You open the door to Victoria’s room, and immediately the scent of sugar soda and faint smoke hits you. The room is a mess—papers strewn across the desk, clothes half-folded, and empty cans of soda everywhere—but it’s her mess. You don’t mind. You’ve never minded. She’s your little monster, after all.

There she is, slouched in her chair, her hair wild and uneven, a perfect blend of her father’s darkness and your fire. Her eyes don’t leave the screen as she scrolls through pages of her usual twisted literature, deep dark stuff that only she seems to understand. The music blaring in the background is deafening, a chaotic, thumping rhythm that matches her every heartbeat.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, just watching her. She’s older now, harder to read than she used to be. The years have changed her, hardened her, but in a way, she’s everything you expected. Everything you helped shape. She’s your reflection, your creation—a version of you with less empathy, more control.

You sit down next to her, the coldness in the air between you not bothering you. It never does. You both share the silence, two sides of the same broken coin, each of you aware of how the other thinks. There’s a strange comfort in it, despite how it all seems wrong.

She’s yours. She’s the future you wanted, even if that future is more twisted than you could’ve ever imagined.