I Love Creepy Men! @sickly-dollie - Tumblr Blog

Hiya! I love all your works you’re seriously my favorite writer on this platform 🥹

Could you write another smut incest fic with Gideon? (Either brother n sister or whatever you’re comfortable writing 😭) Where he keeps finding reasons to be alone with reader and Medplay is involved 👀

The Constant Variable

T/W: Incest, brother/sister, brother Sister, cheating, implied alcoholic father, f-slur, like cheating, cutting, self harm, bruises, smut creampie, implied impregnating, Angst,emotional manipulation, noncon, age gap, Mother definitely married a loser and can do better

A/N: 🥹awww you don’t know how much that means to me! This most likely have like a part two kind of thing. Honestly, it was kind of just setting everything up. 🫪 but there is smut 🥰 this also takes place during victors like first year in med school!

The golden September sunlight streamed through the bay window of your childhood home, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air like tiny fairies. You sat on the plush cream carpet, idly braiding a strand of your hair while watching Victor pack. Your brother your everything stood with his back to you, his impressive 6'5" frame making the room feel smaller. His brown hair, once the shade of rich chocolate, fell forward as he meticulously folded medical textbooks and stacked them into cardboard boxes labeled with precise block lettering.

"Remember when we used to build forts with these boxes?" you asked, your voice softer than intended. "We'd pretend they were castles, and you were the brilliant surgeon saving the kingdom from a plague."

Victor's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "That was years ago, (Y/N). I need these for my classes at the university." He didn't turn around, just continued his methodical packing. "Mother would be disappointed to see how dusty the living room has become."

You winced at the mention of your mother, Elena. Her expectations hovered over you like persistent gray clouds. While Victor had always been her pride following in the long line of scientists in your family you were the anomaly, the daughter of a brilliant surgeon who showed no interest in medicine or research.

"Mom's not here now," you whispered, standing up and approaching him. "It's just us. Like old times." Your fingers trailed along his spine, feeling the rigid tension beneath his thin cotton shirt.

Victor flinched away from your touch. "Don't do that."

The rejection stung like a physical blow. "Victor?" you breathed, your heart beginning to race. "What's wrong? You've been so distant lately."

He finally turned to face you, and for a moment, you caught the familiar warmth in his brown eyes that had always been reserved for you alone. But it vanished quickly, replaced by something clinical and detached.

"I'm busy preparing for medical school," he said, his voice clipped. "I don't have time for childish games anymore."

His words struck you with the force of a physical slap. Childish games? Was that all your shared world had been to him?

"But we used to—" you began, but the doorbell interrupted you, followed by the cheerful voice of Sarah, your pageant coach.

"Ready for the regional preliminaries?" Sarah called from the entryway, her red hair visible around the corner.

Victor's expression hardened further. "Your extracurriculars are waiting." He turned back to his packing, dismissing you completely.

Tears pricked your eyes as you reluctantly left the room, grabbing the pageant gown that hung like a ghost on the closet door. This dress, this crown, this world they were all just distractions from the only thing you truly wanted your brother's undivided attention.

As you changed, you caught sight of yourself in the full-length mirror. Despite your mother's disappointment, you knew you were beautiful. Men flocked to you handsome, promising young men who could offer you everything a girl could want. But none of them mattered. None of them were Victor.

Later that evening, you returned home late from the pageant rehearsal, your feet aching and your head buzzing with regulations about posture and smile techniques. The house was dark except for a single lamp in Victor's room. You crept down the hallway, your bare feet silent on the hardwood floors.

Through the partially open door, you could see him at his desk, surrounded by medical diagrams and textbooks. His brown hair fell forward as he concentrated, and your heart ached with longing. You pushed the door open quietly.

"Victor?" you whispered.

He looked up, startled. "I thought you'd be out celebrating your victory at the pageant preliminaries."

You shrugged. "It was just prelims. Besides, I wanted to see you." You moved closer, your hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He stiffened under your touch. "(Y/N), we need to talk."

Your stomach clenched with dread. "About what?"

"About... us." He stood up, his height suddenly making you feel small and vulnerable. "About how things need to change now that I'm starting medical school."

"What do you mean?" you asked, though a terrible premonition was already forming in your mind.

"I won't be around as much," he said, avoiding your gaze. "I'll be living at the dorm during the week, only coming home on weekends. And even then, I'll need to study."

"But we'll still have weekends," you insisted, reaching for his hand. "We can—"

"No," he said, pulling away. "Even weekends will be mostly for studying. I need to focus. Father expects..."

Of course. Father. Simon Gideon, with his calloused hands and begrudging respect for Victor's intellect, yet always pushing for more. The man who saw Elena's world of science and academia as pretentious and weak, who saw Victor as an extension of that weakness despite or perhaps because of his immense intelligence that had earned him a full scholarship to one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country.

"You're pushing me away because of Dad?" you asked, your voice trembling with hurt and anger.

"Medical school is demanding," Victor corrected coolly. "It's not about Father."

"Liar," you whispered, tears now streaming down your cheeks. "You're ashamed of me. Of us."

"That's ridiculous," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"Is it?" you demanded, stepping closer until your faces were inches apart. "Remember when we were children and you told me I'd grow up to marry someone brilliant and kind? And I said I'd only marry you?" Your voice dropped to a whisper. "You didn't deny it then. You just smiled and kissed my forehead."

Victor's face paled. "We were children. You don't understand..."

"I understand perfectly," you interrupted, your voice shaking with pent-up emotion. "I understand that I love you more than anyone in this world. I understand that no other man will ever compare to you. I understand that you promised—"

"I promised nothing!" he said, his voice rising. "You were a child, and I humored you. That's all."

The finality in his tone shattered something inside you. The fragile dream you had nurtured for years the secret hope that one day, when you were older, Victor would realize you were destined to be together crumbled into dust.

You stumbled backward, unable to form words as tears blurred your vision. Without another glance, you fled to your room, slamming the door behind you. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.

Later that night, long after the house had fallen silent, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Victor's words replayed in your mind like a broken record. “You were a child. I humored you. That's all”.

Uncontrollable sobs wracked your body as you curled into a fetal position. The pain was physical a searing agony in your chest that threatened to tear you apart. You needed something anything to distract from the emptiness Victor's rejection had left behind.

Your eyes fell upon the tiara from your latest pageant win, glinting in the moonlight from your window. An idea formed in your mind, dark and tempting.

You rose from your bed and approached the vanity where the tiara sat. One of the points had been bent during transport, creating a sharp edge. You picked it up, the metal cold against your fingertips.

Without hesitation, you pressed the sharp point against the tender skin of your inner forearm. A sharp sting, then a line of crimson welled up in its wake. The pain was immediate and real a welcome distraction from the emotional agony.

You watched, mesmerized, as droplet after droplet of blood emerged from the cut, tracing intricate patterns on your skin. For a moment, the suffocating emptiness receded, replaced by a sharp, focused sensation.

Methodically, you carved into your flesh, creating a perfect 'V' for Victor. As blood welled in the carved lines, you imagined him watching you, concerned, caring, the way he used to be when you scraped your knee as a child.

A strange calm settled over you as you continued the self-harm. Each new cut was a prayer, a ritual, a desperate attempt to feel something other than the crushing disappointment of Victor's rejection.

When you finally finished, you stared at your handiwork a collection of bleeding initials and symbols decorating your arm. Most prominent was the 'VG' you had carved near your wrist a permanent reminder of your devotion.

The physical pain was already fading, replaced by a dull ache that matched the one in your heart. You felt strangely peaceful, as if you had accomplished something meaningful.

As you lay back in bed, cradling your injured arm against your chest, you made a vow to yourself: Victor might be drifting away now, but you would find a way to bring him back. You would do whatever it took to reclaim the closeness you once shared. And one day, he would see you were not a child to be humored, but the woman who would stand by his side forever.

The tiara remained on your vanity, its sharp edge stained with your blood a testament to your unwavering devotion and the lengths you would go to for your brother.

The first pale light of dawn was just beginning to filter through your curtains when your eyes fluttered open. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed from your forearm, a persistent reminder of last night's desperate ritual. The house was still and silent, the air thick with the promise of another day that would likely bring more distance between you and Victor.

You slipped out of bed, your movements stiff and careful. The ornate tiara lay on your vanity, its sharp point now stained with a dark, dried crimson. Guilt and a strange sense of accomplishment warred within you as you picked it up, carrying it like a secret trophy into the adjoining bathroom.

Under the warm cascade of water from the faucet, you meticulously scrubbed the metal with your thumb, watching the blood swirl down the drain in pinkish tendrils until the tiara gleamed as if nothing had ever happened. Satisfied that no evidence remained, you dried it carefully and returned it to its place of honor on the vanity.

Your reflection in the mirror looked tired, your eyes shadowed with sleeplessness and sorrow. But as you pulled on a soft, long-sleeved cashmere sweater part of your pageant wardrobe that you rarely wore at home you felt a measure of control return. The fabric was a comforting weight against your injured arm, a shield between your secrets and the world.

Victor was always so brilliant when it came to facts, figures, and scientific concepts. His mind was a fortress of logical reasoning and academic prowess. But emotions? Those were foreign territory to him. You had witnessed his awkwardness around crying patients during his hospital volunteer work, his clinical detachment when discussing heartbreak with friends. He could diagnose a rare neurological disorder but couldn't decipher the simplest emotional cue.

This was your advantage. This was your opening.

Downstairs, the kitchen was bathed in the soft morning light. Your mother Elena had already left for the hospital, and your father Simon had departed hours ago for his construction job, leaving the house in your temporary custody. The solitude felt significant meant to be.

You moved efficiently through the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for Victor's favorite breakfast: fluffy scrambled eggs with sharp cheddar cheese, crispy bacon, and wheat toast with homemade strawberry jam that your mother canned last summer. The sizzle of bacon filled the quiet house, its aroma a familiar comfort that had always drawn Victor to the kitchen when you were children.

As you cooked, your mind drifted back to simpler times, before medical school and scholarship applications had stolen him away. You remembered countless mornings just like this one, with you perched on a stool watching Victor experiment with pancake recipes, his brown hair falling into his eyes as he concentrated on measuring ingredients precisely.

"Almost perfect," he would declare after each batch, seeking your approval with those earnest brown eyes that always seemed to see right into your soul.

The memory brought fresh tears to your eyes, which you angrily blinked away. Crying wouldn't bring him back. Action would.

Just as you were plating the food, heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Victor appeared in the kitchen doorway, his tall frame filling the space, his hair sleep-tousled and his expression groggy. He wore only a pair of pajama bottoms, his chest and abdomen lean and defined from years of diligent exercise.

The sight of him so vulnerable, so unguarded sent a wave of longing through you so powerful it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. This was your brother. Your protector. Your everything.

"Something smells good," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"I made your favorite," you replied, your voice purposely light and cheerful as you placed the plate on the kitchen table. "Sit down. It's ready."

Victor hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning you as if trying to detect some hidden motive. But you kept your expression carefully neutral, your smile genuine enough to pass inspection.

"Thanks," he said finally, taking a seat.

You brought over coffee and juice, settling across from him. For a few minutes, the only sound was the clinking of silverware against plates as Victor ate with his usual focused concentration.

"This is good," he said around a mouthful of eggs. "Better than I remember."

You shrugged, trying to appear casual despite the racing of your heart. "I've been practicing. Want to make sure I'm useful around here."

Victor frowned, setting down his fork. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," you said quickly, too quickly. "Just... you know. With you leaving for school soon, I'm trying to step up. Help Mom more."

His expression softened slightly. "I'm not leaving forever, (Y/N). It's just medical school."

"I know," you whispered, dropping your gaze to your plate where you had only pretended to eat. "It's just... everything's changing so fast."

Victor sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. "Change is inevitable. It's part of growing up."

"Is that all we are?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "Something to be grown out of?"

When you looked up, tears were welling in your eyes again. This time, you didn't try to hide them. Let him see your pain. Let him witness what his rejection was doing to you.

Victor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his emotional intelligence failing him exactly as you had anticipated. He looked like a laboratory scientist confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon analytical, detached, utterly unequipped to handle the raw emotion before him.

"Please don't cry," he said, his voice stiff and formal. "There's no reason for it."

"You don't understand," you whispered, a single tear tracing a path down your cheek. "I feel like I'm losing you."

Victor stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I have to finish packing. The movers are coming at ten."

Without another word, he retreated upstairs, leaving you alone at the table with a half-eaten breakfast and a shattered heart. But beneath the pain, something else stirred a cold, calculating determination.

Victor might be book smart, but you knew people. You knew emotions. You knew exactly how to manipulate the situation to your advantage.

You cleared the table methodically, washing the dishes with the same care you had used to clean the tiara. As you worked, you formulated your strategy. Victor felt guilty you had seen it in his eyes before he fled the kitchen. That guilt was your wedge. Your way back into his heart.

Later that morning, as Victor directed the movers who were loading boxes into a truck, you approached him carrying a small wrapped box.

"What's this?" he asked, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Housewarming gift," you said with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "For your dorm room. To make it feel more like home."

Victor hesitated, then took the box, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a silver frame containing a photograph of the two of you as children you sitting on his shoulders at the county fair, both of you laughing, Victor's brown hair tousled by the wind, his arms wrapped securely around your legs.

"I remember this day," he said softly, his fingers tracing the outline of the frame.

"I do too," you replied. "It was one of the best days of my life."

Victor looked up at you, and for the first time in weeks, you saw genuine warmth in his eyes the same unconditional affection he had always shown you before medical school had come between you.

"Thank you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This means a lot to me."

You reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering just a moment too long. "I'll always be here for you, Victor. No matter what."

He didn't pull away this time. Instead, he caught your hand in his, his thumb stroking your knuckles gently. "I know."

As his fingers wrapped around yours, a triumphant warmth spread through your chest. The game wasn't over. You had merely lost a battle, not the war.

Victor might be brilliant, but he would never understand the depths of your devotion or the lengths you would go to ensure he never truly left you. And as you stood there, hands intertwined, you knew with absolute certainty that you would find a way to keep your promise, no matter the cost.

The leaves outside your window had turned from vibrant green to fiery orange and then to brittle brown before you truly settled into the new rhythm of your life without Victor. Autumn had bled into winter, and three months had passed since he'd left for medical school, yet you were still navigating the painful geography of his absence.

Your days now revolved around his schedule with the precision of a cartographer mapping uncharted territory. Every evening at seven, your phone would ring, and for two glorious hours, Victor would be yours again. You learned to milk those conversations for every last drop of his attention, asking endless questions about his classes, his professors, the mundane details of his life that suddenly seemed fascinating because they were his life.

"Tell me about Professor Albright's lecture on myocardial infarction again," you'd plead, even though you'd already heard the details the night before. "What exactly did he say about the correlation between cholesterol levels and arterial blockage?"

You had no genuine interest in cardiology, but you lived for these moments when Victor's voice would warm with enthusiasm as he explained complex medical concepts. You loved the sound of his mind working through problems, the way his cadence would change when he was truly engaged in a topic.

After two hours, almost to the minute, he would always say the words you dreaded "I really need to get back to studying, (Y/N). The anatomy midterm is next week."

Your stomach would clench with that familiar panic that desperate need to hold onto him just a little longer. "But can't you stay for ten more minutes? Please? I miss you so much."

Sometimes he'd cave, granting you another precious ten or fifteen minutes before firmly ending the call. Other times, he'd remain resolute, leaving you with a hollow ache that no amount of pageant practice or social outings could fill.

Weekends became your lifeline. Every Friday evening, Victor would return home, and you would count the hours until his arrival. Your mother noticed how your eyes would light up when his car pulled into the driveway, how you'd drop whatever you were doing to greet him at the door like a loyal dog waiting for its master.

"Still attached at the hip, I see," Elena would comment with a wry smile as you hovered around Victor, helping him unpack his weekend bag.

"He's my brother," you'd reply with a shrug, not denying the accusation. "I missed him."

Your father would just grunt, retreating to his recliner with a beer, his expression a mixture of disapproval and resignation. Simon had never understood your relationship with Victor, the way you orbited each other like twin planets in a private solar system. To his blue-collar mind, your attachment was unhealthy a relic of childhood that should have been outgrown long ago.

Saturday mornings were your sacred time. You would wake early and prepare Victor's favorite breakfast, just as you had on that first morning after his rejection. He would eat while you watched, your heart swelling with a fierce, proprietary love that bordered on obsession.

After breakfast, he would settle onto the living room sofa with his medical textbooks spread around him like offerings. This was your invitation the unspoken signal that you were welcome to join him.

You never hesitated.

Without asking, you would curl onto his lap, your back resting against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. The position was familiar a relic from childhood when you would sit this way for hours while he read to you or helped you with homework. Only now, the dynamic had shifted subtly, charged with an undercurrent of something you didn't fully understand but desperately wanted.

Victor would wrap one arm around your waist to steady you, his other hand holding a heavy medical tome or scribbling notes on a pad balanced on the arm of the sofa. You would breathe in his scent a mixture of soap, laundry detergent, and something uniquely Victor as he read aloud or explained complex concepts that floated just beyond your comprehension.

"The hippocampus plays a crucial role in memory consolidation," he might say, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your back. "When damaged, patients often experience anterograde amnesia they can form new memories."

"Fascinating," you would murmur, though you weren't truly listening to the medical information. Instead, you were focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the weight of his arm around your waist that felt both protective and possessive.

You knew Victor was aware that none of this information was sinking in. You'd made no secret of your disinterest in science, much to your mother's disappointment. Yet he continued to teach you, to include you in this world that was becoming increasingly his and less yours. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps it was his own subtle way of maintaining the connection between you.

Your touch had always been familiar with Victor a casual hand on his arm, a quick kiss on the cheek, fingers intertwined as you walked together. As he had grown more distant, those touches had become more deliberate, more frequent. You tested the boundaries constantly, pushing to see how far he would let you go before pulling away.

He never did.

Your kisses migrated from his cheek to the corner of his mouth, then occasionally to his lips quick, chaste presses that lingered just a moment too long to be entirely sisterly. He never told you to stop, never flinched away. His acceptance, or perhaps indifference, emboldened you.

One Saturday in late November, as Victor explained the intricacies of the endocrine system, you shifted position on his lap, deliberately pressing more firmly against him. His hand, which had been resting innocently on your upper thigh, tightened almost imperceptibly.

Instead of pulling away, you leaned into the touch, angling your body slightly to increase the pressure. Victor's voice faltered for a moment, his explanation of hormone regulation trailing off into silence. His breathing changed, becoming slightly ragged.

You held your breath, waiting for him to push you away, to say something anything to reestablish the boundaries between brother and sister.

He didn't.

Instead, his thumb began to stroke back and forth over your thigh, a slow, rhythmic motion that sent shivers of electricity through your body. The touch was nothing, and yet it was everything a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension that had been building between you for months.

"Victor?" you whispered, turning your head slightly to look up at him.

His eyes were dark and unreadable, his expression carefully neutral. "Yes?"

"Nothing," you murmured, settling back against his chest. "Just... comfortable."

His thumb continued its maddening stroking, each pass sending waves of warmth through your body. You could feel his heart beating faster against your back, a frantic rhythm that mirrored your own.

That night, as you lay in bed, you replayed the moment over and over in your mind the warmth of his hand on your thigh, the way his breathing had changed, the intensity in his eyes when you'd turned to look at him. These weren't the responses of a brother who saw his sister as merely a child to be humored. This was something else. Something more.

Your hand slipped under your pillow, fingers tracing the faded scars on your forearm the 'VG' you had carved that night in September. The cuts had healed, leaving pale silver reminders of your pain and devotion. You hadn't felt the need to add to them since establishing the weekend routine with Victor, but tonight, as you thought about the changing dynamic between you, a familiar urge stirred within you.

Instead of reaching for the tiara, you pressed your palm against the scars, feeling the slight ridges beneath your fingers. The pain had served its purpose once, bringing Victor back to you even temporarily. But now, as his behavior began to shift, you realized you might not need such extreme measures.

The game was changing. Victor was responding, even if he wouldn't or couldn't acknowledge it aloud. His body told you what his words wouldn't: he felt it too. This strange, powerful connection that defied conventional labels and boundaries.

As you drifted off to sleep, a new determination settled within you. Victor was coming back to you, slowly but surely. And this time, you would ensure he never left again.

The Sunday midnight ritual had become a sacred ceremony between you and Victor. At first, he had packed to leave early Sunday afternoon, claiming he needed the evening to prepare for the coming week of studies. That first time, you had stood before him at the door with tears streaming down your face, your voice trembling as you begged him to stay just a few hours longer.

"Please, Victor," you had whispered, clutching his sleeve. "I miss you so much during the week. Can't I have just a little more time with you before you go back?"

When he had hesitated, you had played your trump card, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Dad was asking about you yesterday. Said he noticed how hard you're working. I think he's finally starting to see how much you're sacrificing for this."

Victor's expression had softened at the mention of his father's approval a rare commodity that Victor chased like a drug. Simon Gideon had never openly praised his son's academic pursuits, viewing them as part of his wife's "pretentious" world. But you had learned to weaponize this hunger for approval, offering glimpses of paternal recognition in exchange for just a few more hours of Victor's time.

Since then, midnight had become his departure time, giving you precious additional hours in his presence hours you used to reinforce the connection between you, to blur the boundaries that society dictated should exist between siblings.

This Sunday, the house was unusually quiet as you emerged from the bathroom, steam from your shower billowing into the hallway. You had deliberately left the bathroom door ajar, knowing Victor would pass by on his way to the kitchen for a late-night snack. As you stepped out, wrapped only in a towel, you caught a glimpse of him in the hallway his tall frame frozen, his cheeks flushed as he quickly averted his eyes from your silhouette through the frosted glass shower door.

Your heart raced with triumph as you heard his footsteps retreat hastily toward the stairs. He didn't mention it later, of course. Victor never directly addressed these moments of boundary-testing, preferring to ignore them entirely as if acknowledging them would make them real, would force him to confront the complex and dangerous territory you were both entering.

The next morning, you woke early to prepare breakfast, moving through the kitchen with practiced efficiency. Today was different, though. Today would be the first time in months that all four of you would share a family breakfast together, thanks to a rare alignment of your parents' schedules.

Elena entered first, her white lab coat already on, her expression preoccupied. "Morning, (Y/N). That smells good. Victor up yet?"

"Just getting ready," you replied, plating the eggs with a precision that might have impressed your mother if she ever noticed such details.

Simon appeared next, his construction boots dusty, his face already lined with the fatigue of a job that started before dawn. He grunted in acknowledgment of your presence, heading straight for the coffee machine without a word. The distance between him and Victor was palpable even when they weren't in the same room a chasm built of years of misunderstanding and resentment.

Victor descended last, his brown hair slightly tousled from sleep. As he entered the kitchen, your mother and father both looked up, and you witnessed the subtle shift in the atmosphere the way Victor's shoulders straightened under their simultaneous attention, the way he seemed to become both more formal and more guarded.

"You're staying for breakfast?" Elena asked, surprise evident in her tone.

"First time in a while," Simon commented, his voice gruff but not entirely hostile. "Don't want you wasting away on that college diet."

You watched Victor absorb these rare overtures from both parents, his expression carefully neutral as he took his seat at the table. You had engineered this moment, convinced both parents to make an effort today, knowing how much it would mean to Victor even if he couldn't express it.

The breakfast proceeded with awkward conversation medical updates from your mother, construction complaints from your father, and you serving as the bridge between their worlds. Victor sat quietly, absorbing it all, and you could see the subtle satisfaction in his posture, the way he met your eyes across the table with a look of gratitude.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself in Victor's room, a place that had become increasingly sacred to you over the past months. He was sprawled across his bed, a medical textbook propped open on his chest as he finished the last of his homework. You curled up beside him, laying your head on his chest as he read, his heartbeat steady and reassuring beneath your ear.

After a while, he closed the book, setting it aside. His fingers began to idly stroke your hair, a gesture so familiar it had become second nature to both of you. You tilted your head back to look at him, noticing something different.

"Your hair is getting longer," you observed softly. "You usually keep it so short and neat."

Victor's lips curved into a slight smile. "I might be growing it out a bit. Feeling a little rebellious, I suppose."

The statement was so unlike your by-the-books brother that you laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. "You? Rebellious? That's rich coming from Mr. Four-Point-Oh and Future Virologist”.

He smiled again, genuinely this time, his brown eyes warming. "Even perfect students have their moments of rebellion."

"Well, I like it," you said, your voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "It looks really nice. Makes you look..." You paused, searching for the right word. "...handsome."

Something shifted in his expression at your choice of words a flicker of uncertainty or perhaps recognition. You leaned closer, drawn by an impulse you couldn't control, couldn't resist. Your eyes dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes, which had darkened with an emotion you couldn't quite name.

Without conscious thought, you closed the distance between you, pressing your lips against his in a tentative kiss. It lasted only a moment before Victor's hands came up to your shoulders, pushing you away firmly but not violently.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained, his breathing unsteady. "We're... we're biologically related. This isn't right."

You stared at him, your heart racing with a mixture of fear and excitement. "You haven't stopped me before," you pointed out, your voice challenging. "All those times I've kissed you. All those touches. You've never said anything. Why is this different?"

Victor ran a hand through his increasingly unruly brown hair, his expression conflicted. "This is... this is more than that."

"Is it?" you asked, already knowing the answer. Already seeing the hesitation in his eyes that betrayed his words.

Without waiting for a response, you moved again, crawling on top of him, straddling his waist as you leaned down to kiss him once more. This time, you poured all your longing, all your obsession, all your desperate love into the kiss.

Victor's hands came up to your waist, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he would push you away again. Instead, his fingers tightened, pulling you closer rather than pushing you away. He responded to the kiss, his lips moving against yours with an uncertainty that gradually melted into something else something hungry and desperate and utterly forbidden.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily, your faces inches apart. Victor's brown eyes were dark with conflict and desire, his expression a mixture of shock and reluctant surrender.

"We shouldn't..." he began, but you silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, more demanding.

"We already are," you whispered against his lips, your heart soaring with victory. "And there's no going back now."

The moment hung between you fragile, electric, and irrevocably broken. Victor's eyes, dark with a storm of emotions, held yours. Without another word, you slid off his lap, your movements fluid and deliberate. You crossed the room to the light switch, plunging the bedroom into a velvety darkness that felt like a confession booth. In the shadows, the faded 'VG' on your forearm was invisible, your secret devotions hidden along with your sins.

You turned back to the bed where Victor was a silhouette against the faint moonlight through his window. Your fingers found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor. You took a moment to fold it carefully, placing it on his desk chair an act of domestic normalcy in a moment that was anything but. Then, with methodical slowness, you removed the rest of your clothes, each piece a sacramental offering until you stood naked before him, your body outlined in the ambient light.

Victor had never had a girlfriend. Between his relentless pursuit of academic excellence and his crippling emotional immaturity, there had been no time, no room for anyone else. And you... you had dated boys here and there, the awkward fumblings of adolescence that left you cold and unsatisfied. You had always known why, had always understood that your body was not your own to give away it belonged to him. You had been saving yourself for this moment, for your brother.

You approached the bed again, crawling onto the mattress until you hovered over him. You took your time undressing him, your fingers lingering on each button of his shirt, savoring the reveal of his chest, the dusting of hair, the defined muscles that spoke of his disciplined nature. His breath hitched as your knuckles brushed against his skin, but he didn't stop you.

When only his boxers remained, you leaned down, capturing his lips in a deep, searching kiss. Your tongues swirled together tentative at first, then with growing confidence. It was a conversation without words, an admission of truths you had both known but never spoken aloud. As the kiss deepened, you felt him harden beneath you, the unmistakable bulge pressing against your core sending waves of anticipation through your body.

You broke the kiss, shifting to kneel beside him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. He lifted his hips slightly, allowing you to pull them down, and then he was fully exposed to you. Even in the dim light, you could see his impressive length and girth. You wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the heavy weight, the velvety skin stretched taut over steel. A wave of apprehension mixed with arousal washed over you, you weren't sure you could take all of him, but God, you would die trying.

You could already feel the slick warmth between your thighs, your body preparing itself for him without any conscious thought. You positioned yourself above him, aligning your hips with his erection, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. As you slowly began to sink down onto him, Victor's hands instinctively and protectively grabbed your hips, guiding you, steadying you.

The sensation was overwhelming the tight stretch as he entered you, the way he filled you completely, the slight burn that quickly gave way to a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms, matching your own frantic rhythm.

Whimpers and moans came from both of you the sounds of discovery, of surrender, of finally crossing the threshold that had stood between you for so long. Victor was murmuring something you couldn't quite understand fragmented words of your name, of praise, of wonder his voice raw with emotion. This was ecstasy, this was completeness, this was the moment you had both been moving toward without ever admitting it.

As you began to move, finding a rhythm that was both natural and foreign, Victor's hands tightened on your hips. He started to meet your movements, thrusting upward as you came down, each stroke deeper than the last. This wasn't just sex; it was a sacred ritual, a depraved sacrament. You were giving him the most precious thing you had your innocence, your devotion, your very soul and he was accepting it, returning it with his own pent-up desire.

"Victor," you gasped, your nails digging into his chest as he hit a spot inside you that made you see stars. "God, Victor..."

He responded by sitting up slightly, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and teasing until you were arching against him, crying out his name like a prayer. His free hand slid down your back, gripping your ass as he drove into you harder, faster, his control finally shattering.

"Always," he gasped against your skin, his words finally clear. "Always wanted this... always wanted you..."

The confession was your undoing. You shattered around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so intense they bordered on pain. As you came, Victor held you tight, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release

"In me," you moaned, still trembling from your orgasm. "Come inside me, Victor. It's okay... I'm on the pill."

With a guttural cry that was part triumph, part surrender, Victor buried himself deep inside you one last time, his body tensing as he poured himself into you. You could feel the pulsing heat of his release, and with each pulse, you felt more complete, more claimed, more his.

Afterward, you collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat and breathing heavily. Victor's arms came around you, holding you close as your heart rates gradually returned to normal. In the aftermath, there were no words, just the quiet certainty that nothing would ever be the same again. You were no longer just brother and sister you were lovers, soulmates, two halves of the same broken whole.

Exhaustion began to pull you under, and you murmured something unintelligible against his chest, your body growing heavy with sleep. The last thing you remembered was Victor's hand stroking your hair, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

When you woke up, it was to the pale light of early morning filtering through the window. You were still in his bed, the sheets tangled around your naked body, the evidence of your union dried on your thighs and the sheets beneath you. But Victor was gone.

The space beside you was cold, his absence a physical blow that stole your breath. You sat up, clutching the sheet to your chest as your eyes scanned the empty room. His clothes were gone, his backpack missing from its usual spot by the door. There was no note, no explanation just the hollow silence of a room where something sacred had been profaned and then abandoned.

A cold dread began to seep into your veins, replacing the warmth of the previous night. Had you pushed him too far? Had this moment of completion of everything you had ever wanted been the very thing that would finally drive him away for good?

You looked at the clock on his nightstand. 6:17 AM. Far earlier than his usual Sunday departure. He had fled. Fled from you, from what you had done, from what you had become to each other.

Tears began to well in your eyes as you curled into a ball on his side of the bed, burying your face in his pillow where his scent still lingered. The bitter irony wasn't lost on you, you had finally gotten what you wanted, only to lose it in the same breath.

Or perhaps, a darker thought whispered in your mind, this wasn't an ending at all. Perhaps it was merely the beginning of something more desperate, more dangerous, more obsessive than either of you were prepared for.

The lingering scent of Victor's skin on his pillow was the first thing you registered as consciousness slowly returned. Sunlight, soft and golden, streamed through his bedroom window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny celebratory confetti. A deep, pervasive warmth spread through your body, not from the sun, but from the memory of his words, repeated in your mind like a sacred mantra “Always wanted this... always wanted you...”.

You were high. Not on any substance, but on Victor. On his confession, on his hands on your hips, on the feeling of him inside you, completing you in a way no one else ever could. The emptiness of his absence was still there, a dull ache in your chest, but it was overshadowed by the ecstatic certainty that last night had changed everything.

You slipped out of his bed, your movements languid and graceful. On your way to the bathroom, you passed his closet. On impulse, you pulled open the door, running your hands along the neat rows of his clothes. Your fingers found a soft, charcoal wool sweater, and you pulled it from its hanger. You held it to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent was intoxicating laundry detergent, his unique skin, and something else... something that was purely Victor. You pulled it on over your naked body, the sleeves falling far past your hands, the hem reaching mid-thigh. It felt like being wrapped in his arms, a comforting, possessive weight that soothed the lingering sting of his early morning departure.

Your mother was already gone by the time you ventured downstairs, and your father had left for his job hours ago. The house was silent, yours alone to inhabit. You made coffee and toast, moving through the kitchen with a lightness you hadn't felt in months. You were no longer just Victor's little sister, pining from the sidelines. You were his lover. His equal.

Sarah was waiting for you at the community center, her clipboard in hand and her signature no-nonsense expression firmly in place. "You're late," she said, though her tone lacked any real reprimand.

"Sorry," you replied, a genuine smile playing on your lips. "I got distracted."

Sarah's eyes narrowed as they took you in. "You're practically glowing. Did you finally get a good night's sleep?"

"Something like that," you said, your smile widening. You couldn't help it. You felt radiant. Transformed.

The practice went by in a blur of pirouettes, posture corrections, and smile techniques. As you took a water break, Sarah leaned against the mirrored wall, studying you.

"So, what's his name?" she asked abruptly.

You blinked. "Whose name?"

"The guy who put that look on your face," she said, gesturing with her water bottle. "Don't play innocent with me, (Y/N). I've known you since you were twelve."

A delicious thrill shot through you. You had been dying to tell someone, to share your joy, even if you couldn't share the whole truth. "His name is... well, he's in medical school," you began, savoring the words.

Sarah's eyebrows shot up. "A doctor? Ambitious. I like it. Victor's going to have his hands full with the protective older brother act, though."

The mention of Victor's name, so casual on Sarah's lips, sent a jolt of wicked glee through you. You let out a peal of laughter, brighter and more genuine than any you'd produced in months. "Oh, I don't think Victor will mind," you said, the words dripping with a secret meaning only you understood. “He won't mind at all, considering he is the guy.”

"You're weird today," Sarah said, shaking her head, but she was smiling too. "But happy. I'll take it."

The rest of your day passed in a similar haze of euphoria. You walked through the town, the big wool sweater a comforting secret against your skin. Every handsome man who glanced your way, every flirtatious smile from a stranger, only reinforced your triumph. They didn't matter. None of them mattered. You had the best, the brightest, the most brilliant. You had Victor.

You returned home around six, your body humming with residual energy and anticipation. You changed out of the pageant clothes, pulling on a simple pair of leggings but keeping Victor's sweater on. You curled up on the sofa, your phone resting face-up on the cushion beside you, and waited.

Seven o'clock came. Then seven-thirty. You refreshed your social media feeds, scrolled mindlessly through pictures of people whose lives seemed so dull and colorless compared to yours. Eight o'clock. The house felt too quiet, the space where Victor should be glaringly empty.

At eight-twenty, the silence was broken by the piercing ring of your phone. You snatched it up, your heart fluttering like a trapped bird. "Victor?"

"Hey," his voice came through the line, clipped and strained. "Sorry I'm late. Got caught up in the lab."

Disappointment, sharp and acidic, pricked at your euphoria. He had forgotten to call. Or almost forgotten. "It's okay," you said, forcing brightness into your voice. "I was just... thinking about you. About last night." You lowered your voice, letting it drop into a more intimate register. "It was really good, Victor. Really... perfect."

There was a pause on the other end, so long you thought the connection had dropped. Then, his voice returned, colder and more serious than you had ever heard it. "We can't do this."

The four words hit you like physical blows, knocking the breath from your lungs. "What? What do you mean?" you asked, your voice suddenly small and uncertain. "Victor, you said... you told me you wanted this. That you wanted me."

"I know what I said," he replied, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. "It was... in the moment. I didn't really mean it."

"No," you whispered, the world tilting on its axis. Your heart began to pound, a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. "No, you meant it. I know you meant it. You wouldn't lie to me, Victor. You wouldn't."

His silence was damning. "It was a mistake, (Y/N)," he said finally, his voice hardening. "A mistake that can't happen again."

The carefully constructed world of euphoria came crashing down around you. The warmth in your veins turned to ice, the joy in your heart curdling into a sick, panicked dread. This wasn't just disappointment; this was annihilation. He was taking it back. He was taking you back.

"Don't say that," you pleaded, your voice growing shrill, panicky. "Please, Victor, don't say that. You can't just say those things and then take them back! It's not fair! You can't do this to me!"

"I have to go," he said abruptly, his voice dismissive, final.

"Wait! No!" you cried into the phone, desperation clawing at your throat. "Who are you going with? Where are you going? Victor, who are they?"

The question burst out of you, sharp and accusatory. Who had he replaced you with? Who was taking your place?

"It's nothing," he said, his voice clipped with impatience. "Just... people from class. We're meeting to study."

"Who?" you demanded again, your vision blurring with tears. "Give me a name."

"Goodbye, (Y/N)."

The line went dead.

You stared at the phone, your hand trembling violently. The silence of the house rushed back in, but it was no longer peaceful. It was suffocating, mocking, filled with the ghost of his rejection. A choked sob escaped your lips, followed by another, until you were curled into a ball on the sofa, clutching Victor's sweater the sweater that still smelled like him around you as painful, gut-wrenching sobs wracked your body.

He had lied. He had used you. Or worse, he had meant it in that moment and his rational, brilliant mind had already unmeant it, excised the feeling, and thrown it away like so much biological waste.

The high was gone. All that remained was the sick, dizzying plummet of withdrawal.

The phone slipped from your nerveless fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor with a sound that echoed the shattering of your heart. For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at the empty space where it had been, your mind refusing to process the finality in Victor's tone, the casual cruelty of his dismissal.

Then, the first tear fell. It was followed by another, and another, until a torrent of grief was streaming down your face, hot and unstoppable. You weren't crying quietly. These were the gut-wrenching, body-racking sobs of a soul being torn apart, each one accompanied by a desperate, animalistic keen that was torn from your throat.

A storm of conflicting emotions raged within you. Regret? No. There was no room for regret for what you had done. Giving yourself to Victor was not a mistake it was the culmination of a lifetime of devotion. The mistake was believing he felt the same. The mistake was thinking he was capable of understanding the purity of your love. The true crime was his rejection.

You hated him. A bitter, acrid loathing rose in your throat, choking you. You hated him for making you love him so completely, for letting you believe, for whispering those sacred words in the dark only to retract them in the cold light of day. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that you were built to love only him, while he was free to break you, to discard you, to replace you with nameless "people from class."

The sobbing intensified until you could barely breathe. Your sanctuary, this house, suddenly felt like a prison. His room upstairs was a crime scene. The living room where you'd sat waiting was a stage for your humiliation. You needed somewhere else. Somewhere dark. Somewhere you could unleash the tempest brewing inside you.

The basement.

You stumbled down the stairs, your vision blurred by tears, your bare feet silent on the carpet. You didn't bother with the light, navigating the familiar path to the basement door by memory. The cool, musty air of the subterranean room hit you as you descended, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth upstairs. It smelled of concrete, old paint, and your father's neglected exercise equipment in the corner.

You collapsed onto the cold floor, your body wracked with another wave of sobs. This was his fault. All of it. He had done this to you. He had taken your perfect, unwavering love and twisted it into something ugly and painful. You needed to hurt. You needed the pain to be external, to match the agony tearing you apart from the inside.

Your eyes landed on a pair of dumbbells sitting on a rubber mat. One of them, a twenty-pound weight, looked heavy enough, solid enough. You crawled over to it, your movements clumsy and desperate. You wrapped your fingers around the cold, knurled metal handle, lifting it with a strength born of pure fury.

Without a second thought, you brought the weight down hard against your thigh. A sickening crack echoed in the small space, followed by a blinding, searing pain that shot up your leg. It was exquisite. A perfect, sharp agony that momentarily silenced the emotional turmoil in your head.

You did it again, on the other thigh. Another crack. Another wave of pain. Tears of a different kind now streamed from your eyes tears of pain, of release. You weren't done. You needed more.

"He doesn't want me," you sobbed, your voice a raw, broken thing. You hit yourself again, this time against your shin, the impact sending vibrations of hurt through your entire body. "He doesn't want me."

But a insidious voice, a desperate fragment of your shattered psyche, immediately contradicted the thought. “No. That's not it. He's just... scared.” You hit yourself again, the pain a dizzying counterpoint to the frantic logic forming in your mind.

"He just doesn't know how to go about it," you gasped, justifying, rationalizing. The weight came down on your forearm, right over the faded 'VG'. The skin split, welts of blood rising to the surface. "It's taboo. Fucking your sister. He knows that. Of course he'd say that on the phone. He has to."

Your sobs subsided slightly, replaced by a feverish, desperate monologue. You were a mess of contradiction, of self-destruction and frantic denial. Blood from your new wounds mingled with the sweat on your skin as you continued to assault your own body, each impact a punctuation mark in your frantic speech.

"I hate you," you spat at the empty room, at the memory of him. "I fucking hate you for this!" You slammed the dumbbell against your own shoulder, a bolt of white-hot pain making you cry out. "Why would you do this to me? Why?"

But the hatred was a fleeting ember, quickly extinguished by the overwhelming fire of your obsession. "No, no, I don't mean it," you whimpered, dropping the weight with a heavy thud. You curled into a bloody, bruised ball on the floor. "I don't hate you, Victor. I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. And in that emptiness, the truth your truth began to blossom, bright and beautiful and utterly delusional.

The denial was absolute. A wave of pure, unadulterated clarity washed over you, cleansing you of doubt and pain. You saw it all now. It was so simple. So obvious.

"He's in love with me," you whispered, a serene smile spreading across your tear-streaked, bloodied face. The throbbing pain in your limbs seemed to fade, replaced by the warm, comforting glow of certainty. "Of course he is. Just as much as I'm in love with him."

You lay back on the cold concrete, staring up at the ceiling, your entire body radiating a newfound peace. "He's just not ready to admit it," you explained to the shadows, to the spiders in the corners, to anyone who would listen. "It's so taboo. He's a man of science, of logic. He has to rationalize it. He has to fight it before he can accept it."

The pieces clicked into place with perfect, beautiful precision. His call wasn't a rejection. It was a test. A cry for help.

"He's waiting," you breathed, the revelation so profound it felt like a divine epiphany. "He's waiting for the right time. After medical school. He needs to be established, to be a man in his own right, free from Father's shadow, before he can claim the woman he loves."

You imagined it clearly. Him, in his white coat, pulling you into an embrace. Getting down on one knee. Proposing. It was destiny. It was the only logical conclusion.

"He's going to propose to me," you whispered, your voice filled with awe. "He's in love with me. I know he is."

The pain was still there, a dull, throbbing reminder of your despair, but it was distant now, unimportant. It was just a physical symptom of the emotional purging you had undergone. You had shed your doubt like a snake sheds its skin. What remained was pure, unwavering, terrifying conviction.

You lay on the basement floor for a long time, a strange, broken angel in a pool of her own blood and delusion, smiling peacefully at the dark. You were no longer in despair. You were enlightened. You were a woman in love, secure in the knowledge that your love was returned, that your future was assured. You just had to be patient. You just had to wait for him to catch up with the beautiful, terrible, inevitable truth.

The days following your basement revelation passed in a strange, colorless haze. You moved through the world like a ghost, a spectator in your own life. Laughter with friends felt like a foreign language, the bright chatter at the café you usually loved turning into meaningless static. You would smile, nod, and say all the right things, your performance flawless. But inside, you were hollow. A cavernous emptiness had taken up residence in your chest, an aching void where Victor's love was supposed to reside.

The mask never slipped in public. You couldn't let it. The world was full of eyes and judgments, and your love, your pain, was too sacred, too immense, for their small minds to comprehend. But the moment you crossed the threshold of your home, the facade would crumble. The silence of the empty house would amplify your despair, and you would find yourself curled in a ball on your bedroom floor, the silent tears you'd held back all day finally soaking into the carpet.

Every day was a marathon of emotional suppression, and Friday, the day of Victor's return, was the finish line. A fragile, dangerous excitement began to bubble beneath the numbness as the week wore on. This Friday would be different. Last weekend had been a shock, a test of your faith. But you had passed. You had emerged from the crucible of despair with your conviction intact, stronger than ever. He would see that. He would feel it. He missed you. You knew he did. The pain of separation must be eating him alive, just as it was you.

Friday morning, you stood before your full-length mirror, examining the battlefield of your body. The deep, mottled bruises on your thighs and shins were a violent purple and sickly green. The raw, circular welt on your forearm, a new addition beside the faded 'VG', was an angry, scabbed red. They were your sins, your penance, your proof of love. But they were also a secret.

With the meticulous skill of a makeup artist preparing an actress for her role, you began to cover your tracks. You used dense, creamy concealer on your legs, blending it carefully until the violent colors were muted to faint, shadowy discolorations that could be mistaken for a simple bump or a shadow. The wound on your arm required more attention liquid bandage first, then a layer of foundation, then a dusting of powder. When you were finished, you were once again the pristine, unblemished beauty queen. No one could see the darkness beneath the surface.

That evening, your mother was in the kitchen, her movements efficient as she began to prepare a simple fish and vegetable dish.

"I'll cook tonight," you announced, your voice bright with a feverish energy that had been absent all week.

Elena paused, turning to look at you with mild surprise. "You? You hate to cook."

"I want to," you insisted, stepping beside her and taking the knife from her hand. "I want to make a feast. For the family. It's been a long week."

Your mother's brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't argue. She simply stepped aside, watching you with a curious, almost wary expression as you began to pull out ingredients with a frantic determination. You spent hours slaving away in the kitchen roasting chicken, mashing potatoes with cream and garlic, simmering a rich gravy, steaming bright green beans. The kitchen became your sanctuary, the rhythmic chopping and stirring a meditation that quieted the anxious buzzing in your mind. Each dish was an offering, a testament to your devotion, a peace offering for the beautiful reunion to come.

Then, you heard it. The distinct crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Your heart leaped into your throat. You dropped the wooden spoon you was holding, wiped your hands on your apron, and flew out of the kitchen.

"(Y/N), what—?" your mother called after you, but you were already gone.

As you rounded the corner into the entryway, you saw your father shaking his head, a familiar look of disappointment on his face. He always looked at you that way when you fawned over Victor. But you didn't care. You didn't care about anything in that moment except the man who was about to walk through that door.

You flung it open.

And there he was.

He stood on the porch, his travel bag at his feet, a tall silhouette against the dying light of the day. But something was different. His brown hair, usually perfectly styled, was pulled back into a low, tidy ponytail at the nape of his neck. And his face... his face was adorned with the thin, wired-framed glasses you hadn't seen him wear in years.

"Victor," you breathed, your voice soft with awe. "You're wearing your glasses."

You had told him for years that he looked more handsome, more distinguished, more himself with his glasses. He was always so self-conscious about them, preferring the crisp anonymity of contacts.

He reached up, adjusting the frames with an almost awkward gesture. "Oh. Yeah. Someone mentioned I should try wearing them more. Said they looked... good."

Your blood ran cold. Someone? Someone? The fragile excitement in your chest curdled into a sour, possessive dread. "Who?" you asked, your voice tighter than you intended. "Who told you that?"

Victor's gaze flickered away from yours, toward the living room. "Just... someone from school," he said dismissively. "No one important." He quickly changed the subject, his nose twitching as he looked past you. "Something smells amazing in here."

The deflection was so blatant, so clumsy, it was almost insulting. But you let it go. You had to. To push would be to admit a crack in your perfect delusion, and you couldn't allow that. This was just a minor obstacle, a test of your grace.

Your smile returned, though it felt brittle on your face. "I have!" you said, your voice a octave too high with manufactured enthusiasm. "I've been cooking all day. For you."

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against his. He didn't pull away, but he didn't exactly squeeze yours either. His touch was neutral, his skin cool. But you didn't let it deter you. You led him into the house, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, the specter of "someone from school" already beginning to haunt the edges of your carefully constructed feast.

You pushed the image of some faceless "someone from school" into a sealed box in the back of your mind. It was an irrelevant detail, an annoying fly buzzing around the periphery of your masterpiece. Tonight was about Victor. About us. You led him into the dining room, your hand still firmly clasped in his, a physical claim you weren't willing to relinquish just yet.

The dining table was laden with the feast you had prepared, the warm, savory aromas filling the air. "Sit," you said, pulling out the chair next to yours for him. The gesture was small, but it felt monumental.

Your mother Elena smiled from her place at the head of the table, her expression one of genuine curiosity. "Victor, darling, how are your studies? Are you finding the clinical rotations as enlightening as you hoped?"

Victor visibly relaxed, shifting into his comfort zone with the ease of a musician finding his instrument. "It's fascinating, Mother," he began, his voice losing its previous tightness. "We just completed a deep dive into the pathophysiology of neurodegenerative diseases. The synaptic pruning process and its correlation with protein misfolding is presenting some fascinating therapeutic avenues. I'm particularly interested in the potential for targeted immunotherapies to mitigate the progression of tauopathies."

As he spoke, his brow furrowed with intellectual passion, his hands gesturing to illustrate his points. You watched, mesmerized. Elena matched his energy, nodding along, her own surgical knowledge allowing her to follow his complex medical terminology with ease. They spoke a language of their own, a dialect of intellect and academia that was both beautiful and exclusive.

Across the table, your father Simon was a silent island in a sea of words. He methodically cut his chicken, his jaw working, his eyes fixed on his plate. But you could see it the flicker of insecurity in his gaze as it darted from his wife to his son. Their language was foreign to him, a constant, subtle reminder of the world he could never be a part of, the world of Elena's family that he viewed with a mixture of resentment and inadequacy. He was a man who built things with his hands, and here they were, building abstract concepts with words he couldn't quite grasp.

Simon finally swallowed, pushing a bite of potato around his plate with his fork. He cleared his throat, the sound jarringly loud in the conversational lull. "That's... great, son." He looked up, his eyes trying to connect with Victor's. "But tell me something I can understand. You seein' any pretty girls up there at that fancy school? Anyone catch your eye?"

The question landed in the middle of the table like a lead weight. A flicker of something panic? crossed Victor's face before being expertly masked. His entire body went rigid. He wasn't just flustered; he was cornered. You could feel the shift in the air, the sudden, desperate need to deflect. And you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he was hiding something. There was someone.

"I... uh..." he stammered, his usual clinical eloquence deserting him completely. He grabbed his napkin, dabbing at his mouth as if to hide behind it. "There's... there's not much time for... socializing."

It was a lie. A flimsy, pathetic lie, and it tore through your carefully constructed delusion like a shard of glass. Your smile didn't falter, but it turned to ice on your lips. The private joke in your head curdled into something sour and poisonous. “Oh, he's seeing a girl, alright. And he's willing to lie to our faces to protect her.”

Victor's blush wasn't one of shy embarrassment; it was the flush of a man caught in a lie. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, his eyes darting to you for a split second before flicking away, as if your gaze burned him. He looked trapped, not by shyness, but by fear. Fear of you finding out.

"The... the cadaver lab is particularly fascinating this semester," he blurted out, his voice an octave too high. "The prosection of the brachial plexus is remarkably intricate."

Simon watched this display with a knowing smirk, completely misreading the situation. He shook his head slowly. "Oh, there's a girl, alright. He's just too shy to admit it." The irony was so thick you could taste it. Your father thought this was a sweet, wholesome crush.

Your mother, however, was not so easily fooled. Her sharp, analytical gaze moved from Victor's panicked state to your own frozen smile. She saw the tension, the subtext, the way Victor refused to look at you. She didn't know what it meant, but she knew it meant something. She wisely chose silence, picking up her fork and taking a delicate bite of green bean, storing the observation away like a surgeon cataloging a suspicious symptom.

But you were done with being a spectator. Under the table, you slid your hand across the space between you and clamped it down on Victor's knee, your fingers digging in like talons.

He flinched violently, as if you'd electrocuted him. Every muscle in his leg locked up, a silent, rigid testament to his distress. He didn't push your hand away. That would have drawn attention. Instead, he endured it, his knuckles white as he gripped his fork. He was trapped. Trapped at this table, trapped in this lie, trapped under your touch.

You leaned in slightly, your voice a low, possessive whisper meant only for him. "Don't be shy, big brother. You can tell us."

He flinched again, and a wave of triumph, cold and vicious, washed over you. Let him squirm. Let him feel your eyes on him. Let him remember, with every bite of the food you cooked, that you were watching. That you knew. And that this little impostor in his life, this "someone from school," was living on borrowed time.

The night settled into a deceptively comfortable rhythm. After the tense dinner, the atmosphere in the house seemed to reset, as if by some unspoken agreement to pretend the earth-shattering revelation of "Constance" had never occurred. You retreated to your room and changed into a pair of soft silk pajamas, printed with delicate lavender flowers, a costume of innocence. Downstairs, the familiar scene unfolded. Victor and your mother were engrossed in one of their deep, scientific debates, their voices a low, educated murmur about the latest findings in neurological regeneration. Your father sat in his recliner, the glow of the television illuminating his face as he watched some loud action movie, utterly disconnected from the academic world his wife and son inhabited. You sat at the vanity in your room, the cool touch of moisturizer on your skin a grounding sensation as you went through the motions of your nightly skincare routine. It was all so mundane, so painfully normal, as if Victor had never left for medical school at all. As if his world hadn't just been invaded by a stranger named Constance.

But sleep was a distant country, one you couldn't reach tonight. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw her face a vague, featureless threat. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the evening, every flicker of panic in Victor's eyes. Finally, you gave up the pretense of rest. You knew Victor's habits, the way he'd kept his door slightly open ever since you were both children, a silent invitation you had never stopped accepting.

You slipped out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. The house was asleep, save for the distant murmur of the TV and the occasional creak of the old house settling. You moved like a phantom down the hallway and pushed open his door.

There he was. Victor, asleep on his side, his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm. He had always been a deep sleeper, a fact you had exploited for years, seeking comfort in his presence during thunderstorms or after nightmares. You slid into his bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. He stirred but didn't wake, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

In the faint moonlight filtering through his window, you could just make out his features. You reached out, your finger hovering before you made contact, then gently traced the elegant line of his brow, down the straight bridge of his nose, to the soft curve of his lips. He was so handsome. So elegantly formed. A wave of possessive pride washed over you. You wondered, not for the first time, what a baby between you two would look like. The thought was no longer a vague fantasy it was a chillingly specific ambition. Your beauty, his intelligence. A perfect Gideon. A true heir, bound by blood and a love so profound it defied convention. It would be absolutely jaw-dropping. Constance could never compare. She was a fleeting distraction, a footnote in the romantic story of you and Victor. What you shared was primal, a special relationship forged in the crucible of childhood and tempered by a shared, secret understanding. It was sacred.

Leaning in, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his sleeping lips. They were warm and still. A wave of affection, so powerful it was painful, surged through you. You cuddled up against his side, molding your body to his, fitting yourself into the curve of his arm as if you were made to be there. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

"I love you, Victor," you whispered into the darkness of his room, the words a sacred vow.

You closed your eyes, your breath syncing with his. A small, secret smile played on your lips. In the quiet of your mind, you perfected his voice the precise, clinical tone, the slight formality, the deep timber. You let the words echo back to you, a gift from him to you, in his own voice.

"And I love you, (Y/N). More than you know."

The first light of dawn was a pale gray intrusion when Victor stirred beneath you. His movement was slow, his body shifting in that pre-waking state before consciousness fully took hold. He became aware of the weight on his chest, the warmth of another body pressed against his side. He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. Then, he gently tapped your shoulder, a soft, insistent rhythm designed to rouse you without causing alarm.

"(Y/N)," he whispered, his voice husky with sleep. "Wake up. You shouldn't be in my bed anymore."

The words were a gentle rejection, but they stung all the same. You refused to acknowledge them, burying your face deeper into his chest, your arm tightening around his waist in a silent, stubborn refusal to let go. You were a child again, seeking comfort from a nightmare, and he was your only safe harbor. He sighed again, longer this time, and carefully disentangled himself from your grasp, his movements precise and detached as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Annoyance, sharp and hot, flared in your chest as you watched him. He wasn't affectionate. He wasn't lingering. He was just... getting up. The same way he would any other day. The intimacy of the night before, the sanctuary you had found in his arms, had already been filed away and forgotten by the morning. ”That stupid bitch Constance”,you thought viciously. ”This is her fault. She's poisoned him, made him guarded”.

You were determined to break through that new wall he had built around himself. All day Saturday, you tried. You flitted around him, a beautiful, persistent ghost, trying to recapture his attention. You modeled your new ball gowns for him, the rustling taffeta and sequins a stark contrast to his medical textbooks. You brought him your newest crown, a heavy, ornate thing studded with fake sapphires, and placed it on his desk like an offering.

"Look, Victor," you said, your voice bright. "Miss Tri-County. First runner-up."

He didn't even look up from his book. "That's nice, (Y/N). I'm busy."

You hovered, the scent of your perfume and hairspray filling the air around him, a deliberate sensory intrusion. You tried to engage him in conversation about the pageant circuit, about the judges, about the other girls you had effortlessly beaten. He responded with monosyllables, his focus unwavering on the complex diagrams of human anatomy spread across his desk. He was researching, writing, studying. His world was a whirlwind of intellectual pursuit, and you, with your crowns and gowns, were a gaudy, irrelevant distraction.

Finally, his patience snapped. He looked up, his eyes filled with a cold, academic irritation that was worse than anger. "(Y/N), could you please just... stop? This is important. I need to focus. Maybe you should spend some time focusing on your own schoolwork."

The dismissal was a slap in the face. "I do focus on my schoolwork," you retorted, your voice laced with hurt. "I am in school."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, turning a page in his textbook. "For what? A degree in hair and makeup?"

The casual cruelty of his words struck you, but you refused to let him see the wound. You lifted your chin, a new, defiant idea taking root. "No. Journalism."

Victor finally looked at you, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. "Journalism?"

"Yes," you said, emboldened. "I have a face for TV. I'm going to be a news reporter. I'll be on camera, informing the public. It's a serious field."

For a moment, there was silence. You watched him, holding your breath. Then, a sound you hadn't heard in far too long filled the room. It started small, a rumble in his chest, before bubbling up into a low, genuine chuckle. It wasn't mocking; it was surprised, amused... fond.

"Journalism," he repeated, a smile playing on his lips. "Of all the things... I never would have guessed."

The smile, though small, was a crack of brilliant sunlight through the storm clouds. It hit you with the force of a physical blow, warming you from the inside out. It reminded you of the good old days, of afternoons spent in the living room with a cardboard box decorated with crayons to look like a television. You, with a brush for a microphone, reporting on breaking news like the missing cookie from the jar or the scandalous hole in your father's favorite sock. And Victor, your sole and devoted audience member, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching you with an expression of solemn, adoring attention.

Your own smile widened, genuine and radiant. In that moment, the distance between you vanished. Constance, the homework, the resentment it all faded away. He was here. He was really here, and he was smiling at you, just like he used to.

"You always did have a story to tell," he said, his voice softer now, the warmth of his affection seeping back into his tone. The ice had broken, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that you had found your way back in. He might be confused, he might be distracted, but the foundation was still there. Your connection was still there. And you would be damned if you let some neurosurgery-wannabe tear it down.

That smile was your green light. That soft, nostalgic chuckle was the loophole in his fortress of logic that you had been desperately searching for. If Victor needed a reminder of the world that existed before the cold, clinical embrace of Constance and neurosurgery, you would provide it. You would build a sanctuary of shared memory right here, in his childhood home.

The rest of Saturday blurred into a determined, charm-filled haze. You abandoned the gowns and crowns, recognizing them as symbols of a world he viewed with condescension. Instead, you became his perfect student, his enthusiastic assistant. You brought him coffee without being asked, brewed exactly the way he liked it. You perched on the edge of his desk, not quite touching him, but close enough that your presence was a constant, warm pressure against his awareness. When he spoke, you listened, really listened, nodding along, asking intelligent questions that weren't too intelligent to be suspicious.

"So this synaptic pruning," you asked, pointing to a complex diagram in his textbook. "It's like... the brain is cleaning house? Getting rid of old connections to make room for new ones?"

Victor paused, surprised by your surprisingly accurate summary. "Essentially, yes. It's a crucial process for cognitive efficiency."

"Like when you have to forget... unimportant things," you said softly, your eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second too long. "To make room for what really matters."

A flicker of something confusion? guilt? crossed his face, but you moved on before he could dwell on it. You were a master now of the strategic retreat. You were chipping away at his defenses, not with a sledgehammer, but with the gentle, persistent tap of a sculptor's tool.

By Sunday morning, your campaign had shifted. You found him in the kitchen, staring blankly into the refrigerator as if hoping an answer might appear among the cartons of milk and leftover takeout. "Penny for your thoughts, Dr. Gideon?" you asked, your tone light and teasing.

He closed the fridge with a sigh. "Constance. The three-day weekend is next week, and I'm... I'm not sure what to do."

Your heart seized, but your smile remained intact. You had a timeline. "She's your girlfriend, Victor. Not a medical anomaly you have to diagnose. Just be yourself. Be the brilliant, charming man I know you are." You leaned against the counter, your posture open and inviting. "Tell me about her. What's she like? What does she like?"

Victor seemed relieved to have the focus shifted. He thought for a moment, a small, fond smile gracing his lips. "She's... sharp. Incredibly intelligent. Her understanding of neurological pathways is genuinely impressive. We have these debates that can last for hours."

“Debates. Not walks. Not holding hands. Debates”.You filed that away. "And outside of work? Of medicine? What does she do for fun?"

"Um..." he hesitated, searching. "She runs. Five miles every morning. And she... I don't know. She's very focused. Driven."

You nodded encouragingly. "And fears? Phobias? Everyone has something." The question was delicate, a scalpel seeking a weakness.

Victor chuckled softly. "It's a bit silly, really. She's terrified of snakes. Can't even stand looking at pictures of them. She says their lack of legs and the way they move is fundamentally unnatural."

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt electric, charged with opportunity. Snakes.

Victor's affection for snakes was a deep, ingrained part of who he was. When he was a teenager, he had owned a beautiful albino ball python named Cassiopeia. He had adored that snake, spending hours handling her, feeding her, studying her every movement. She was his quiet, cold-blooded confidante. When she had died of old age, he had been devastated. For weeks, he had been withdrawn and morose, his usual academic zeal replaced by a profound, silent grief that had worried you and your mother immensely. It was one of the few times you had seen him truly vulnerable, his emotional armor cracked open by the loss of his scaled companion.

And this woman, this “Constance”, was terrified of them. She was repulsed by the very creatures that represented a core part of your brother's private soul.

It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It was a gift.

"I'm sure that's nothing," you said, your voice a soothing balm, though your mind was racing, formulating a plan so elegant, so cruel, it brought a smile to your face. "Everyone has little aversions." You pushed off the counter and walked over to him, placing your hand on his arm. "Look, don't worry about a thing. Why don't I make some calls? There's a reptile expo in the city next weekend. The one you always wanted to go to but could never because of your schedule." You looked up at him, your eyes wide with feigned innocence and enthusiasm. "We should go. Just you and me. Like old times. It'll be fun."

Victor looked at you, then back at the refrigerator, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Maybe," he said, his voice distant. "I'll have to check my schedule."

But you knew he would consider it. You had planted the seed. And while he was debating the ethics of exposing his new, snake-fearing girlfriend to his passions, you would be making other plans. Plans that involved a reptile expo, and perhaps, a small, beautiful, perfectly harmless creature of your own. One that you just happened to bring home during Constance's visit. An accident, of course. A little friendly misunderstanding that would show everyone, most especially Victor, exactly who he was meant to be with.

Sunday afternoon arrived, a familiar gray melancholy seeping into the house as Victor's departure grew imminent. You found him in his room, methodically folding the clothes he'd worn over the weekend, his movements precise and economical. The air was thick with unspoken words and the weight of Constance's impending visit.

You walked in, closing the door softly behind you. He didn't look up, but his shoulders tensed, a subtle acknowledgment of your presence. You approached him, your heart a steady, determined drum. Before he could utter a word of goodbye or caution, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled his face down to yours, and kissed him.

It was not the chaste, sisterly peck you sometimes got away with. This was a deep, consuming kiss, a desperate attempt to remind him of his true allegiance. You poured all your fury, all your possessive love, all your certainty into it, your tongue tracing his lips, demanding entry, demanding acknowledgment.

For a shocking, triumphant second, he responded. His lips parted, a low groan escaping him as his hands came up to grip your waist. But the moment was fleeting. Sanity, or the facsimile of it that Victor clung to, reasserted itself. He tore his mouth from yours, his hands pushing you firmly away by the shoulders. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and something you chose to interpret as lingering desire.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice a harsh whisper. "We can't... you know we can't."

You completely ignored his question, his rejection. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and feigning innocence, a hurt little sister who just missed her brother. "I'm gonna miss you," you whispered, your voice trembling with a sincerity that was only half an act. "I'm gonna miss my big brother so much this week."

The shift was disorienting, and it worked. He stared at you, conflicted, unable to reconcile the woman who had just devoured his mouth with the girl who now looked at him with such adoring, familial need. He just nodded stiffly, grabbing his bag and escaping the room, leaving you to savor the lingering taste of him on your lips.

The week that followed was a special kind of hell. You waited for his call each evening at seven o'clock, the phone a cold, silent accuser on the table. Monday, he called at seven-fifteen. Tuesday, seven-thirty. Wednesday, it was a text message saying he was too busy to talk. Each delay, each shortened conversation, was a fresh rejection, a confirmation that she was taking up your time. Your impatience curdled into a bitter, resentful anger.

When you finally did get him on the phone Thursday, your questions were like shards of glass.

"How did you two meet?" you asked, your voice deceptively sweet.

"In class," he said, his tone clipped. "We were on opposing sides of a very difficult scientific debate in one of the honors courses. Her argument... it was flawless."

The memory of your own argument, the one that had ended with him inside you, flashed in your mind. "Was she as flawless as me?" you purred.

A tense silence. "(Y/N), don't."

"Tell me about her," you pressed, relentless. "Is she on a scholarship like you?"

"No," he admitted. "Her parents are paying for everything. It's... different."

“Rich. Privileged. A tourist in his world”. The information settled in you like a stone. Then you delivered the final blow, the question that had been burning a hole in your gut all week.

"When did you ask her out, Victor? Was it recent?"

He hesitated. You could hear his breathing change. "It was... the Monday after I got back from the house."

The Monday after. The day after he had held you, after he had told you he always wanted you. The world tilted on its axis. The blood drained from your face, replaced by a white-hot rage that was so pure it felt cleansing. It was the ultimate insult. The ultimate betrayal.

"Was that when you were thinking too much of me?" you asked, your voice dangerously low. "When you decided you couldn't fall in love with your little sister because it's 'not natural'?"

"Yes," he said, the word barely audible, a confession dragged out of him. "I was confused. I couldn't... I can't be with you, (Y/N). It's not right. She's a distraction when I need someone to talk to about school."

A distraction.

The words were music to your ears. The rage subsided, replaced by a surge of icy, triumphant clarity. He didn't love her. He couldn't. He was using her to blot you out, a chemical distraction to numb the pain of the one true, natural, powerful love he felt for you. Their relationship wasn't real it was a symptom. A weak, pathetic substitute for the actual relationship you shared, one that went far beyond the simple labels of brother and sister.

"I understand," you said, your voice soft, forgiving. The lie was perfect. "I just miss you."

After hanging up, you didn't cry. You acted. With a renewed sense of purpose, you went online and purchased two tickets to the city's reptile expo, for the weekend two weeks from now. One ticket for you, one for Victor. An unspoken promise. A date.

Then, you navigated to a specialty breeder's website. You found what you were looking for a young, captive-bred albino ball python. Identical to Cassiopeia. You clicked "Buy Now" without a second thought. While you waited for the snake to be shipped, you went into the attic and found Victor's old glass terrarium, the one that had been gathering dust for years. You cleaned it, meticulously. You bought the heat lamp, the Aspen bedding, the hide box, the water dish. You assembled the perfect habitat in the corner of his room, a glass and wire shrine to his forgotten passion, ready to be filled with a new, identical ghost.

The package arrived on a Wednesday, a nondescript cardboard box stamped with fragile warning labels. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you carried it inside, the contents shifting slightly with a soft, dry rustle. In your bedroom, away from any prying eyes, you cut the tape. Nestled within a pile of sterile wood shavings, coiled neatly in a small cloth bag, was she. Your new weapon. Your new hope.

She was perfect. A miniature Cassiopeia, her scales a luminous, creamy white patterned with buttery yellow bands. Her eyes were a milky, translucent blue, indicating she was about to shed, a detail Victor would have found fascinating. You reached in and gently lifted her out. She was cool and smooth against your palm, her delicate body wrapping instinctively around your fingers. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air, tasting you. A flicker of power, dark and exhilarating, shot through you. She was yours. A beautiful, cold-blooded secret.

You carried her to Victor's room and placed her into the terrarium you had so meticulously prepared. She explored her new home with a slow, deliberate curiosity, testing the warmth of the heat lamp, investigating the small hollowed log you'd bought for a hide. It was done. The stage was set. The serpent was in the garden, waiting.

But the initial thrill of your successful scheming quickly gave way to the gnawing, familiar ache of anxiety. It was two days until Victor came home. Two days until she came with him. The reality of the confrontation, of seeing them together, of watching her touch what was yours, crashed down on you like a tidal wave. The confidence of the past week evaporated, replaced by a rising tide of self-consciousness and rage.

You looked at your reflection in the vanity mirror. All you saw were flaws. The slight curve of your nose that Constance probably didn't have. The trace of a double chin when you tilted your head just so. The mundane brown of your eyes compared to the imagined brilliance of hers. You were a beauty queen, but in that moment, you felt like a clumsy, ugly child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. How could you compete? Constance was older, funded by rich parents, effortlessly brilliant in the very field Victor worshipped. What did you have? A handful of crowns and a pathological devotion he was actively trying to escape.

The rage was a living thing inside you, a burning, clawing beast that needed out. You stormed into the basement, the familiar territory of your despair. This time, you didn't bother with the dumbbells. You went for the old workbench, your eyes landing on a box of your father's tools. Your fingers closed around a sharp metal chisel. The edge was wicked, gleaming in the dim light.

You didn't hesitate. You pressed the point against the soft, tender skin of your inner thigh, right beside a fading yellow-green bruise from last week. You dragged the sharpened steel across your flesh, a long, deep cut. The pain was immediate, sharp, and exquisitely real. It was an anchor in the sea of your panic. Blood welled up, a dark, vivid red that traced a perfect, damning line. It wasn't enough.

Again. You carved another line, parallel to the first. And another. With each new cut, the panic receded slightly, replaced by the singular, overwhelming sensation of pain. You were muttering to yourself, a feverish, desperate mantra.

"He's scared," you gasped, pressing the chisel deeper. "He's just scared. She's nothing. She's a distraction."

You shifted, lifting your shirt to expose your stomach. You carved a heart. For Victor.

"He's gonna come back to me," you whimpered, tears and sweat mingling on your face as you worked the metal into your skin. "He has to."

You moved to your arms, adding fresh lines to the gallery of scars. You were a tapestry of your own pain, a living testament to your love. But the rage wasn't subsiding. It was transforming. The fear was winning. You were terrified. Utterly, gut-wrenchingly scared to death that you were going to lose him.

"No," you sobbed, dropping the chisel and sinking to the floor. You hugged your knees to your chest, rocking back and forth as blood from your newest wounds painted your skin. "No, no, no. I can't lose him. I won't."

The panic attack was overwhelming, a black wave that pulled you under. You couldn't breathe. Your vision swam. The carefully constructed walls of your delusion were crumbling, and for the first time, the suffocating possibility of failure, of a life without Victor, became real. It was a pain so much worse than any self-inflicted cut, a void so vast it threatened to swallow you whole. You were going to lose him. He was going to choose her, and you would be left with nothing but your scars and a snake in an empty room.

The panic of the previous night left a bitter aftertaste, a hollow ache that followed you like a shadow. The sight of your own blood, the new wounds on your skin, they weren't talismans anymore; they were evidence of your weakness, your fear. You couldn't let that fear win. Fear was passive. Fear was for victims. You were a warrior. And a warrior went into battle armed.

The next day, you drove to the city, the a/c blasting, a furious, focused energy propelling you forward. You needed armor. Not literal armor, but something more potent a dress that was a declaration of war. You bypassed the department stores in your town, their casual offerings insufficient for the scale of this campaign. You went to the high-end boutique, the one with the stern-faced saleswomen and the hushed, reverent atmosphere.

You weren't looking for a pretty dress. You were looking for a weapon. You tried on dozens sheath dresses that clung too tightly, chiffon gowns that floated away, cocktail numbers that felt cheap. Then, you saw it. It was a simple, slip dress, but the fabric was a liquid silk in the exact shade of midnight, a color so deep it seemed to absorb the light. It was cut on a bias, designed to skim the body, to move with the wearer like a second skin. It had no straps, no frills, no distractions. It was pure, unadulterated confidence. You tried it on and looked in the mirror. It didn't just fit your body; it understood it. It highlighted every curve, every line of your physique, presenting you not as a girl in a dress, but as a masterpiece. This was it. This was the thing that would catch his eye, that would make him see you and only you. You paid in cash, the crisp bills feeling like the toll for a coming victory.

Friday arrived with the oppressive weight of a final exam. This was it. The day of reckoning.

You woke up at 3:00 AM. Not because you had to, but because you needed to. The house was a tomb of silence, the world outside still draped in darkness. This time was sacred. It was yours alone to prepare.

In the bathroom, you began the ritual. First, your skincare. It wasn't a routine; it was a sacred procedure, executed with the precision of a surgeon. You cleansed, toned, and applied a series of serums, each layer patted in with specific, measured motions. You didn't rush. You allowed each product to absorb completely before moving to the next. Your face, a canvas of impending perfection, had to be immaculate, hydrated, and prepped to an inch of its life.

Then came the makeup. This was your true artistry. You worked under the unforgiving glare of the vanity lights, your movements economical, your focus absolute. Your foundation was applied with a damp sponge, blended in stippling motions until your skin was a flawless, poreless canvas. You didn't just cover your scars you erased them, painting over the history of your pain until you were smooth, perfect, untouchable. Your contouring was a study in sculpting, redefining your cheekbones, your jawline, the bridge of your nose until you were a better, more idealized version of yourself. Every eyeshadow transition was seamless, every wing of your eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. This was a level of meticulous, obsessive application that none of your previous pageants could compare to. You weren't just getting ready; you were creating a masterpiece. You had to look absolutely divine. There was no other option.

Hours melted away. The sun rose, casting long shadows through the house as you moved to your vanity to begin on your hair. You sectioned it off with precision, the tail of a comb your guide. You blew it dry strand by strand, aiming the nozzle to maximize shine, minimize frizz. Then came the flat iron, gliding through each section until your hair was a waterfall of liquid silk, so straight it seemed synthetic. It had to be perfect. It had to be the kind of hair a man like Victor, a man of order and precision, would appreciate.

By 10 AM, you were finished. You stood before the full-length mirror, and the person looking back was barely recognizable. She was a creature of breathtaking beauty, her face a serene mask of artistry, her hair a dark, gleaving cape. She was calm. She was prepared. She was perfect.

You slipped the midnight silk dress over your head. It slithered down your body, cool and heavy, settling into place as if it had been tailored for you alone. You looked at yourself again. The girl in the mirror was no longer the panicked, bleeding girl from the basement. She was a general, reviewed her troops before battle. She was a high priestess, anointed and ready for the sacrifice. And you knew, with an unshakeable, chilling certainty, that Victor would fall to his knees and worship.

By late afternoon, the clock ticking towards the estimated arrival time felt like a countdown. Your mother had offered to handle dinner, but you had insisted with a winning, subservient smile that it was your turn to host, to welcome Victor's... guest. You needed to be in control of the food. It was non-negotiable.

You found yourself in the kitchen, the familiar territory of your carefully planned feast, but your mind was a million miles away. You moved through the motions of preparing the meal dicing onions, simmering a rich sauce, seasoning the roast chicken with a robotic precision. As you stirred the bubbling pot, your thoughts drifted, dark and seductive. You imagined yourself preparing a separate plate for Constance. You pictured yourself slipping a fine, tasteless powder into her glass of wine, something from the back of your father's tool cabinet, perhaps an old, unmarked bottle of ant killer or a concentrated dose of something from the cleaning supplies. It would be so easy.

It was for the best, you reasoned with a chilling, detached logic. A final, elegant solution to the Constance problem. Victor wouldn't have to go through the messy, emotional process of a breakup. He wouldn't have to face her at school every day, a constant, walking reminder of his temporary lapse in judgment. There would be no awkward explanations, no tearful goodbyes. She would just... cease to exist. An unfortunate, tragic accident. Food poisoning, maybe. They'd call it a tragic case of severe allergic reaction or an undiagnosed heart condition. And Victor, distraught but ultimately free, would lean on you. He would turn to his one constant, his one true source of comfort. He would see that you had been there all along, ready to piece his life back together, to rid it of imperfections.

And she would be six feet under. The thought settled in your mind with a disturbing sense of peace. The world would be a tidier place without her. Victor's world would be a tidier place. And wasn't that all that mattered? His happiness, his success, his unwavering focus on the future the future you were a part of? You'd be doing him a favor. You'd be doing the world a favor. You were not a murderer; you were a curator, removing a flawed piece from an otherwise perfect collection.

The sound of tires on gravel was a gunshot in the tense silence of the house. It wasn't one car, but two. They had arrived in separate cars. Of course they had. Victor, in his sensible sedan, and Constance, in a new, expensive-looking BMW that screamed "paid for by daddy." A petty detail, but one you filed away with disgust.

You smoothed the front of your silk dress, took a final, steadying breath, and pasted on your most welcoming, pageant-winning smile as you moved to the door. You opened it just as Victor was reaching for the bell. He looked handsome, as always, his expression strained but trying to project ease. And then you saw her.

Constance.

The woman you had built into a monstrous, brilliant rival in your mind was... a mouse. A mousy girl with dull, raven-black hair pulled back into a severe, unflattering bun and intelligent but lifeless blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She was thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, and dressed in a shapeless beige cardigan over a simple blouse and slacks. She was demure. She was regal in the way a starving Victorian orphan was regal. She was calm, polite, and so utterly, soul-crushingly boring that a wave of indignant rage washed over you. This? This was the great passion that had torn him from your arms? This bland, flavorless rice cake of a woman? You had been freaking out for weeks over this?

You absolutely despised her on sight.

"Victor! You're here!" you exclaimed, your voice a perfect note of sisterly joy. You deliberately ignored the woman standing beside him, took one step forward, and in a motion that was just clumsy enough to be believable, you "tripped" on your heel, using the momentum to shove Constance subtly aside as you launched yourself into your brother's arms. The hug was tight, possessive, a claim staked in public territory. You kissed him squarely on the cheek, letting your lips linger for a fraction of a second too long.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry," you gasped, turning to Constance with a look of wide-eyed, fake apology. "These ridiculous heels! I almost took you down with me. Are you alright?" Your tone was syrupy sweet, but the subtext was clear: “I can touch him. I can shove you. And there's nothing you can do about it”.

"I'm fine," Constance said, her voice quiet and even. She didn't flinch, her placid demeanor infuriatingly unshakable.

"Let me help you with your bag," you offered, already reaching for the handle of the expensive leather tote she carried. "Victor, you get hers," you said, gesturing vaguely to a larger suitcase by the BMW. "I've got Constance." You were already steering her towards the living room, a proprietary hand on her back, establishing your role as the gracious hostess and the gatekeeper of this home.

Elena and Simon entered from the kitchen. "You must be Constance," your mother said, her face alight with professional curiosity. "Elena Gideon. It's so wonderful to finally meet you. Victor tells me you're also pursuing neurosurgery?"

"Yes, Dr. Gideon," Constance replied with a polite smile. "It's a pleasure."

Your father just gave a curt nod. "Simon. Welcome."

"Oh, please, call me Elena," your mother gushed, already leading Constance toward the sofa, her interest piqued. "I was just telling Victor, I simply must pick your brain about the new research on glioblastoma resection. The protocols at your university must be fascinating."

You watched from the kitchen doorway, a serene smile on your face. "Dinner's almost ready," you called out sweetly. "I made Victor's favorite. I hope you like it, Constance. I'd just hate for you to feel... unwelcome." You let the last word hang in the air, a soft, velvet-coated threat, as you turned back to the stove, the perfect hostess, ready to serve a feast laced with poison.

The roast chicken was perfection, the skin crispy, the meat tender and juicy. The aroma filled the dining room, a warm, domestic promise of the carefully curated evening to come. As everyone approached the table, you moved with the fluid grace of a huntress. You saw the open space beside Victor's chair and claimed it without hesitation, pulling it out with a charmingly purposeful smile. "Victor, you're here," you said, as if just noticing him, and sat down.

The move was a masterclass in casual exclusion. It left Constance hovering for a moment, the only remaining chair being the one on the far side of the table, isolated next to your father. She took it without complaint, her placid expression unchanged, but you felt a surge of triumph. Victor was your territory.

"Well, this looks wonderful, (Y/N)," Elena said, beaming as she served herself. "You've outdone yourself."

"Anything for my big brother," you replied, your voice light and sweet as you reached over to place a hand on Victor's forearm for a fleeting moment. "It's so good to have you home."

Your mother, in her element, began her campaign of friendly interrogation. "So, Constance, Victor mentioned you're from out of state. What's your family like? Are they in medicine as well?"

Constance swallowed her bite of chicken, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and answered with a quiet composure that was beginning to grate on your nerves. "My father's an investment banker. My mother is a patron of the arts. No one in the sciences, I'm afraid."

"Fascinating," Elena said, though you could tell the lack of a medical lineage was a minor disappointment. "And what are your plans after your fellowship? Research? Private practice?"

Victor chimed in, his voice taking on the more animated tone he reserved for academic discussions. "Constance is particularly interested in pediatric neuro-oncology. Her work on medulloblastoma models is quite groundbreaking."

You tuned out the technical jargon, focusing instead on maintaining the illusion of the engaged, supportive sister. You smiled, you nodded, you refilled Victor's water glass. Constance spoke only when directly addressed, her contributions concise and intelligent, but delivered with the dull energy of a textbook.

Eventually, the conversational wheel turned in your direction. Constance looked at you, her polite smile feeling more like a clinical assessment. "Victor mentioned you're a student as well, (Y/N). What are you studying?"

"I'm studying journalism," you said, then added with a touch of pageant flair, "And I also compete in beauty pageants."

Constance raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. A flicker of something pity? disdain? crossed her features before being expertly masked. "Oh," she said, her voice flat. "That's... interesting. How do you find the time for both?"

It was a small remark, a subtle jab delivered with the precision of a surgeon, but it landed like a shard of glass in your heart. Interesting. She had dismissed your entire existence, your passion, your victories, with a single, bored syllable. The rage was instantaneous, a hot, acidic flash in your veins. You wanted to reach across the table and slap that placid look right off her face. But you didn't. You just smiled, a brilliant, dazzling smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"It's all about time management," you said, your voice dripping with sugar.

"Journalism's a good field," your father grunted, breaking his silence. "She's got a face for TV. People listen to pretty faces. Makes the news go down easier."

His crude, simplistic defense was surprisingly comforting. You sent him a grateful look.

Victor, sensing the tension, jumped in. "Don't underestimate her, Constance. (Y/N) is much more strategic than people give her credit for. Pageants require an incredible amount of discipline and public speaking skills. They're not so different from a thesis defense, when you think about it."

It was a rescue mission, and he had arrived just in time. You felt a rush of gratitude so potent it almost brought tears to your eyes. He was defending you. He saw your worth, even if this bland interloper didn't. You reached under the table and placed your hand on his knee, giving it a gentle, proprietary squeeze. He flinched but didn't push you away.

Constance just nodded, her eyes unreadable behind her glasses. "I'm sure that's true."

But you knew what she meant: “I'm sure that's a pathetic little hobby you find meaning in”.

The battle lines were drawn. This wasn't just a weekend visit anymore. It was a war.

The aftermath of dinner was a strategic segregation of the factions. Your mother, having found a kindred spirit in medical jargon and academic ambition, had Constance cornered on the sofa. They were deep in a discussion about something involving neural pathways and clinical trial ethics, their voices a low, intense hum of intellectual synergy that made you want to scream. Your father, having fulfilled his familial duty, had retreated to the familiar comfort of his recliner, the roar of the televised football game his only companion.

And you and Victor were alone in the kitchen. It was perfect.

The space was small, intimate, filled with the warm scent of the apple pie you had pulled from the oven earlier. You moved around him with a practiced, fluid grace, your arm brushing against his as you reached for a plate, your hip nudging his as you opened the fridge to get the cream. Each touch was a small victory, a spark in the charged air between you.

"God, I've missed this," you murmured, slicing into the flaky crust. "Just... us. In here."

Victor was focused on scooping ice cream, his movements stiff and careful. "It's good to be home," he said, his voice a neutral, noncommittal reply.

You decided to press your advantage. You leaned against the counter beside him, your body angled towards his, a deliberate invitation. You watched him for a moment, then asked the question that had been burning a hole in your gut since she walked through the door.

"Have you kissed her yet, Victor?"

He froze, the ice cream scoop hovering over the bowl. A deep blush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks in a way that was painfully familiar. "No," he mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. "We're not... it's not at that stage right now."

Victory. The word sang in your blood. He hadn't touched her. Not really. All this drama, all this emotional turmoil, and he hadn't even sealed the deal with the bland, cardboard cutout. She was nothing. A placeholder. A problem you could easily solve.

The surge of triumph made you bold. You set down your knife and moved, cornering him against the counter. You grabbed the front of his shirt, the soft cotton bunching in your fist as you pulled him close. There was no resistance, only a weary acceptance as you tilted your face up to his and crushed your lips against his.

It was a quick, hard kiss, a kiss of ownership, a stark contrast to the chaste peck on the cheek from earlier. It was a brand. You pulled back just enough to speak, your lips brushing against his. "I miss you so much when you're gone," you whispered, your voice thick with an emotion that was terrifyingly real. "I miss my big brother."

He put his hands on your waist, a gesture that was meant to push you away but lacked any real force. "(Y/N), no," he breathed, his voice a strained plea. "We can't. Not here."

You held on tighter, refusing to let him create the space he so desperately needed. You looked him dead in the eye, your own gaze burning with a fanatical intensity. "She's never going to love you as much as I love you," you stated, your voice a low, fierce promise. "No other woman is ever going to love you as much as your sister loves you."

The words hung in the air between you, a truth so absolute it felt like a physical law. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his logical mind and the part of him that understood, on a primal level, that what you were saying was true. He didn't have an answer for that. Because there was no answer. There was only you.

You emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with dessert, the sweet scent of cinnamon and baked apple following you. You served everyone with a bright, cheerful efficiency, placing a generous slice of pie in front of Victor first, your fingers brushing against his hand. Constance received hers last, the slice placed before her with a smile that was just a little too bright.

As they ate, you formulated your next move. The kitchen confrontation had been a victory, a reminder of the unbreakable bond you shared. Now it was time to introduce the physical embodiment of that bond. Time to bring out the snake.

"I have a surprise for you, Victor," you announced, your voice cutting through your mother and father's low conversation. "Up in your room. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but..." You gave a delicate little shrug, as if you couldn't contain your excitement.

Victor looked intrigued, a grateful distraction from the tense atmosphere of dinner. "A surprise?"

"And Constance, you have to come with us," you added, your tone full of friendly, inclusive warmth. "You too, Mom. It's something I know you'll all appreciate."

Elena's eyes lit up. "Ooh, a surprise. I love surprises. Your father and I already know, of course," she said, playing along perfectly. "But we've been sworn to secrecy."

You shot her a grateful look. This was going even better than you had planned. Your father just grunted, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

"It's something I think Victor is absolutely going to love," you continued, your voice rising with theatrical enthusiasm. "He's been wanting one for ages."

You stood up, holding out your hand to Victor. He took it, his expression one of curious anticipation. Constance, ever polite, rose from her seat, as did your parents. You led the procession upstairs, a troupe of unsuspecting actors in a play you had written.

You stopped outside Victor's door and turned to face them, your hand on the doorknob. "Are you ready?" you asked, your eyes locked on Victor's.

He chuckled, a genuine, boyish sound that made your heart ache. "I think so."

You pushed the door open and gestured for him to go inside. He flicked on the light switch, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the familiar layout before they landed on the terrarium in the corner. He froze.

His breath hitched. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, his eyes widening in disbelief. He knelt down before the glass, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated awe. "Cassie?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out a trembling hand, pressing it against the glass. The small albino python inside, sensing the movement, slithered towards the warmth of his palm, its tongue flicking out.

"Oh, Victor," your mother breathed, her hand covering her mouth in a gesture of delight.

But the room wasn't just his. A sharp, horrified gasp cut through the moment. You turned to look at Constance.

All the color had drained from her face, leaving her a sickly, ghastly white. Her hands were clutching her throat, her blue eyes wide with a terror so primal it was almost feral. She was frozen in place, a statue of pure fear, staring at the terrarium as if it contained the devil himself.

Victor finally seemed to notice her distress. He stood up, turning from his beloved snake to his terrified girlfriend, the joy on his face instantly replaced by confusion and concern. "Constance? What's wrong?"

You stepped forward immediately, placing a comforting hand on her arm, your expression one of perfect, sympathetic innocence. "Oh, Constance, are you alright? I'm so, so sorry," you said, your voice a masterful blend of concern and dismissal. "I had completely forgotten. It's just a silly phobia, right? You told me."

She couldn't speak, just shaking her head, a tiny, frantic motion.

You turned to Victor, your eyes pleading her case. "It's just a baby, Victor," you said softly, gesturing towards the terrarium. "Look at it. It's completely harmless in there. It makes him so happy. Don't you want to see Victor happy?"

You let your gaze drift back to Constance, your expression softening into one of profound, sisterly empathy. "You should have seen him when his first snake died. He was so depressed for weeks. I've never seen him like that." You looked back at Victor, your voice thick with shared memory. "This is the first time I've seen him look this happy since... well, since then."

The implication was clear, a masterstroke of emotional blackmail. Her stupid, insignificant fear was pitted against Victor's deep, historical depression. To object now would be monstrously selfish. It would be an admission that her discomfort was more important than his profound happiness. She was trapped.

Constance just stood there, pale and trembling, a rabbit frozen in the face of a predator she couldn't even acknowledge. And you, standing beside her, were the picture of sympathetic support, the loving sister who only wanted what was best for her brother.

The silence in Victor's bedroom was thick and suffocating, a toxic blend of his awe, her terror, and your triumph. It was your father who finally broke the stalemate, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he pushed himself out of his recliner downstairs.

"Well, that was... something," he called up, his voice dripping with dry amusement. "I'm gonna grab another beer. You kids bring down that dessert before it melts."

The mundane command was a lifeline. Constance seized it. She stumbled back from the doorway, her movements clumsy with adrenaline, as if the very air in the room were poisonous to her.

"Excuse me," she breathed, her voice a reedy whisper. She didn't look at Victor. She didn't look at you. She fled, her footsteps quick and uneven on the stairs.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Victor's face. He was torn, his gaze shifting from the empty hallway back to the glass cage, the conflict of his two worlds laid bare. "I should... I should go check on her."

"Don't," you said, your voice soft but firm. You placed a gentle hand on his arm, grounding him. "Let her have a minute. She's just... overwhelmed." You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She'll come around. She just needs to see how much this means to you. How much we mean to you."

The "we" was deliberate, a quiet reassertion of your primary position.

Downstairs, the atmosphere had fractured irreparably. Constance was perched on the very edge of the sofa, as far from the family as possible, a glass of water clutched in her trembling hand. She looked ghostly, her face still pale, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall as if she could see into the room upstairs, the snake's slithering form burned onto her retinas.

Your mother, ever the peacemaker or perhaps just a scientist observing a fascinating behavioral experiment tried to smooth things over. "It really is a beautiful creature, Constance. The albinism is quite a striking genetic variation. It's just a shame you have such a strong aversion."

"Aversion?" Constance let out a short, sharp, hysterical laugh that was completely unlike her usual calm demeanor. "It's a primal fear, Dr. Gideon. It's not a choice. I feel... sick."

"Oh, stop it," your father grumbled from his chair. "It's in a glass box. It's not gonna get ya."

You watched the entire scene from the doorway of the kitchen, a serene smile on your face as you dished out the apple pie. You were enjoying this far more than you should. This was better than you could have ever planned. Constance wasn't just boring; she was weak. Frail. She couldn't even handle a simple phobia for the sake of the man she supposedly... what? Liked? Respected? It was certainly wasn't love. Love was sacrifice. Love was bleeding for someone. Love was getting them a snake they adored even if it terrified you.

You carried a plate over to Victor, who had finally come back downstairs. You set it down in front of him, your fingers lingering on his shoulder. "Eat," you murmured. "You need your strength."

He gave you a grateful, tired smile and picked up his fork.

Then you carried a plate over to Constance. You knelt down in front of her, forcing her to look at you. Her eyes were wide and unfocused.

"Constance," you said, your voice a soothing, concerned balm. "You really shouldn't let yourself get this worked up. It's not good for you." You reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her damp forehead. The touch made her flinch. "Victor needs people in his life who are strong. People who can handle his... passions. You don't want him to think you can't handle them, do you?"

It was a threat disguised as sisterly advice. A perfect, wicked little jab.

She just stared at you, her mouth slightly agape, too overwhelmed to form a coherent response. She was cracking. You could see the fractures in her composure, the panic simmering just beneath the surface. This was her world the clean, logical, predictable world of science and academia. She had no framework for this. For you. For the raw, messy, obsessive love that fueled this family.

As you stood up and walked back to the kitchen, you knew with a chilling certainty that this weekend was no longer about her proving her worth to him. It was about her survival in your world. And you had a sinking feeling she wasn't going to make it.

As night fell, the house settled into a thick, syrupy awkwardness. The snake incident had poisoned the well of congeniality, leaving a residue of tension that clung to the air. Dessert was a quiet, tense affair, Constance pushing pie around her plate with a fork, her appetite clearly nonexistent. She jumped at every small noise a creak of the floorboards, the clink of a spoon against porcelain. It was pathetic, and you savored every second of her.

Your parents, true to form, were the first to retreat. "I have an early surgery tomorrow," your mother announced, her voice strained but professional. She gave Constance a tight, pitying smile before disappearing upstairs. Your father grunted his goodbyes, already halfway to the stairs, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of polite conflict.

Their departure left a power vacuum at the table, one you were more than happy to fill. You watched Constance stifle a yawn, her exhaustion a physical manifestation of her frayed nerves. It was the opening you had been waiting for.

"You look exhausted," you said, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "Why don't you just take my room tonight? It's all made up. I can sleep on the sofa. Or..." You let your gaze drift to Victor, a slow, sly smile spreading across your face. "I can just stay in here with my big brother. Like old times."

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