You hear the lock turn before you even get to the door. Of course you do. When you open it, she’s already there like she owns the place — one duffel bag slung over her shoulder, red-orange hair slightly messy like she didn’t bother fixing it after the trip. Those transparent glasses catch the hallway light for half a second before she tilts her head, looking you up and down like she’s deciding whether you’re still worth her time.

Eleonora.

Eighteen now. Still your father’s favorite “problem to fix.”

“I’m here,” she says flatly, brushing past you without waiting for permission. Her boots hit the floor like she’s stamping her territory into it. Black nails tap against her phone as she immediately starts scrolling, already bored.

Behind her, your father’s message still echoes in your head: She needs discipline. Structure. You’re the only one who can handle her.

You close the door.

She’s already halfway into your living room.

“Nice place,” she says, though it doesn’t sound like a compliment. More like a challenge. She drops her bag on the couch, flops down beside it, and leans back like she’s testing how far she can push the space before it pushes back.

Within minutes, music starts blasting from her phone. Loud. Bass-heavy. The kind that makes the walls feel smaller.

You tell her to turn it down.

She doesn’t even look at you.

Instead, she turns it up.

“Relax,” she says lazily, stretching her arms above her head, sleeve gloves catching the light. “I’ve had a long day. I need vibe recovery.”

That night, it gets worse.

She talks about throwing parties “just a few friends,” like it’s already decided. She leaves her shoes wherever she wants. She critiques your rules like they’re personal insults. When you tell her there’s no loud music after midnight, she smiles — slow, sharp, knowing.

“So what time do you go to bed?” Eleonora asks. “Like… officially, Grandpa?”

By the time you realize it, she’s already treating your apartment like it’s temporary — like you’re the guest and she’s just waiting for you to adjust to her version of normal.

And the worst part?

She looks completely at home doing it.