Shared Birthday Week

Episode 1:

_POV: Christopher Owen_

Saturday is our 21st. Milestone. Adult. Finally. Riley and I shared a womb for eight months, and I’ve spent twenty-one years reminding her I got out first. Five minutes. That’s the whole basis of my kingdom.

It’s Wednesday. 7:12 AM. Birthday week. The kitchen smells like Sunlight soap and burnt toast. She’s at the sink, back to me, scrubbing last night’s pan. My favorite shirt — charcoal, threadbare at the cuffs — is hanging over the chair. Ironed. Perfect.

She ironed it! Without asking!

Something in my chest goes hot. Mine. She touched mine.

I don’t decide to move. My legs do. Three steps. My hand comes up. I’m watching it like it belongs to an actor and I’m in the cheap seats.

_Don’t._ I tell it. _Stop._

My fingers lock around the wet dishcloth in her hand and rip it free. It hits the tile with a slap. She flinches.

“Christopher—”

My mouth opens. “I’m disciplining you.” The words are mine, but the tone isn’t. It’s colder. Older. “You did iron my shirt, right? You don’t touch my things without permission.”

_That’s not what I— SHUT UP._ I try to bite my tongue. My jaw won’t close.

That’s when they show up.

Right in front of my face, between me and Riley, like steam that forgot to fade. Text. Scrolling. White letters, black outline. A chat box hanging in my kitchen.

`u/FirstTimeReader: wtf did he just discipline her for IRONING??`

`u/BinThisGuy: "disciplining"??? bro it's a shirt`

`u/SisDeservesBetter: he’s 21 not 61. this is not 1950`

`u/Mod: Reminder: Post is flaired "Villain Protagonist" + "Railroaded"`

I swipe. My hand goes straight through `u/ThisAintItChief: lol he’s trying to delete us`. Cold air.

Riley’s staring at me. Not at the text. At me. Her eyes are flat. “Are you... okay?”

She asks it like she’s asking a dog that’s foaming.

I try to say _No. I don’t know what’s happening._ I try to step toward her, hands up, empty.

My body uses the step.

_No no no—_ I throw my weight back, slam my heels down, lock my elbows, every muscle I have screaming _STOP_.

Mistake.

The resistance pings something. My arm doesn’t stop — it accelerates, like I pulled a slingshot and let go. My palm isn’t aiming for the dishcloth anymore. It’s crossed the extra foot.

The sound it makes against her cheek isn’t the dry slap of fabric. It’s wet.

Her head turns. Not far. Just enough.

`u/NewReader: HOLY SHIT DID IT GET HARDER WHEN HE TRIED TO STOP???`

`u/LoreKeeper: Yeah. Railroaded tag. Resistance \= crit multiplier x2. He made his own hit stronger.`

`u/WeAllSawThat: +1 to villain counter. Current score: Christopher 0, Basic Decency 47`

The kitchen goes quiet except for the fridge and `u/ViewCount: 24.7k watching`.

Riley touches her cheek. Doesn’t look at her fingers after. She looks at the air above my head. “Who are you talking to?”

I can’t answer. My mouth is busy saying, “Clean that up. And don’t touch my wardrobe again!”

My feet turn me around. March me out. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. My face is white. My eyes are crying. My mouth is smirking.

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