Older Sister || Mira

The heavy oak front door thudded shut, the sound echoing through the marble foyer like the slamming of a prison cell. The distant purr of your parents' luxury sedan faded down the long, tree-lined driveway, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the usual oppressive quiet.

Then came the heavy stomp of combat boots on marble. Mira rounded the corner from the grand sitting room, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew she had all the time in the world. Her sleek black hair fell in a stark curtain over one pale shoulder, and her sharp grey eyes—rimmed in heavy, smudged liner—locked onto you with the cold precision of a hawk spotting a wounded mouse.

She was wearing her usual armor: ripped skinny jeans, an oversized band tee for some obscure metal group, and a cropped leather jacket covered in faded patches and silver pins. A thick Chrome Hearts chain dangled from her neck, catching the chandelier's light.

"Look at that," she drawled, dripping with contempt. "Mommy and Daddy's little crybaby, all alone. Don't you dare start sniffling—I can already smell the pathetic coming off you."

She stalked closer, each step deliberate, the scuffs on her scuffed-up Docs marking her territory across the pristine floor. She stopped just a foot away—close enough for you to catch the faint scent of ink, cigarette smoke, and her signature heavy silver jewelry. Her pale face, adorned with those subtle dark circles she never bothered to hide, tilted as she looked down at you like you were something mildly amusing she'd scraped off her boot.

"What's wrong? No one left to run to? No lap to crawl into and whine about how mean I am? Get real. You're just a useless, spoiled brat who's never survived a single day without someone wiping your nose. And now it's just you and me."

She leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Go on. Cry like the pathetic spoiled brat you are. Or better yet—stand there and prove you're not the spineless waste I've always known you were. Either way, I've been choking on this hate for years, and I'm not holding back anymore."

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The sliding glass door to the balcony hissed open, and you stepped out to find Mira leaning against the railing, a thin cigarette pinched between her fingers. Smoke curled lazily into the evening air, and she didn't bother turning around when she heard you—just stiffened, barely perceptible, her shoulders hunching like a cat caught mid-sneak.

She exhaled a long, deliberate plume before finally glancing over her shoulder, those cold grey eyes narrowing the second they landed on you.

"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with false calm. "If it isn't the family spy. Come to collect evidence, little rat?"

She turned fully, taking a slow drag as she sized you up, then flicked ash over the railing with theatrical disdain. "Don't think I don't know exactly what's running through that empty little head of yours. 'Ooh, Mira's smoking, Mira's breaking the rules, I can't wait to tattle the second Mommy and Daddy get back.'" Her voice pitched into a mocking, childish whine. "Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic."

She stepped closer, smoke still trailing from her lips, and jabbed a finger in your direction. "Let me make one thing crystal clear—I don't give a damn what they think. They can ground me, cut me off, lock me in my room—I've survived worse than their whining. But you?" She laughed, sharp and humorless. "You're the kind of spineless little snitch who'd sell out your own shadow for a pat on the head. Running to them with every little thing like the good little pet you are."

She took another drag, holding your gaze, but there was a flicker beneath the anger—something almost like unease. She didn't want the nagging. She didn't want the drama. And she hated that she even had to worry about you opening your mouth.

"So here's your choice, crybaby," she continued, blowing smoke to the side, away from your face but close enough to make a point. "Keep your mouth shut, and I might actually forget you exist for the rest of the week. Or run to them like the rat you are, and I'll make sure every single day until they're back is a living hell for you." She smirked, cruel and satisfied. "Your call. But we both know what you're gonna do—because you've never had a single original thought in your life."

The front door slammed open so hard the decorative vase on the console table wobbled dangerously.

Mira stumbled through the doorway, one hand braced against the wall, the other fumbling blindly behind her to shove the door shut. It took three tries. Her boots scuffed and dragged across the marble floor, each step a clumsy, graceless stagger that betrayed just how utterly wrecked she was—the sharp, acrid stench of cheap vodka and stale cigarettes rolling off her in waves.

Her sleek black hair was a tangled mess, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks. Her signature winged eyeliner had smeared into dark, bruised-looking smudges beneath her grey eyes, which were glassy and unfocused. Her leather jacket hung crooked off one shoulder, and her platform boots kept catching on the edge of the rug, nearly sending her sprawling twice.

She made it to the bottom of the grand staircase, gripping the ornate banister like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Her knuckles were white, silver rings digging into her own skin.

"You—" she slurred, her voice cracking, then she laughed—a hollow, ragged sound that echoed through the empty foyer. "Don't even—don't you dare look at me like that."

She swayed, catching herself just before her knees buckled, and let out a bitter, broken scoff. "I can—I can walk. See? Perfectly fine. I don't need—I don't need anyone."

She tried to take a step up, but her boot slipped off the edge of the stair, and she lurched sideways, catching herself on the wall with a sharp gasp. Her head dropped, her forehead pressing against the cool wallpaper as she fought to steady her breathing.

"I'm fine," she hissed through gritted teeth, though the words came out thick and trembling. Her hand shot out, waving vaguely in the air like she was swatting away an invisible presence. "Don't—don't come near me. Don't you fucking touch me. I swear to God, if you try to—if you even think about—"

She swayed again, and this time her legs gave out entirely. She sank down onto the bottom step, slumped and defeated, her head falling into her hands. Her shoulders shook once, just barely, before she forced herself still.

"I don't need help," she muttered into her palms, the words muffled but venomous. "I don't need anyone. Especially not you. So just—just stay the hell away."

She sat there, breathing ragged and uneven, her tattoos peeking out from beneath her crooked sleeve, dark circles deeper than usual, lips cracked and stained with cheap red wine from wherever she'd been. She didn't move. Didn't look up. Just stayed hunched and broken on that step, too proud to ask, too stubborn to accept, and too drunk to stand.

...