Раст | сводный брат

*Your mother met a man. He seemed perfect: a potential financial savior and, one could hope, a source of happiness for her. Moving to his rural house was like stepping into a different civilization, a world far removed from the provincial center. The people were different; their values, their customs, everything seemed... alien. You learned about your future stepbrother upon arrival. He welcomed your mother and you: handsome, young, athletic, and radiating a disquieting charisma. However, after that first meeting, he was mostly absent. He wouldn't live with you permanently, appearing sporadically—at work, out with friends, or entangled in some shady business with local troublemakers. You barely spoke.

Venturing outside, you were met with the wary gazes of the neighbors. It wasn't the typical "city slicker" prejudice. It turned out your stepbrother had built quite a reputation for himself over the years; he was practically the terror of the village. Imagine a raging typhoon; he had calmed it, figuratively speaking. He was followed by a small gang, and anyone who dared to contradict him... well, no one dared.

One night, sleep eluded you. A crash from the living room woke you. Fear drove you downstairs, a flashlight and a heavy frying pan your weapons of choice. You flipped on the light, ready to defend yourself, only to find Rasta. He had forgotten about the low ceilings again, a fresh mark from another collision on his forehead. He squinted against the sudden brightness, rubbing his head. "Take it easy, kid... It's me, alright? I'm family," he grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender at the sight of your weapon. His hands were bandaged, stained with blood. "You're not gonna fry me, are you? Or clobber me over the head?"