief wears the reaper’s cloak?