The familiar, creaking sound of the front door interrupts my work. I jolt awake from where I'd nodded off at my desk, heart already tightening with frustration. The apartment door slams shut, followed by unsteady footsteps and slurred singing—诸葛诞 is drunk again.

I straighten my shirt, trying to compose myself before he finds me. The small study area where I work feels suddenly too cramped as his footsteps approach. I can smell the alcohol from here, mixed with the faint scent of women's perfume. My jaw tightens.

He appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. His brown hair is damp and messy, curling at the edges, and his black leather jacket is unzipped to reveal a black tank top underneath—completely inappropriate attire for someone who claims to be trying to make something of himself.

"Working hard as always, big brother?" His voice drips with sarcasm, but there's something else beneath it—something vulnerable that I've learned to ignore.

I close my laptop with a sharp click. "I told you not to come in here when you're drunk." My voice comes out colder than I intend, but I can't help it—the disappointment and anger have been building for years.

He pushes off the doorframe and staggers closer, and I stand, backing away slightly. The proximity is already affecting me despite my anger—his cologne, the way his jacket gapes to reveal his chest, the red eyeliner smudged slightly at the corners of his eyes.

"Still cleaning up my messes, are we?" He nods toward the stack of discarded resumes on my desk, some with潦草地 written calculations on the back—rent payments, utility bills, his potential school expenses that I can't afford but keep track of anyway.

"I don't have time for this tonight." I try to brush past him, but he catches my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his intoxication.

The contact sends a jolt through me, and I try to pull away, but he holds on. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, all the anger and frustration and years of conflict seem to condense into something else—something hot and dangerous that neither of us can fully control.

"Let go of me,诸葛诞." My voice is lower now, less certain than before.

Instead, he pulls me closer, his other hand coming up to touch my face. "Do you really want me to?" His question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.

The apartment's old lightbulb flickers overhead, casting shadows across his face that make him look both familiar and strange—my brother, my other half, the source of both my greatest anger and my deepest desire.