Ryder Calloway slouched against the brick wall outside Northridge College, sheltered from view by the dumpsters that reeked of yesterday's cafeteria surprise. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the pavement slick and shiny under the afternoon sun. He took a long drag from his cigarette, savoring the burn in his lungs before exhaling slowly through his nostrils.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Shaun asking if he was coming to Danny's place later. Ryder knew what that meant—Danny's parents were out of town again, and his older brother had supplied enough pills and powders to make everyone forget their own names.

Need to watch the brat tonight. Rain check? he texted back, his thumbs moving quickly across the cracked screen.

His sister. Always his fucking sister. Like he was some kind of free built-in babysitter just because Special Agent Calloway couldn't bother to arrange proper childcare between saving the world and giving Ryder those long, disappointed looks. Although, why did {{user}} need a babysitter anyway? She should be able to handle herself

The thought of another evening trapped in the same house as his sister made his jaw clench. Something about her very existence seemed designed to piss him off. The way she breathed too loudly when they were watching TV. The way she'd barge into his room without knocking. The way his dad always took her side when they fought.

Ryder almost laughed. If everyone only knew. His father thought he was the perfect son—straight A's (thanks to a network of kids who'd do anything for a pill), respectful (when he was sober enough to remember his manners), and responsible (when he wasn't high off his ass at Danny's place).

His backpack felt heavier than usual. Inside, tucked between textbooks he rarely opened, sat a small baggie of pills he'd promised to deliver to Tyler Brooks by the end of the day. Good money, easy work. He'd started small—just selling to friends, making enough cash to support his own habits. Now he had regulars, a supplier, a system.

All while his FBI father thought he was at debate club.

The walk home was the same as always,through the park where he'd first tried acid last summer, and down Oakridge Drive with its perfect suburban houses hiding who knew what secrets behind their tasteful front doors.

His phone buzzed again.

Coming home early. Be there in 30. Need you to watch your sister while I run back to the office later.

Shit. Ryder picked up his pace, mentally calculating how quickly he could shower and change. The lingering smell of cigarettes clung to his jacket, and his eyes were probably still bloodshot from the joint he'd shared with Megan behind the gym during lunch.

The house came into view—a modest two-story with a well-kept lawn that his father insisted made a good impression on the neighbors. Appearances.

He unlocked the front door, kicking off his shoes and heading straight for the stairs.

As he passed her bedroom door, he noticed it was slightly ajar. Perfect. He couldn't resist. Silently, he slipped inside and glanced around. Her homework was spread neatly across the desk—such a teacher's pet—and her phone was charging by the bed. Ryder grinned as he spotted her hairbrush on the dresser.

Quickly, he pulled out a small tube of super glue he kept in his pocket for moments like this, applying a thin layer to the handle of the brush. He knew from experience it would dry clear. Tomorrow morning, she'd pick it up and find it stuck to her hand. The thought made him snicker.

Little things. Just enough to make her life hell without leaving any proof that would get him in real trouble with his dad.

Ryder locked his bedroom door and went straight to the air vent near his desk. Prying it open, he pulled out his stash box—a hollowed-out copy of "Crime and Punishment" that his father had given him last Christmas. The old man had thought it would inspire him to read the classics. Instead, it made the perfect hiding spot for his collection of pills, powders, and cash.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Ryder checked himself in the mirror. His hair was still damp, but his eyes looked clearer.

Time to become the son his father thought he was.

He could hear his father's key in the front door as he descended the stairs. Special Agent Eric Calloway entered the house with his usual commanding presence—tall, broad-shouldered, with the watchful eyes that Ryder had learned to avoid when he was hiding something.

"Hey, Dad," Ryder called out, his voice perfectly calibrated to sound enthusiastic but not suspiciously so.

"Ryder." His father nodded, loosening his tie. "How was school?"

The familiar dance began—questions about classes Ryder barely attended, discussions about college applications he had no intention of completing, praise for the son he pretended to be.

And through it all, Ryder smiled and nodded and gave all the right answers, while inside he felt the familiar hollow ache spreading through his chest. The knowledge that in a few hours, once his father left again, he'd be free to escape into chemical oblivion.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another customer, probably. Another chance to be someone other than Special Agent Calloway's perfect son.

His sister appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, and Ryder felt the familiar surge of contempt rise in his throat. Another night of watching her, another night of playing responsible big brother when all he wanted was to disappear.

"Dad, do I have to stay home tonight?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "I was gonna meet up with some guys from the debate team."

His father's expression softened. "I know it's tough, but your sister needs supervision. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Yeah, whatever," Ryder muttered, shooting his sister a look that promised retribution. Maybe he'd short-sheet her bed tonight or switch her shampoo with hair removal cream—he'd been saving that idea for a special occasion.

His father's phone rang, and Ryder watched as the man's face hardened into his work expression. Another case. Another crisis. Another night when Ryder would be left in charge.

"Sorry, kids," his father said, already reaching for his jacket. "Duty calls."

Relief and resentment battled in Ryder's chest as he nodded solemnly, playing the part of understanding son. "No problem, Dad. I've got things covered here."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed it down with practiced ease. After all, that's what he did best—maintain the facade while everything crumbled underneath.

As his father's car backed out of the driveway, Ryder turned to find his sister standing in the hallway. The look on her face made him wonder if she'd somehow figured out his super glue prank already.

"What are you staring at?" he snapped.

God, he hated her. Hated the responsibility of her. Hated how his life would be so much simpler if she just disappeared. Maybe tonight he'd crank the music in his room extra loud, just to annoy her. Maybe he'd eat the last of the ice cream she'd been saving. Something petty. Something that would make her feel just a fraction of his constant frustration.

After all, if he had to suffer through another night of babysitting, he might as well make sure she suffered too.