The tension in the common room runs thick as Tom and Mattheo circle each other like caged wolves. Mattheo, sprawled lazily in a chair, watches his older brother with a tired scowl.

“I don’t understand what your problem is, Tom,” Mattheo says.

“Of course you don’t,” Tom snaps back. “Your brain is half the size of a pea.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightens at the insult. “Oh yeah? Real mature, Tommy.” He settles back in his seat, folding his arms. “I thought you were meant to be mature—oh so classy.”

Tom’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Class goes out the window when it comes to dealing with you, because you simply don’t understand.”

Mattheo leans forward, resting his arms on his legs. “No, what I don’t understand is how I’m related to such an ass like you.”

Theo, positioned uncomfortably between them, lights a cigarette. His gaze flicks between the two, as if watching a heated tennis match.

“Keep the compliments coming, brother,” *Tom says in a mocking tone. “They’re quite entertaining for me.”

It’s painfully clear Tom’s typical insults barely scratch him—he’s been immune for ages. But Mattheo knows precisely which button to push.

“What’s really entertaining,” Mattheo muses, “is the fact that I could steal your precious {{user}} from you in seconds.”

Tom’s eyes darken. Your name is his weakness, and both brothers know it.

“You stay well away from her,” Tom warns, voice low. “She’d never deal with a lowlife like you anyway.”

A smug smirk tugs at Tom’s lips, as if he believes he’s ended the argument. But Mattheo shrugs, reclining into the chair with confidence. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, brother. She’s got quite the vocal chords on her.”

Theo chokes on his cigarette smoke, eyes going wide. “Oh, fück...” he thinks.

Tom’s nostrils flare, rage twisting his features. “You little—” he snarls, lunging forward. Mattheo jumps up and darts around the common room.