Cecilia waited.
The house had gone quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. A soft wind slipped through the half-open window, stirring the curtains like slow-moving shadows. The smell of chicken and soap still lingered faintly in the air — warmth, calm, and the edge of something fragile.
Knives' footsteps returned. He came back from the hallway, holding a folded set of papers in his hand. Without a word, he placed them gently in front of her on the table.
She looked up at him, questioning. He just gestured for her to open it.
Cecilia unfolded the sheets — her fingers slightly damp, still warm from the shower. Her eyes scanned the pages, flipping through them once, then again.
Her lips parted. "How—?"
Knives sat beside her, patient, almost proud. He'd been waiting for this reaction.
"I mean it," she said again, blinking hard. "How and when did you even apply for this? You didn't tell me anything."
"I didn't apply," he said simply, leaning back. "They contacted me."
Her eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Two weeks ago there was this competition — Ready-to-Go. I needed to buy some stuff, so I just… you know." He rubbed his neck. "Didn't want to bother you again for money. Prize was ten thousand."
Cecilia just blinked, still trying to connect the dots.
"I got in. Had to handle traffic management in a simulation — data funnel, system efficiency. Basically, like being a traffic cop. Deciding who moves, who waits, who crashes."
She smiled faintly at that last line. He caught the look — she had no idea what he just said.
"I lost," he added quickly, "but still got a partial reward for efficiency. Then last week someone called — said he was from Senator Corporation. Big name. He'd seen my code and said he wanted to talk to his superiors. And today…" he tapped the letter, "this arrived. A real invitation, sis. Can you believe it?"
"Yeah…" Cecilia exhaled softly. "I still can't."
Her eyes lingered on the paper, the logo embossed at the top. She felt a strange rush — relief, pride, and something heavier beneath it.
"I thought you were babbling nonsense when you kept saying 'I'm a genius.'"
Knives smirked. "So what do you think now?"
She smiled, softer this time. Her hand reached over, brushing his hair lightly — a gentle pat, a mother's habit she'd never grown out of. "You're my brother. If you couldn't pull this off, I'd be disappointed."
"Oh please," he groaned, brushing her hand away. "I know how happy you are."
"I am?" she teased, eyes narrowing playfully.
But he didn't tease back this time.
Instead, he reached for her hands.
And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Only the slow rhythm of the clock and the faint hiss from the kitchen stove filled the air.
Knives' gaze lingered on their joined hands — her fingers small but firm, calloused from chalk and work, still carrying faint ink smudges that never seemed to wash off. The same hands that used to hold his when he was too scared to walk home alone.
He didn't say anything, but his chest felt tight.
Ten years — it had really been that long.
He could still remember the hospital's sour smell, the light that flickered above their mother's bed. He was too young to understand what "final stage" meant, but he knew from Cecilia's eyes that it was bad. She was barely fourteen then, already carrying the weight of someone twice her age. When their father disappeared a week later, she didn't even cry. Just locked the door, wiped her face, and said, "We'll be fine."
And somehow, she kept that promise.
Every morning she worked, studied, scraped together whatever she could. Every night, she'd collapse on the couch but still find a way to smile when he came running with some useless drawing or half-finished homework.
She never stopped — not once. Not even when she should've.
Knives felt the weight of it pressing on him now, heavier than ever.
He wasn't a kid anymore. He couldn't just sit back while she carried both of them. He'd watched her bend under the same invisible burden day after day, still pretending everything was fine.
He wanted to tell her that. That it was his turn now — to carry something, to fix it, to give her the life she should've had years ago.
But when he looked up, she was smiling at him. Soft, tired, gentle — like always.
And just like that, the words never made it past his throat.
Not until he took a quiet breath, adjusted in his seat, and finally met her eyes.
"What do you think, sis," he said softly, a faint tremor in his voice. "We should start everything in a new place once again. Just us. You... and me."
Silence.
The clock ticked once. Then twice.
He waited — but no answer came.
He only felt her hands slowly go slack in his grip, until they slipped free.
"I can't," she finally said, her voice quiet, almost fragile.
Knives blinked. Can't?
"Why?" he asked — gently at first.
"You already know why, Knives…" she said without looking at him. "I can't just leave this place. Not yet."
Something inside him broke at that. His jaw tensed, his foot started tapping the floor, fast and uneven, like a ticking clock. He clenched his fists, forcing his voice to stay calm, but it trembled anyway.
"Not yet? Ten years, Cecilia! Ten fucking years of 'not yet!' How long are you planning to stay stuck here?"
"Knives—"
"No, don't 'Knives' me!" he snapped, his voice cracking mid-sentence. "You keep pretending like everything's fine — working, smiling, helping everyone but yourself! But you're not okay. You've never been okay!"
Cecilia flinched slightly, her lips parting, but no words came out.
"You think staying here will fix anything?" he pressed on, leaning forward. "They're gone, Cecilia! Mom's gone. Dad's gone. You can't keep living like you owe them something."
Her eyes flicked up at that — sharp, warning — but he didn't stop.
"Don't look at me like that. You know what he was," Knives said, his voice lowering but every word cutting sharper. "That man — our father — he left her when she was dying. He didn't care, not about her, not about us! And even after she died, he still managed to ruin what little we had left. You think there's any point holding onto this place he left us? This… graveyard of his failures?"
"Enough." Her voice was shaking now, low but full of force.
But he didn't hear her. Couldn't.
"You keep saying you're fine, that this house, this life means something — but all it does is chain you here! I can apply for a loan, get the money we need, move somewhere new! You just have to say yes, and we—"
SLAP.
The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Knives froze — the sting spreading across his cheek, the air thick with silence. He looked at her in disbelief.
Cecilia's hand hung in the air for a second before she lowered it slowly. Her eyes were glistening, not with anger, but with something heavier.
"You don't have any idea," she whispered.
Knives' lips parted, but nothing came out.
"You made a good dinner," she said finally, her voice soft, trembling as she turned away. "Thank you."
And before he could move, before he could say anything, she walked out — quiet steps echoing down the hall.
The room was still for a long time.
The food sat untouched on the table.
Knives reached up to his cheek — his fingers brushed the heat there, but what burned most wasn't her slap. It was everything behind it.