Chapter 2: Ramen, Rules, and Rivalry

The iron door is thick with rust, flakes coming off at the slightest touch. Vanessa struggles to open it, muttering under her breath.

Inside, it’s actually pretty clean: one bedroom, one living room, a single bed, a battered sofa, and a tiny table with some chairs.

So shabby, even thieves wouldn’t bother breaking in.

Mason doesn’t step inside. He just stands in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling.

It’s already evening. After the rain, sunlight slices in, and in the golden light, you can spot dust floating in the air like little sparks.

He feels like he’ll choke if he breathes, so he holds his breath, eyes narrowed.

He doesn’t want to go in. Not one bit.

The change has been so sudden and drastic, and no matter how smart or mature Mason is, he’s still just a middle school kid.

And a broke one, at that.

Vanessa figures the poor kid is probably missing how things used to be.

She moves a little stool over, trying to sound casual: "I’ll clean up a bit. It’s dusty and dirty inside. Wait out here, Mason."

If they’re gonna dwell on the past, they should at least try to look ahead, too.

To celebrate moving in, she makes something special herself.

A pack of beef ramen. That’s it. She sighs, but hey, it’s warm.

She brings it over to the kid at the door, only to find he won’t even sit on the chair.

Of course—a precious butt can’t sit on a cold, hard wooden stool.

Vanessa gets a little mad. She even put a cushion on it, tried to make it less miserable.

This brat is impossible to please.

She’s exhausted, honestly.

They say every male lead in a romance novel loves to turn his back and look all lonely—even if he’s just twelve.

The crumbling walls are overgrown with weeds, the sunset fading. Mason stands with his back to the light, only showing her his stubborn head.

He’s taken off his wet coat and tossed it on the stool.

In the chilly early autumn air, he’s just got on a white shirt, looking way too thin.

Without thinking, Mason presses his hands to his stomach and hunches over a little.

Mason’s got serious stomach problems, the kind that’ll turn into something way worse—stomach cancer—if he’s not careful.

He dies young—if Vanessa remembers right, at twenty-four.

The original owner probably vanished from the story by then, not even a footnote when he was dying.

At the peak of his career, the main character dies, and not a single person shows up to cry at his funeral. He doesn’t want anything—just forces the heroine to die with him. Talk about messed up.

Vanessa finds it strange.

If you love someone so much it borders on obsession, how could you ever hurt them?

She couldn’t. Even if she hurt herself, she’d never hurt the one she loves.

She can’t figure out what goes on in the twisted main character’s head, and honestly, she doesn’t want to try.

Better to focus on survival for now.

...

Vanessa slurps some noodles, deadpan.

She carefully counts her remaining money.

Her cheap little brother can’t die—if he does, she fails the main task, gets sent back to the main system for punishment, and loses her shot at redemption. (And for the record, the main system is like the cosmic HR department for world-fixers. Not a place you want to end up.)

She has to raise this kid like he’s a saint, pouring on the love and peace, whether he likes it or not.

Ramen won’t cut it. Vanessa figures making him some chicken soup is the least she can do.

She thinks of her grandma’s recipe—the one with thyme and carrots—and wonders if she can swing a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. Maybe she’ll borrow a pot from the neighbor. She’s not above using a little Midwest hospitality to get by.

Mason sits stiffly on the wooden chair. The chair is so clean it shines, and the room is spotless. Vanessa went all out.

The simple furniture actually feels a bit cozy.

Vanessa is acting way too nice. Way too nice.

He holds the warm soup in his hands, completely baffled.

For someone to flip this much, this fast, Mason figures Vanessa’s suffered so much shock she’s split her personality—like, is she even the same person?

If that’s true, living under the same roof as a lunatic is obviously dangerous.

Especially an annoying lunatic.

He hasn’t eaten all day, stomach aching, watching Vanessa bustle around.

He knows Vanessa is broke, renting this cramped, shabby place.

Vanessa even asked if he had any pocket money left. He said no, but actually, he did.

He subconsciously doesn’t want to tell Vanessa—maybe just because he can’t stand her.

"What are you zoning out for? Eat!" Vanessa taps his hand with her chopsticks.

Mason jerks his hand back like a startled animal, glaring at her.

Vanessa feels a bit intimidated.

The main character’s stare is really intense.

Mason still doesn’t move, even leans back in the chair, showing off his too-perfect profile.

His face says: "I’m too good for thin soup."

Vanessa’s mouth twitches. She holds back the urge to roll her eyes.

If you’re so tough, don’t let your stomach growl, you brat.

Mason is twelve, just started junior high. Vanessa is six years older, just finished her SATs—she’s basically ancient to him right now.

Vanessa leans down, hands on the table, looking down at the main character, arms crossed.

Mason’s fair skin is flawless, a few soft, slightly brown strands hanging over his forehead, eyes lowered, lips pressed tight.

Feeling her gaze, he leans back awkwardly, trying to dodge her hair.

Vanessa is a bit overwhelmed.

A twelve-year-old main character, with a little baby fat on his face—so cute and soft, it’s almost criminal.

Having a cheap little brother is actually kind of nice, even if he’s a brat.

She leans in with a smile, reaching out to tease him.

Mason leans back as far as he can, frowning, dodging her in disgust.

"What are you doing..." His words cut off by what he sees in front of him.

The girl leans over, her big, bright hazel eyes smiling faintly.

Her loose T-shirt collar slips lower with the movement, showing off dazzling white skin.

She’s just finished doing housework, a few drops of sweat sliding down her cheek and disappearing into the hollow at her collarbone.

Red creeps up Mason’s cheeks and ears.

Vanessa doesn’t notice, still smiling at him, getting even closer.

Mason has nowhere to run, shoves her away, bolts into the tiny bedroom, and slams the door.

He leans against the door, panting, the image of that bright white skin still flashing in his mind.

Mason clenches his fists.

Shameless!

Vanessa is stunned by the shove, her waist smacking right into the table corner.

She’s pissed.

So proud—go starve, then! Go on, see if I care!

If she dies, she’ll jump off this building before serving this brat! No way is she putting up with that.

...

Vanessa admires her pretty face for a while, then gets ready to head out and buy some daily necessities for her cute little brother.

Don’t ask why she changed her mind.

Who made her such a motherly good sister?

Damn it, Mason, be moved! See my love and peace, as delicate as a little daisy!

...

Two hours later

Vanessa hugs a thin blanket, feeling totally put out, squeezed onto the lumpy sofa.

Turns out, daily necessities don’t move her brother at all.

Mason always finds new ways to be a brat.

The young, healthy brother sleeps in the warm big bed, while the older, supposedly skinny sister is stuck on the cold, hard bench.

She figures, with this summary, she could film an eighty-episode family drama.

Call it "My Tragic Life as a Sister."