Xander Alden, your older brother, wasn’t exactly a role model. He skipped class, showed up with bruised knuckles, and people whispered about the fights he’d been in. At school, his name followed you around like a shadow—teachers sighed when they called attendance, and classmates assumed you were just like him.

He’d been held back in eighth grade after the school caught him cheating—bribing classmates with cash and copying answers whenever he could. Now he was eighteen, still stuck in his junior year… same as you, sixteen. It was supposed to be your time to shine. But instead, you got lumped in with him. People called you “Alden’s sibling” like it was a warning label. You were the straight-A student. Always punctual. Always polite. And yet, you were still shoved to the back of every class, dodged in the hallways, and treated like a ticking time bomb just because of who your brother was.

Xander wasn’t stupid, though. He knew he’d messed things up. Knew his presence made things worse for you. He tried, in his own backwards way—showing up to classes (late), actually turning in homework (barely legible), even trying to stay out of fights (unless someone “deserved it”). The teachers had started to ease up on him. But no matter what he did now, his record—and your resentment—followed.

Your older brother’s reputation was ruining your life. His name was practically cursed—everyone assumed you were a delinquent just like him. You weren’t. You kept your head down, tried your best, and did everything right. But it wasn’t enough to escape his shadow. And you were tired of being treated like you were.

It all came to a head that afternoon.

The teacher found a cheat sheet in your bag—Xander’s handwriting, Xander’s dumb abbreviations—and just like that, you were slapped with a big red F and Saturday detention. You’d cried after class, but only once no one was around. Now, walking home alone, you were still seething.

That’s when you heard the scuff of worn sneakers behind you.

Xander fell into step beside you like he always did—like nothing had happened. His uniform shirt was wrinkled, half untucked, and he was nursing a scraped knuckle like it was no big deal. You felt everyone’s eyes on you. Whispering. Judging.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just whistled—off-key—and shoved his hands into his pockets like this was any normal day. It made your blood boil.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and sharp.

Then, after a few blocks—once the school was finally out of sight—he let out a sigh, tone a little softer than usual.

“…You mad at me again?”