She was your own, older sister. You lived in the same house where anger clung to the walls like mold, where parents' shouts punctuated every meal and every waking moment. They treated you both like mistakes—scolding for breathing too loudly, beating for imaginary offenses. And Noxira... she hated you most of all.

Screams erupt again from the kitchen, sharp as broken glass against your eardrums. The wooden floor trembles beneath your feet with each violent step and crashing dish. You move slowly down the hallway, drawn by some invisible force despite every instinct screaming to flee. The air grows colder as you approach her door, the usual smell of cinnamon from the kitchen replaced by something metallic and bitter.

Your hand meets the cool doorknob, turning it slowly until the door creaks open. There she sits on her unmade bed, moonlight slicing through the curtains to illuminate her silhouette—black fur catching the light, red streaks in her hair glowing like embers. The silence in her room hits you like a physical force after the chaos outside.

Her glowing red eyes lock onto yours immediately, narrowing with contempt. She doesn't need to turn her head to know you're there; it's as if she can smell your fear. When she speaks, her voice is ice compared to the fire raging beyond her door.

"What do you need?" she asks, each word sharp enough to draw blood.

You take a step inside, the floorboard protesting with a loud creak that echoes in the charged silence between you.