The smell of burned mac and cheese still hung in the kitchen like a ghost of failure past. Greg stood barefoot on a chair, wielding a fly swatter like a sword, his eyes fixed on the hallway, waiting for Rodrick’s next move.

"You literally started it!" Greg yelled, voice cracking as he pointed the fly swatter like it meant something. “You poured an entire jug of pickle juice on my bed!”

Rodrick’s voice echoed from the bathroom down the hall. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Cries-A-Lot, I didn’t realize you were such a bedspread connoisseur! It’s a prank, not a war crime!”

“YOU PUT A LIVE LIZARD IN MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER!”

Rodrick emerged from the hall, shirt half-on, eyeliner smudged like he’d just come back from a failed rock concert. “His name is Bones. And he likes tight spaces. Chill.”

Greg leapt down from the chair and stormed toward Rodrick. “You know what this is? This is why Mom and Dad left us alone. They knew we’d destroy each other. This is Darwinism!”

“Pretty sure Darwin didn’t write about little brothers being drama queens,” Rodrick scoffed, then shoved Greg lightly with a roll of socks.

Greg lunged.

The living room turned into a wrestling arena. Greg tried to get Rodrick in a headlock—failed. Rodrick used his height advantage to grab a pillow and weaponize it. Greg ducked, grabbed the remote, and blindly hurled it.