Chapter 1: The Villain No One Knows

My brother is the villain who can’t have the one he loves.

At least, that’s what everyone around here says. You hear it at the diner, in line at the gas station—my brother’s name always comes up, like a warning or a punchline. In our town, folks love a good story, and my brother’s always been the one with the rough edges and the busted-up knuckles. He’s the guy people whisper about, the one you cross the street to avoid if you see him coming down Main Street. But honestly, they don’t know the half of it—not even close.

After the guy and girl everyone rooted for finally tied the knot, my brother was so wrecked he almost didn’t make it through. He came so close to the edge it scared me, and I don’t scare easy.

It was a Saturday, humid and thick, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes every breath feel heavy. God, it was unbearable. The church bells had barely stopped ringing, and there he was, up on the roof, staring out over the neighborhood like he was searching for a reason to stay. I caught a glimpse of his eyes—that wild, hollow look. I’d never seen him so far gone, so empty.

That same day, I brought home a dude with bleached blond hair. “He’s not some deadbeat, okay?” I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice shook a little.

The kid had a skateboard tucked under one arm, Vans scuffed to hell, and a nervous twitch in his jaw. My brother’s eyes went wide with rage. He tore down from the roof barefoot, chasing after me, and I swear, he looked ready to wring my neck.

You could hear him storming down three flights—heavy as thunder—muttering every curse he knew before he finally caught up. The neighbors peeked out their doors, probably placing bets on who’d survive the night.

The next day, I came home waving around a sonogram printout. “Bro, you’re gonna be an uncle. Aren’t you excited?”

I held up the crumpled paper, trying to keep my hand from shaking. My brother spat out the pills he’d tried to swallow and started wrapping his bleeding wrist, winding the gauze over and over like he could hide what he’d done.

The air was thick with the smell of rubbing alcohol, sharp and stinging, and that metallic tang of blood. My heart pounded in my chest. I stood there, feeling like the world’s worst sibling. He just looked at me, eyes glassy but still sharp as ever. My stomach twisted.

Guilt prickled. “Bro, you’re not… you know… dying anymore, right?”

He let out a cold laugh, grabbed the feather duster by his side. “Yeah, not dying. I’m just afraid you’ll bring home another little blond punk to dance on my grave.”

He cracked the feather duster against the floor, dust motes swirling in the sunlight. I blinked at the sudden sparkle in the air. His voice was rough, but there was something almost fond in it, like he was daring me to push him again.

Everyone says my brother is ruthless, cold-blooded—the kind of guy who’d rather chase down the golden boy or steal his girl than even think about smiling. They make him sound like a walking threat.

They talk about him like he’s the villain in some high school movie, the guy who keys your car and never says sorry. But I don’t buy it. Not for a second. There’s more to him than they’ll ever see.

Because my brother loves rescuing strays. Three-legged kittens, blind puppies—he doesn’t even blink, just brings them home without a word.

There’s always a new critter in our apartment. Sometimes I think he brings them home just to see if I’ll notice. The place smells like kibble and old socks, but it’s alive in a way that makes it hard to stay sad for long. It’s messy, sure, but it’s ours.

Mrs. Jenkins downstairs tried to warn him. “That cat’s only got three legs, honey. That’s just asking for trouble, sweetheart.”

She stood in the hallway, arms crossed over her faded housecoat, shaking her head. My brother just shrugged. “What do you know? Three legs are more stable.”

He said it with a straight face, like he actually believed it. For a second, I almost laughed. Mrs. Jenkins just huffed and went back inside, but I always caught her slipping leftovers onto our doorstep. I pretended not to notice, but I always did.

Honestly, how bad can a guy be if he loves kittens?

He acts tough, but he’s the first one to set out a saucer of milk in winter or patch up a busted paw with whatever’s in the cabinet—duct tape, Neosporin, you name it. Even me—I was someone my brother picked up off the street.