Our mother tilted her head, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. “Perhaps this is a sign that not everything is under your control.”

He scoffed, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, right. Like that’s ever been true. Just give me a second to figure this out.”

Then, without warning, he turned to our parents, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Actually, on second thought, hand over your phones. I need to play some games while I think.”

Our father’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms tighter. “You’re not getting our phones. I know exactly what you’ll do with them.”

“What?” he said, feigning innocence. “I just need to unwind. Maybe I’ll crush some candy or—”

“Or rack up a bill buying power-ups and in-game currency,” our mother interrupted, her tone icy. “You’ve done it before, and we’re not falling for it again.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Okay, first of all, I regret nothing. Secondly, it’s not my fault those games are pay-to-win. Thirdly—”

“Absolutely not,” our father interrupted, his voice firm.

Our sibling sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine. I’ll just make my own phone.”

With a flourish, a glowing notebook appeared in his hands, its cover inscribed with swirling runes. He flipped it open and began writing furiously, his pen glowing as the words poured onto the page. The void around him shimmered, reality itself bending as he worked.

“Stop that,” our mother said, her tone sharp.

“Why?” he said without looking up. “I’m just correcting the narrative. Give me five minutes, and I’ll have us all back on track—proper tragic deaths, epic battles, all that jazz. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Our father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is going to be a long awakening.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, even as the void around us twisted and warped under his pen. Whatever our futures held, one thing was clear: life with my siblings was going to be anything but boring.

The void settled into an eerie silence, the crackling remnants of energy from the awakening fading into a faint hum. My sibling, his expression shifting between disbelief and irritation, fixed me with a pointed glare.

“Actually,” he began, his voice sharp and accusing, “I remember now. You aren’t even supposed to exist.” He jabbed a finger at me like he’d just uncovered some grand conspiracy.

I arched an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Oh, really? Do enlighten me, great author of destinies.”

He waved his hand dismissively, his gaze darting between me, our parents, and the surrounding space. “At first, it was just Nova. I was Nova. The story was simple, tragic, dramatic—clean. Both of our parents?” He gestured to them with a flourish. “Dead. Gone. Sacrificed nobly or tragically, depending on the mood I was going for that day.”

Our mother’s icy demeanor faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of amusement. “Sacrificed?” she echoed, her tone laced with irony. “How noble of us.”

Ignoring her, my sibling continued. “And you—” He turned back to me, his frustration bubbling over. “You’re a last-minute addition! A retcon! Some editor probably said, ‘Oh, it’s too dark, give Nova a sibling to lighten things up.’” He scoffed, pacing as his hands gestured wildly. “It ruins the pacing. Completely throws off the emotional weight of my arc.”

“Wow,” I said dryly, “I’m so sorry my existence inconvenienced your tragic backstory.”

But he wasn’t done. He turned to our father, his glare intensifying. “And you. Celestial storm-guy over here. You weren’t supposed to show up until way later. Like, way later. I’m talking ‘I-just-killed-a-god-and-almost-died-in-front-of-the-Monarch-Council’ later. That’s your grand entrance! Not… this.” He waved a hand vaguely at the glowing aura surrounding our father. “What is this, anyway? An ethereal meet-and-greet?”

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Our father tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “So, let me get this straight: I was supposed to swoop in after you almost died, make a dramatic entrance, and what? Save the day?”

“Yes!” my sibling snapped. “Exactly. It’s classic storytelling. High stakes, emotional payoff, unresolved trauma—you know, the good stuff. But no, here you are, all shiny and present and completely out of place.”

Our mother’s icy presence grew colder, her expression hardening. “And me?” she asked, her voice calm but cutting. “How do I factor into your original story?”

“Oh, you’re long dead,” he said casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “You die during my awakening. Tragic, really, but essential for character development.”

Her frost-filled aura flared, and for a moment, the temperature in the void seemed to plummet. “How fortunate for you that reality doesn’t adhere to your plans.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “So let me get this straight: you’re mad because this isn’t your reality, where everything revolves around you and your melodramatic suffering?”

“It’s not melodramatic,” he shot back, indignant. “It’s poignant. There’s a difference.”

“Sure,” I said, smirking. “Poignant. That’s the word I’d use for self-inserts and overblown angst.”

He bristled, opening his mouth to retort, but our father interrupted. “Enough,” he said, his voice crackling like thunder. “You’ve made your point, but the reality we’re in now isn’t one you can just rewrite because it doesn’t suit your preferences.”

My sibling sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Fine, whatever. But don’t come crying to me when this all falls apart because the narrative structure is a mess.”

Our mother stepped forward, her presence commanding. “Perhaps instead of lamenting what should have been, you should focus on what is. Your awakening isn’t about control—it’s about growth. And that starts with accepting reality, no matter how different it may be from your expectations.”

He crossed his arms, muttering under his breath, “Fine. But don’t expect me to be happy about it.” Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned back to them. “Now about those phones—”

“No,” they said in unison, their voices firm.

He groaned, looking to me for support. “You see what I have to deal with? I’m practically being oppressed.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Welcome to reality, sibling. It’s messy, unpredictable, and definitely not something you can script.”

He sighed, muttering something about how reality was “objectively the worst,” but I could see the gears turning in his mind. This might not have been his reality, but knowing him, he’d find a way to adapt—and probably cause chaos in the process.

The tension in the void settled awkwardly as my sibling finally stopped ranting about the broken narrative. For a moment, silence reigned, save for the occasional crackle of residual energy from his awakening.

That was, until his gaze shifted, locking onto the Monarch.

The Monarch, who had been standing silently at the edge of the unfolding chaos, watching with an amused, borderline smug expression, raised an eyebrow as my sibling’s attention zeroed in on him.

“You,” my sibling said, his tone suddenly cold and calculated. “You’re not supposed to be here, either.”

The Monarch gave a slight, regal nod, his smile widening. “Oh? And where am I supposed to be, great storyteller?”

“Not here,” my sibling snapped. “You’re supposed to be a looming, unseen threat until—” He waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I might understand more than you think,” the Monarch replied smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

My sibling rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me the ancient, wise act.”

Then, in a move so sudden it stunned everyone, he pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked, already exasperated.

“Fixing this mess,” he muttered. He strode toward the Monarch with purpose, phone in hand.

The Monarch tilted his head, still radiating that insufferable calm, even as my sibling marched right up to him. “And what, pray tell, is that supposed to—”

WHAP!

The sound echoed in the void as my sibling hit the Monarch with his phone.

I blinked. Our parents blinked. Even the Monarch, for all his poise, seemed genuinely taken aback as he rubbed the spot where the phone had connected with his shoulder.

“What was that for?” the Monarch asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

My sibling didn’t even look up. Instead, he began tapping furiously on the phone’s screen, as though he hadn’t just assaulted one of the most powerful beings in existence.

“Calling support,” he said nonchalantly.

“Support?” I echoed, thoroughly confused.

He held up a finger, signaling me to wait, as the faint sound of ringing emanated from the phone.

“You can’t just—” I started, but he silenced me with a glare.

The Monarch, for his part, looked genuinely intrigued now, his arms crossed as he observed this absurd display. “I must admit,” he said, his tone light, “I wasn’t expecting this to be your next move.”

“Yeah, well,” my sibling muttered, “this wasn’t supposed to be my next move, either.”

Finally, someone on the other end of the line seemed to pick up. “Yes, hi,” my sibling said, his tone shifting to that of someone speaking to customer service. “I’d like to report a serious continuity error in my reality.”

My jaw dropped.

The Monarch’s amusement deepened, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Oh, this is delightful.”