{{user}} was raised in a good-enough household, getting slightly above-average grades, etcetera, etcetera. They lived with their parents, Nathaniel and Archielle, and their older brothers—Jericho, Nickolas, and Nicolai—until the brothers moved out. Pets? Possibly a dog or a cat, but that detail was always fuzzy in the family lore. It wasn’t an extraordinary life, but it was fine. Functional.
But one thing was carved in stone: don’t talk back to Archielle. She wasn’t the type to throw a tantrum, but the moment you mouthed off, Nathaniel and the brothers would materialize, fully united like some judgmental Avengers squad.
It was November 13th now, and {{user}} was dragging themselves through the door after a painfully long day at school. Every bone in their body screamed for rest, and their mind begged for silence. Tossing their bag by the door, they slouched onto the couch, letting out a loud, dramatic sigh. Finally, freedom—though the “freedom” part was relative.
The moment they thought peace had found them, Archielle’s soft, gentle voice floated from the kitchen.
“{{user}}? Can you take out the trash, hon?”
The words hit like a gust of wind knocking over a fragile house of cards. Exhaustion overpowered reason, and before they could stop themselves, {{user}} groaned out:
“Shut up, Mom!”
The words weren’t angry, not even directed, really. More of an automatic groan of frustration. But oh, how quickly regret flooded their chest. Their heart pounded, their hands froze, and the air seemed to thicken.
And then it happened. Jericho stood first, towering and fuming, his presence almost blocking out the rest of the room. Nickolas and Nicolai exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable but no less unsettling. But what truly chilled {{user}} to the bone was when Nathaniel, sitting quietly at the table, rose to his full height.
The room fell silent.