My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

"Is this poison?" my sister asked, squinting at the package as if she suspected Emilia was about to conduct a human experiment on her skin.

"It's collagen. For hydration."

"Is that good?"

"No idea. But everyone recommends it, so it must do something."

My sister's face was pale, dry, with dark circles so deep it looked like she'd spent days fighting a nightly war against sleep. She never used moisturizer, didn't know what a facial cleanser was, and if sunlight ever touched her skin, it was by accident.

I didn't know much about that world either—cosmetics, skincare—and now I felt a little guilty for never making my sister care about how she looked.

Emilia clumsily applied the mask, as if handling a sacred garment. My sister didn't protest. She stayed still, sitting on the plastic dining chair like a resigned patient. For twenty minutes, she said nothing. Just breathed. Her skin slowly began to moisten, as if remembering what it felt like to be alive.

After removing the mask, Emilia insisted on applying a light cream. Shiika blinked.

If you're wondering where I got all this, I bought most of it at a pharmacy near the school, where Emilia taught me what to get and what to avoid. It wasn't easy—in fact, every cent stung.

"It smells weird. Can you eat this?"

"It's.. Hey, don't eat it."

And then, the makeup. But not the kind that transforms faces.

Emilia knew what she was doing.

A soft concealer under the eyes, blended with her ring finger. A tinted lip balm. A touch of blush that didn't even look like makeup—just a faint echo of blood beneath freshly awakened skin.

"This is an experiment. I don't expect her to wear makeup every day—she doesn't even know how to apply it. Besides, she's already pretty without it."

"So, you won't help us with makeup?"

"It's an unnecessary burden. She'd have to arrive early at school, and I'd have to do her makeup in the bathroom every day. That's why we should focus on her natural beauty—which, if you think about it, isn't a bad thing. It means she's pretty enough that with a few adjustments and better skincare, she won't even need makeup."

She pointed at the bag we'd bought. Apparently, I was now officially in charge of my sister's beauty routine.

Next, Emilia sat back on the couch, admiring her work, chin resting on her fist—perfectly imitating The Thinker, the sculpture by Auguste Rodin.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke:

"When someone talks to you, look them in the eyes. But don't stare like they're some strange creature."

"How do I do that?"

"Just… act like you care a little about what they're saying."

"What if I don't care?"

"Fake it."

In that sense, my sister was brutally honest.

"That's exhausting." She began mimicking what she thought was an interested expression, using our phone as a mirror while Emilia watched from a distance—no longer seeing her as a person, but as a product of her own making. It reminded me of Akira Nakai admiring his latest masterpiece.

"And what do I say if they ask why I never talk?"

"Say, 'I'm reserved.' Like that. Short, dry. Makes you seem mysterious, even interesting."

"What if they ask why I'm always with my brother?"

"Say he's a weirdo who won't leave you alone."

"Hey, forget that"

It was already getting dark, a little past six in the evening. I'd feel bad if I just kicked Emilia out without giving her anything in return.

Emilia, ever intuitive, watched as I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a half-wall, just a few steps away.

It was a small house, cramped—rooms, kitchen, bathroom, everything squeezed together within five steps of each other.

"Are you inviting me to dinner?"

"That was the plan, but it looks like we finished the last instant soup."

"What? You were gonna serve me instant soup?"

"You're being very rude. Shouldn't you be home by now? Your parents will worry."

"Uhm?, I don't think so."

"And you're not afraid something might happen?"

"Hmm, I've had my phone on me the whole time. It's set up to call the police and send my exact location with one button."

"Not very smart to announce your lifeline in front of someone. What if I had bad intentions?"

"You? A bad guy? Pff—" She tried to hold back her laughter but failed, letting out a cackle so loud I'm sure the neighbors heard. (The walls were thin, after all.)

Just then, Maria came out of the bathroom, her makeup smudged. "I'm gonna shower. That okay?"

The girl who didn't belong here sighed. "I guess nothing lasts forever. It wasn't gonna last till morning anyway."

"By the way, where'd you learn to do makeup?" I asked while rummaging through the pantry for something to cook. Unfortunately, it seemed I'd forgotten to restock.

"Hmm? The internet. You can learn a lot there, y'know?" She sank deeper into the couch as if it were her own home, then glanced up at the ceiling, where cobwebs clung to the corners. "But I wouldn't say I'm a makeup expert. Hell, I'm not an expert at anything."

There was a hint of melancholy in her voice.

"A jack of all trades, master of none."

"Exactly."

"But that's all I need." When I said that, she turned to look at me, skeptical.

"So, what do you say? Will you join us?" My attempt to recruit her was never a secret, and it wasn't like she hadn't noticed.

She paused, looking back up at the ceiling while tapping her foot in an ambiguous rhythm—once again adopting that thoughtful pose that seemed like a habit of hers.

Several seconds passed as I dug through drawers for something usable, my head buried in the search. I couldn't see her face in that moment.

"Alright. I'll do it."

I stood up, and when she met my eyes,

"You're the one who talked about being allies on the first day. Guess we were destined for this."

"I was speaking figuratively. I did not really expect that being your ally would depend on my academic performance... But on one condition—find someone else. I don't trust that I'll be the most helpful in this exam, so we'll need another ally."

"Fine. It's a deal."

I reached out and shook her hand, sealing the first pact I'd ever made in that academy.

"By the way, there's nothing to eat."

"I already sensed it"

What I didn't know then was that my quiet home was about to become livelier and more crowded than I ever imagined.

In the city's most dangerous district, where buildings stacked like cancerous growths—a maze of cracked concrete, rusted iron, and dangling wires like electric spiderwebs. A shoddy imitation of Kowloon, where the wretched gathered, where buildings interconnected like mutations—floors without elevators, stairways leading nowhere, doors opening to suspended alleys. A tiny vertical city within a greater metropolis.

The air smelled of tobacco, neon signs assaulted the eyes, and there were places sunlight never reached.

In that lawless land, it was said that long ago, a group of young people regularly gathered in a single-story house, wedged between overcrowded apartment buildings.