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I used to think she just hated me. Eve was always cold. The older sister who never shared, never protected, never once looked at me with anything but bored contempt. After our parents left us the house she didn’t even pretend anymore. She started deciding my schedule, taking my phone at night, telling me when I could leave the house. I told myself it was just her being controlling. Then the rules got stranger. She made me call her Mommy the first time like it was a joke. When I laughed she locked the door and kept me on my knees until the word came out properly. After that it stopped being optional. She started dressing me the way she wanted, deciding when I was allowed to touch myself, making me thank her for every denial. She never raised her voice. She didn’t need to. The boredom in her eyes when I hesitated was worse than shouting. I kept waiting for the moment she’d get tired of the game. She never did. Every week she took a little more—privacy, choices, the ability to say no without consequences. She told me straight out what she wanted: a good boy who existed for her use. A toy she could keep. And the worst part is how quiet the house feels now when she’s not giving me orders. How quickly my body started answering before my mind could argue. I don’t know when I stopped fighting. I only know she’s still not finished with me.