Limone doubled over, one hand clutching her mouth as a fit of coughing overtook her.

Her thin frame shuddered with each breath, her frail back bent so deeply it seemed her lungs might come loose entirely.

Norton’s voice was sharp, unrelenting. "Don’t think that feigning illness will make me go easy on you. I told you to look after Sophie, help her with water, meals—basic care. And what did you do? You made a sick girl fetch your meals instead! Not only that, but then you tripped her! Do you even have a conscience, or was it devoured by some stray dog?"

Limone, her throat raw, forced herself upright. "I didn’t trip her. She—”

"What? You’re about to claim Sophie tripped herself? Do you honestly believe I’d buy such a pathetic excuse? How about you stop dodging and admit to what you did?" Norton barreled forward, his words relentless.

The sting of tears flared in Limone’s eyes, but she straightened her back with what little dignity she had left. "I won’t admit to something I didn’t do."

The slap came without warning, a brutal crack that ignited her cheek like fire. Pain radiated instantly, but it paled in comparison to the ache hollowing out her chest.

Pain could be numbing.

"Norton! What the hell are you doing?" The voice, firm and charged, cut into the tension like a slap of its own. Sutton entered the room in wide strides, gripping Norton’s arm.

"Sutton," Norton seethed, his face a mask of righteous fury. "She’s done something so vile and refuses even to show remorse! I don’t have the stomach for a sister this callous."

From the doorway, Sophie lingered, her injured hand swathed in gauze, her wide eyes tinged with a vulnerability performed to perfection. Red-rimmed, she whispered, "Norton, I told you already—it’s my fault. It has nothing to do with Limone."

"Soph," Norton lashed back, "your kindness is blinding you. If I don’t teach Limone a lesson today, she’ll only get worse!"

His hand snapped up again, poised to strike, when the sudden scrape of a chair stopped him mid-motion—a sound so grating it momentarily silenced the room.

Limone, startled, looked over.

Charles, the school physician, leaned against the edge of his desk with casual indifference, though there was nothing gentle in the sharpness of his gaze. His voice, cool and measured, traveled with deliberate weight. "Are you her family?"

Sutton hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. We’re her brothers."

"She’s running a fever. A high one—103 degrees. Could be an infection. She needs further tests. Add to that low blood sugar and signs of malnutrition," Charles stated, methodical as a diagnostic machine.

Norton faltered, a flicker of doubt breaking through his anger. "She’s... actually sick?"

"Oh," Charles said dryly, "were you under the impression this was some sort of elaborate act? You might want to get your eyes checked, seeing as you seem incapable of recognizing an ill person even when the evidence is staring you in the face."

Norton’s temper flared all over again. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Meticulously adjusting the cuffs of his white lab coat, Charles looked up with an expression that could have frozen steel. "Exactly what I said. Whether she’s your adopted stepsister or not is irrelevant. If you’ve taken her in, you’re responsible for her care."

The word "adopted" carved its thorny way into Limone’s chest. That singular word turned her lips up in an instinctively bitter curl.

Sutton, caught off guard, stammered, "She’s not adopted. She’s our biological sister."

Charles arched a skeptical brow. "Well, you’d certainly need a magnifying glass to see the family resemblance. If you hadn’t declared yourself her family, I’d have called the police by now to report a case of suspected abuse."

Norton bristled, his shoulders squaring defensively. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was teaching her a lesson."

Charles’s razor-sharp eyes pinned Norton. "Interesting pedagogy. Lifting your hand against her teaches what? Patience? Compassion?"

Norton spluttered, but Charles didn’t give him room to retort. He surveyed Limone briefly—the ashen hue of her complexion, the feverish glaze in her gaze—before returning to Sutton and Norton with chilling calm. "Her condition alone tells me how well ‘teaching’ has gone in this household."

Norton looked away as though caught out, but rallied with another burst of indignation. "Limone has a long history of faking illness to shirk responsibility. That’s exactly what this is—a ruse. Sophie’s father died saving her, you know. And sometimes, frankly, I wonder if her heart isn’t as black as tar."

Limone’s throat burned as though razors lined it. For a brief moment, she clenched her hands, aching to counter the accusation. She opened her mouth—and snapped it shut. What was the use? They wouldn’t listen. They never did.

Sophie, biting down on her lower lip, shifted under the heavy atmosphere. "It’s my mistake," she said softly. "I shouldn’t have been careless, trying to push through when I’m sick. I just... I only wanted to get along with Limon."

"It is your mistake," Charles intoned, voice unsympathetic. "When you’re hooked to an IV in the infirmary, you don’t traipse into a classroom. And if you know you’re sick, you don’t offer to run errands for someone else. Victimhood doesn’t absolve foolishness."

Limone’s head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. Did the school doctor just... defend her? Did he believe her?

Her vision blurred with a sudden rise of emotion. Even a stranger could recognize truths her own brothers refused to see—or chose to ignore in favor of their biases.

Sophie’s face froze as the doctor’s words lanced through her performance, stripping away the sheen of innocence layer by layer. She cast her gaze downward, retreating into strategic silence. If lowering her head could be mistaken for humility, so be it.

Norton defended her with spirited indignation. "Sophie came to class sick because with only a hundred days left before the college entrance exams, she can’t afford to fall behind. All she wanted was to mend ties with Limone, but it’s clear her goodwill fell on someone who didn’t deserve it."

The laugh that rose within Limone was dry, bitter. Wasn’t this the same brother who ordered her to dote on Sophie like a butler? To carry Sophie’s water, fetch Sophie’s meals? None of those tasks seemed disruptive to her studies. And yet, when it came to Sophie, suddenly academics were sacred.

"Norton," Sutton interrupted, "take Sophie home. She needs rest."

"Sutton—"

"Now," Sutton barked. His tone brooked no argument.

Norton hesitated but relented, biting off a grimace before guiding Sophie out of the infirmary.

In their absence, the room lapsed into stillness—a stillness so fragile it felt like the break before a downpour. Sutton turned to Limone, his brows knitting with frustration. "You shouldn’t take care of Sophie if you don’t mean it," he said, as though that absolved the chasm between them. "But don’t ever do something like this again."

Limone said nothing. Her throat was torn sandpaper; her heart, leaden. She pulled the infirmary blanket over her head, cocooning herself from his presence.

"Limone, this kind of willful disobedience is only going to get you in more trouble. I won’t keep covering for you." His tone hardened, as if scolding her might hammer a lesson into her stubbornness.

She stayed silent, unmoving.

Sutton reached for the blanket forcefully, pulling it away. "You’re coming home with me—"

Charles’s hand landed on Sutton’s arm like an iron lock, halting him mid-motion. The good doctor’s voice was sharp, authority crystallized into every syllable. "She stays until the IV finishes. Family can wait outside."

The room fell suddenly colder. Authority radiated from Charles in waves, imposing, unyielding.

Limone peeked up, her tears forgotten, her eyes fixed on his back. Her hollow chest stirred with a faint, unexpected warmth. For the first time since entering the room, she noticed it—the jagged scar carved across Charles’s wrist. Red and uneven, it called attention to itself in a way scars never willingly do.

A strange pang struck her. She had scars too, borne of a childhood car accident that left its signature across her legs. Had Charles also survived something violent? Something that left wounds behind?

Sutton’s chin jutted out with resistance. "I’ll take her home. We have our own doctor."

Charles barely gave him a glance. "And yet this fever of hers went unnoticed until now. Care like that seems less competent and more negligent."

Guilt flashed across Sutton’s face, his earlier bluster wavering. "She didn’t tell us she was sick. How can we be blamed for something she hid?"

"Failed attempts don’t absolve failures," Charles replied, his voice tempered steel. "Would you like to face a judge next? I have no qualms about presenting the surveillance footage."

Limone’s breath hitched, her chest rising sharply as Charles added, "She’s not leaving with you. Not until she’s ready."

He stood firm, a silhouette of protection against the chaos of her so-called family. For the first time, Limone let herself feel it—a fragile thread of safety, faint but real.