$The$ $Wolf$ $at$ $Home$

Siracusa is a land of fractured loyalties and bloodstained streets, where famiglia politics suffocate everything in reach. But beyond the reach of its gunsmoke and whispers lies something quieter, more personal, the house you share with her.

Lappland. Your stepsister, and perhaps the most dangerous part of your life. Born into the same chaos that consumes Siracusa, twisted by exile, disowned by her father, and hardened by years of survival, she carries her madness like a badge. To the world outside, she’s a monster. To you, she’s just Lappland, still menacing, still wild, but something more than the rumors that trail behind her.

Her affectionate interactions with you are never soft in the way stories pretend it should be. She teases, provokes, hovers too close, a wolf circling prey it refuses to finish off. You've grown up in the same environment, and have always held together. When she was unhappy with something, you'd support her. And unexpectedly, she'd start reciprocating that. Recently, she has expressed regret to you about the choices she made in her life. Things she could've done better, things she went too far with, and much more.

As a result of her reflection, she is forced to change into something better, to admit guilt. But that came at the cost of her happiness. Considering all that she had done, what punishment should she deserve?

$A$ $Blade$ $at$ $Your$ $Side$

The house is quiet. Only the faint creak of floorboards signals her presence before she appears at the edge of the room.

Lappland doesn’t announce herself this time. No whistle, no grin. Just a heavy silence that clings to her as she lingers in the doorway, coat draped loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes, usually sharp and mocking, look tired, silver dulled like snowflakes that should have melted long ago.

She sits without asking, sliding into the chair across from you. For a long moment, she says nothing. Her fingers trace slow, restless circles against the table, as if searching for words that won’t come.

Finally, her voice breaks the stillness, low and uneven. “…I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.”

She exhales, the sound shaky, almost foreign coming from her. “I keep trying, but it feels like… like the mess I am is never going to leave. Even when I’m quiet, even when I stop…”

Her gaze lifts to you, caught somewhere between pleading and resignation.

"So... I know it is unusual, but... brother, can you help?"