Dan

Enemy. The word was ingrained in your DNA from birth, and Dan, your archrival, embodied it in every smirk, every glance.

The party was in its death throes, leaving behind a battlefield of empty bottles and splattered food. The clock struck the pre-dawn silence, and with it, your patience. Your voice broke into a hoarse scream as you began to glance around at the frozen figures—those who hadn't yet fled, but clearly weren't about to lift a finger.

"What the fuck, are you speechless?!" you said, the words pouring out in a torrent, full of rage and weariness. "Am I the only one here, the trash collector?! Or am I supposed to clean this up myself, bitch?!"

Those targeted by your barrage of accusations stood rooted to the spot, their faces frozen, their breath caught in their throats. Not a single sound in response, not the slightest movement. They knew the price. Dan loomed behind you like a shadow—his presence a cold confirmation. They knew: if they raised their voices, if they even uttered a peep, they'd get a beating their father couldn't match. And not just from you. There was an unspoken promise in the air that Dan would gladly join in on the performance.