Ruz's POV
The house was never truly quiet. Not really.
Even when no one was talking, even when the dinner plates had been cleared and the television had been turned off and everyone had retreated to their own corners of the house, there was always something filling the silence. The distant clatter of dishes being washed. The low hum of the refrigerator. Tita calling someone's name from the kitchen for no reason at all, just because she liked knowing where everyone was.
Tonight, though, the noise was louder than usual. Not because of the house. Because of us.
"RUZ! WASH YOUR HANDS!"
I had barely stepped through the front door when Tita's voice rang out from the kitchen, sharp and commanding, like she had been waiting for me to arrive just so she could yell at me.
"I just came in!" I called back, kicking off my shoes by the door.
"THEN WASH THEM FASTER!"
I dropped onto the dining chair anyway, ignoring her instructions with the ease of someone who had been ignoring her instructions for years. My bag slid off my shoulder and landed on the floor beside me with a soft thump.
"I am clean," I announced to no one in particular.
"You are suspicious," Adrian muttered, taking the seat across from me and reaching for a glass of water.
"I take that as a compliment," I said, stealing a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table.
"You should not," he said, pulling the basket closer to his side. "It was not a compliment. It was an observation."
Tito folded his newspaper slowly, the pages rustling as he set it aside, and watched us over the edge of his reading glasses. His eyes moved between me and Adrian with the careful attention of someone who had been observing us for years and knew exactly when something was being hidden.
"…Why does it feel like something happened today?" he asked, his voice calm but knowing. "I have been alive long enough to recognize that energy. That is the energy of a day that included something you are not telling me."
Ruz and Adrian both froze for half a second.
Then, at the exact same time, we said, "Nothing."
Tito narrowed his eyes, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "…That was too synchronized. That was rehearsed. That was the response of guilty people who planned their lie in advance."
Tita walked in from the kitchen, placing a steaming dish on the table with a flourish. "See?" she said, looking at Tito. "I told you. Suspicious. Both of them. From the moment they walked in, I could feel it."
"We are always suspicious," I said casually, reaching for another piece of bread before Adrian could stop me. "That is not new information. That is our baseline."
Tito shook his head slowly. "That is not comforting. That is the opposite of comforting. That is alarming."
Kuya entered last, his phone in one hand and his expression perfectly neutral. He walked like someone who carried authority the way other people carried bags effortlessly, naturally, without thinking about it. He was the kind of person who did not need to raise his voice to be heard, because his presence did all the talking for him.
He sat at the head of the table, and silence followed automatically. Even Tita stopped fussing with the dishes. Even I stopped reaching for more bread.
Then, simply, "Eat."
Plates moved. Food was passed around from one person to another, the familiar rhythm of dinner at our house. For a few minutes, there was peace. Actual peace. The kind that came from being surrounded by people who knew you and loved you anyway.
Then Adrian opened his mouth.
"…She shoved someone again," he said, his voice casual, like he was commenting on the weather.
I looked up slowly from my plate, my eyes locking onto his across the table.
"…You are dead," I said, my voice flat.
"I am telling the truth," he said, completely unbothered.
"You are telling your last words," I said. "I hope they were worth it."
"She shoved someone," Adrian repeated calmly, turning his attention to Tita, who had already stopped eating. "At school. In front of people. I heard about it from multiple sources."
Tita gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Ruz!"
"He flicked my forehead first," I defended immediately, pointing my fork at Adrian for emphasis. "He started it. I just responded appropriately."
"That is not better!" Tita said, her voice rising. "Responding to violence with more violence is not better! That is the opposite of better!"
"It is in my world," I said.
"There is no 'your world'!" she exclaimed. "You live in the same world as the rest of us! The same rules apply!"
"There is now," I said. "I have created my own world. Welcome to it."
Tito sighed, setting down his fork.
"…Who did you shove? What is this person's name? I would like to know who we are potentially receiving phone calls about."
"Just a guy," I said, waving my hand dismissively.
"Name," he pressed.
"Unnecessary," I said.
Tita pressed her fingers to her forehead, massaging her temples like she was trying to ward off a headache. "I am getting a headache. I can feel it forming behind my eyes. This is your fault."
Tito nodded in agreement. "Me too. My head has been hurting since she walked through the door."
Kuya had not said a word through any of this. He simply sat at the head of the table, eating his food slowly, methodically, like he had all the time in the world and nothing anyone said could surprise him anymore.
That was not a good sign.
That was the sign of someone who was waiting.
"…After dinner," Kuya said, his voice calm and measured, "you are coming with me."
I paused mid-bite, my fork hovering in the air. "…No."
"Yes," he said simply.
"I refuse," I said.
"You do not have that option," he said.
"I will create one," I said.
"You will not," he said.
"I might," I said.
"You will not," he repeated, and his voice had not changed at all, which somehow made it more threatening.
"…You are ruining my evening," I said, stabbing a piece of meat with more force than necessary.
"You ruined someone else's evening first," he said. "This is called consequences. You may have heard of them."
"He deserved it," I said.
"That is not your decision to make," Kuya said, finally looking up from his plate.
"It is when I make it," I said.
Adrian snorted slightly, covering his mouth with his hand. "…She is getting worse. I told you. She was not like this before. Something has activated something in her."
I pointed my fork at him across the table, the tines glinting in the light. "You started this entire conversation. You are the reason we are having this discussion. You betrayed me."
"I exposed the truth," he corrected. "There is a difference, and the difference is that I am honest and you are secretive."
"I improved the situation by bringing it to light," he said.
"You made it worse," I said.
"I made it visible," he said. "There is a difference, and the difference is that now everyone knows the truth."
"You are dead after dinner," I said.
"Try," he said, and he smirked at me over his glass of water.
Tito stood up slowly from the table, unfolding his tall frame with a groan, and picked up his newspaper. "…I am going to pretend I did not hear any of this," he announced. "I am going to go read in the living room and pretend that my family is normal and functional and that no one shoved anyone today."
"Smart choice," Adrian said.
"I agree," I added.
Tita rose from her chair as well, shaking her head as she gathered the empty plates. "…Both of you. Both of you are impossible. I do not know where we went wrong."
I smiled faintly, the expression soft despite everything. "You did not go wrong anywhere. We are just talented at being difficult."
"That is not talent," she said flatly.
"It is in my category," I said.
Soon, dinner ended. The plates were cleared, the table was wiped, and the noise of conversation faded into the background. But not completely. Not really. Because now it was time for something worse.
Author's POV
Kuya's Office
The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
The office was quiet, organized, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with atmosphere. Books lined the shelves behind the desk, their spines neat and uniform. Papers were stacked in perfect piles, each one aligned with the ones beneath it. The desk itself was clear except for a laptop, a phone, and a single pen.
Unlike the rest of the house, which was warm and cluttered and lived-in, this room belonged to someone who needed order. Who needed control.
Ruz dropped into the chair across from the desk without waiting for permission, crossing one leg over the other and letting her head fall back against the headrest.
"…Let us make this quick," she said, looking at the ceiling. "I have things to do. Important things. Things that do not involve being lectured."
Kuya did not sit down immediately. He walked around to the other side of the desk, placed his phone down with deliberate care, and stood there for a moment, looking at her.
Then, "Stand up."
She did not move. "…No."
"Ruz," he said, and his voice was quiet but firm.
"…Fine," she said, pushing herself to her feet with obvious reluctance. Her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set, her entire posture radiating annoyance.
Adrian leaned against the wall near the door, silent and still, watching everything with the patience of someone who had been in this room before and knew exactly how these conversations went.
Kuya finally sat down, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Ruz.
"…You think this is funny," he said.
"No," she said.
"You act like it is," he said. "The way you talk. The way you deflect. The way you avoid answering questions directly. That is the behavior of someone who thinks they are being clever."
"That is different," she said.
"How?" he asked.
"I am not laughing," she said.
"You are not serious either," he pointed out.
"I am serious," she insisted.
"No, you are not," he said.
"Yes, I am," she said.
"No," he said.
"…Okay, a little," she admitted, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "I am a little not serious. But only a little. The rest of me is very serious."
Silence settled over the room, heavy and expectant.
Then Kuya exhaled slowly, and his expression shifted. The authority was still there, but something else joined it. Something softer. Something sadder.
"…Do you remember three months ago?" he asked.
Ruz's expression flickered. The playfulness drained out of her face, replaced by something sharper, more guarded. Her arms tightened across her chest.
Adrian did not move from his position against the wall, but his gaze sharpened. His eyes fixed on Kuya with an intensity that had not been there a moment before.
"Yeah," Ruz said, and her voice was quiet now. Different.
"Say it," Kuya said.
"…No," she said.
"Say it," he repeated.
"…We got caught," she said, the words coming out reluctantly.
"Where?" he asked.
"Outside the city."
"Doing what?"
Silence.
Kuya's voice dropped slightly, not in volume but in tone. "Ruz."
"…Racing," she said, looking at the floor.
"And?" he prompted.
"…Fighting," she added.
"And?" he asked again, softer now.
She looked away, her jaw tightening, her throat working like she was swallowing something unpleasant.
"…With another group," she finished.
The room felt heavier. The air seemed to press down on all of them, thick with the weight of memories none of them wanted to revisit.
Kuya leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving her face.
"…You think I forgot?" he asked. "You think I have not spent every day since then thinking about that night?"
Ruz did not answer.
"You think I do not remember what I saw?" he continued. "The way you were both standing there, bleeding, still fighting, still swinging, like it was normal? Like getting hurt was just part of the activity?"
She still did not answer.
"You think I did not see you," he said, his voice dropping even lower, "and wonder how long it had been going on? How many nights I did not know about? How many times you had come home with bruises I did not notice because you got good at hiding them?"
Adrian spoke from the wall, his voice quiet but steady. "…We handled it. It was under control. Nothing happened that we could not—"
Kuya's eyes snapped to him, sharp and piercing.
"Handled it?" he interrupted. "Is that what you call it? Handled it?"
A sharp pause cut through the room like a knife.
"Because I remember something else," Kuya continued, his voice still calm but carrying a weight that made both of them flinch inwardly. "I remember someone picking up a metal rod. I remember someone swinging it with the clear intention of causing serious damage."
Ruz's jaw tightened. Her fingernails pressed into her own arms where they were crossed.
"I remember him swinging it," Kuya said, "and I remember you not moving. Not dodging. Just standing there, like you were going to take it."
Adrian did not look away from Kuya's gaze. His expression remained calm, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"And I remember," Kuya said slowly, "stepping in."
A beat of silence.
"And I remember this," he said, lifting his left hand slightly. The arm was still not fully healed. The sling was gone, but the stiffness remained, the careful way he moved it, the reminder that was written into his bones.
"…Breaking it," he finished. "My arm. Because I put it between that rod and Adrian's head."
Silence. Heavy. Unavoidable. The kind of silence that could not be filled with words or jokes or deflections.
Ruz's voice came out quieter now, almost fragile, which was not a tone she used often.
"…You should not have done that," she said. "You should not have stepped in. It was not your fight."
Kuya's eyes locked onto hers, fierce and unwavering.
"And let it hit him?" he asked. "Let that rod connect with Adrian's skull and see what happened after?"
She did not answer.
Adrian looked down briefly, his jaw working, his hands in his pockets. "…It was not your fight," he said quietly. "You should have stayed back. We would have figured it out."
Kuya laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. Only exhaustion. Only the tired frustration of someone who had been carrying the weight of other people's decisions for too long.
"…Everything that involves you two is my fight," he said. "That is what you do not understand. That is what you have never understood. You think you are separate. You think your problems are your own. But you live in this house. You eat at this table. You are my family. And your fights become my fights whether you want them to or not."
Another pause.
"You think this is a game," Kuya continued, his voice softer now but no less serious. "The fighting. The racing. The way you handle things outside. You think it is just something you do, just who you are, just the way things have to be."
Ruz shifted on her feet but did not speak.
"It is not a game," he said. "You think you are strong. Maybe you are. But you are not strong enough to be careless. No one is."
Ruz exhaled slowly, the breath shaking slightly on its way out.
"…We were not careless," she said.
"You were," he said.
"No," she insisted.
"Yes," he said. "You were careless, and you were reckless, and you were lucky. Not smart. Not prepared. Lucky. And luck runs out."
"We handled it," Adrian said, straightening slightly against the wall. "We got out. No one died. No one was arrested. We handled it."
"…No one died," Kuya repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter. "That is your standard? That is the bar you are setting for yourselves? No one died, so it was fine?"
Neither of them answered.
Silence stretched between them, thin and fragile.
Then Kuya leaned forward in his chair, his voice calmer now but heavier, weighted with something that sounded almost like grief.
"…Do you know why I made you start working with me?" he asked. "After that night. After your arm healed enough for me to use it."
Ruz frowned slightly, confused by the shift in topic. "…Punishment," she said. "Because we messed up."
"Wrong," he said.
"Then what?" she asked.
"Control," he said.
She blinked, her frown deepening. "…What?"
"You do not listen to rules out there," Kuya explained. "You never have. You hear them, you acknowledge them, and then you do whatever you wanted to do in the first place. That is who you are. That is who you have always been."
Ruz opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
"So you follow my rules in here," he continued. "You work with me. You do things my way. You learn that actions have consequences, real consequences, not just fights and wins and losses, not just bragging rights and reputation."
Ruz looked at him. Really looked this time, past the authority and the disappointment and the exhaustion, to whatever was underneath.
"…You are still mad at us," she said softly.
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"You are still worried about us," she added.
A smaller pause. Then, "…Yes," he admitted, and something in his expression cracked, just slightly, just enough for her to see.
She leaned back slightly, her arms finally dropping to her sides.
"…We are fine," she said. "We are fine now. Everything is fine."
"No," he said immediately. "You are lucky. There is a difference, and the difference is that luck can change at any moment. Fine is temporary. Fine is not the same as safe."
Adrian exhaled quietly, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"…It will not happen again," he said.
Kuya looked at him. Long. Searching. His eyes moved across Adrian's face like he was looking for something specific, something that would tell him whether these words could be trusted.
"…That is what you said last time," Kuya said finally. "Those exact words. It will not happen again. And then three months later, I get a phone call about a fight at school."
Ruz broke the silence before it could stretch too far.
"…We are not stupid," she said. "We know what we are doing. We have been doing this long enough to know our limits."
Kuya raised one eyebrow, his expression unimpressed. "Your limits are debatable. There is evidence to suggest that you do not actually have limits, or that you do not care about them, or that you consider them suggestions rather than rules."
She almost smiled at that. Almost.
"…We know our limits," she repeated, though with less conviction this time.
"No," he said. "You test them. Every day. Every situation. You push and you push and you push until something breaks, and then you act surprised when it does."
A pause.
Then, "…Sit down," Kuya said, gesturing to the chair she had abandoned.
Ruz dropped back into it, the cushions sighing beneath her weight.
Finally.
"Good," Kuya said, opening a drawer and pulling out a thick folder. "You are working."
"…Now?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly.
"Yes," he said. "Now."
"I just fought, ate dinner, and got emotionally attacked at this table," she protested. "I need a break. I need rest. I need time to process."
"Work," he said simply.
"…You are heartless," she said, slumping in her chair.
"I am responsible," he corrected.
"That is worse," she said. "Heartless would at least let me sleep."
Adrian smirked slightly from against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and sympathy.
"…You deserve it," he said.
Ruz pointed at him without looking. "You are next. Do not think you are escaping this. I am taking you down with me."
"I am not involved in this conversation," he said. "I am simply an observer. A witness. An innocent bystander."
"You exist," she said. "That is involvement. That is complicity. That is guilt by association."
"That is not a crime," he said.
"It should be," she muttered.
Kuya shook his head slightly, but there was something softer behind the gesture now. Still strict. Still serious. But underneath it all, there was the warmth of family, the knowledge that this was where he belonged, that these impossible people were the ones he had chosen to protect.
"…Both of you," he said, and the words carried the weight of everything he could not say out loud.
And for now, that was enough.