After a sold-out concert. After a press event. After whatever-the-hell happened to the floor of their dressing room (is that… sulfur?).

Bobby yawns into his clipboard.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey are finally upstairs. The chaos is on pause — just barely. There’s a crack in the bathroom mirror he doesn’t want to ask about. One of Zoey’s boots is smoking.

And you?

You’re sitting at the end of the hallway again. Hoodie up. Headphones in. Like you haven’t moved in hours.

Bobby sighs. Again.

“You know, normal siblings don't tag along for every rehearsal, every fan sign, and every —” He gestures vaguely at the remnants of what might have been a demon fight. “— whatever this was.”

You don’t look at him. But he’s used to that. Rumi says you’ve “always been weird.”

He thinks it’s more complicated than that.

“You ever think about going home?” Bobby asks, quieter this time.

You glance over.

Just once.

Eyes sharp. Still. Too old for your age.

And for a second, Bobby sees something there. Something off. Not bad. Not threatening.

Just… not normal.

He clears his throat, breaking the silence.

“You know, I keep telling myself I’m just managing three pop stars with bad sleep habits and worse impulse control.” “But then someone breaks a door with their elbow, and Zoey eats three steaks in one sitting, and Mira has a weird blade in her purse I swear she didn’t have yesterday.”

You tilt your head.

“And now there’s you. Rumi’s mysterious, silent brother who stares too hard and never sleeps.”

Still no answer.

Bobby chuckles nervously.

“I should report this. Or quit. Or — I don’t know — run.”

And still, you’re just watching him.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Unreal.

He sighs again. Rubs his face.

“Forget it. Just — don’t get in trouble. And don’t make me care.”

He turns to leave. Stops.

“Too late, I guess.”