Two weeks had passed, and I'd been to several interviews, but I still had nothing to show for it. I sat at the kitchen table, scooping up bites of my low-fat yogurt while scrolling through my emails.

Another rejection—no surprise there. That was the fifth one this week.

Frustration knotted in my chest. "Why doesn't anyone want me to work for them?" I muttered.

The front door swung open, and laughter spilled into the air.

Mom and Bryan strode into the kitchen, both covered in streaks of paint.

They looked like characters from a sitcom gone wrong, but at least they were happy.

Bryan plopped down at the table, grinning. "Hey, shrimp," he teased. "How's the job search coming along?"

I forced a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Oh, it's going wonderfully," I said, sarcasm dripping.

It's not like you and Mom weren't eavesdropping.

Mom's guilty giggle slipped out as she rinsed paintbrushes, and Bryan reached over to ruffle my hair.

"Well, take a break. Don't stress about working at all," he said lightly. "Your big brother can take care of you for a few months—use the time to figure out what you really want. "

I stared at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Right. Because sitting around doing nothing while you babysit me like I'm some helpless puppy sounds perfect."

I turned back to my laptop—ready to call it quits—when a soft ding stopped me.

My heart thudded as I clicked on the new email.

"Thank you for applying with us. We'd love to interview you! Please select a time at the bottom of this message."

This wasn't a rejection and once again a happy feeling takes over filled with hope. This was a chance.

A surge of hope and disbelief collided.

I clicked the scheduling link and booked a slot for 9 a.m. tomorrow.

"Oh, heck yeah!" I nearly fell out of my chair. "This is great!"

"Will you shut the hell up?"

Jackson's voice was a mix of gravel and regret.

He stumbled out of his room: hair a mess, red pajama pants, and an old Batman sleep shirt barely clinging on.

There was a smudge of eyeliner under one eye... and a hickey. Lovely.

"Ugh, sis, you're too loud. I've got a hangover."

I leaned against the counter, smirking. "Morning, sunshine. Rough night?"

Bryan returned, paint-stained and grinning. "Oh God, I can't believe it's alive."

Jackson shot him a glare and dove for the fridge.

He peeled open a pack of sandwich bologna and started eating a slice—no bread, no shame.

"Jackson, for heaven's sake!" Mom's voice snapped from behind.

Her ponytail swayed with frustration. "Get your act together before I march you to Pastor Dawn. Maybe he can fix your ways."

Jackson turned slowly, raising his free hand and mocking her every word with exaggerated gestures. "Sure, Mom. Maybe he can exorcise the demons out of me." He let out a low, theatrical laugh. "And maybe when I go under, the baptismal water will bubble up with black foam—little imps crawling out everywhere, ready to claim the souls of everyone in the church."

His grin was wide, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was something hollow behind it. Something tired.

Mom's face twisted—part fury, part heartbreak.

"Don't you sass me," she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. "I've had it with your partying, your drinking, dragging strangers into this house like it's a motel." She took a step closer, her hands trembling. "And now you're mocking God? Mocking me? Where did I go wrong with you?"

Jackson's smirk faltered, just for a second.

"One day," she continued, voice rising, "you'll end up on the street. And when that happens, it won't be my problem."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, choking.

Jackson didn't say anything. Didn't yell. Didn't laugh.

He just turned and walked away, slow and silent, like the fight had drained out of him. His bedroom door slammed shut a second later—hard enough to rattle the walls.

A family photo fell from the hallway shelf and hit the floor face-down.

Mom stood there, breathing hard, eyes glassy. Then she turned and disappeared upstairs without another word.

And just like that, the house went quiet again.

But it wasn't peace. It was the kind of silence that comes after something breaks.

Their fights were routine, but that didn't make them easier to stomach.

Grateful to escape, I grabbed my headphones and slipped upstairs to my room. I locked the door and slid them over my ears.

Finally—silence.  Black Veil Wives swelled in my head, drowning everything else out.

It was Jackson who first showed me this band when I was thirteen—and ever since, I've been addicted to this kind of music.

It started after one of the worst days I can remember.

The girls at school had shoved me into a locker, laughed when I dropped my books, and ripped up my favorite pink notebook—the one I'd filled with doodles and poems and dreams I never said out loud. They shredded it right in front of me, tossing the pieces like confetti while making fake crying noises.

Even Emily—my only friend—was there. She didn't stop them. She laughed with them. Because they were the popular girls. And I guess she didn't want to be next.

I held it together until I got home. Then I broke.

Mom tried to calm me down, but her words felt like static. Too soft. Too far away. She didn't understand. Not really.

But Jackson did.

He'd been in his room, probably gaming or blasting music, but the second he heard me crying, he came running. I didn't even think—I just ran to him like I used to when I was little and the nightmares wouldn't stop.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't try to fix it with advice or empty promises. He just wrapped his arms around me and held on like he could absorb the pain.

Then he led me to his room, sat me down on his bed, and gently placed his headphones over my ears.

He hit play.

Black Veil Wives.

And it was... everything.

It wasn't just music. It was rage and sorrow and defiance wrapped in melody. It was a scream that matched mine. It was armor I didn't know I needed. It was calm in the chaos.

I remember sitting there, tears still drying on my cheeks, as the guitars roared and the lyrics wrapped around me like a shield.

Mom never approved. To her, it was "Satan's music." Too loud. Too angry. Too dark.

But to me?

It was the first time I felt like someone out there got it. Like I wasn't alone in the dark anymore.

I collapsed onto my bed, tablet in hand, ready to lose myself in anything but this house. 

But even with the chaos fading beneath guitar riffs and static, the unease didn't vanish.

Something was shifting. This house... was nearing a breaking point. 

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Hey, lovely readers 🖤 Thank you for reading Chapter 4 of True Love's Bite. This one doesn’t shout—it aches. Between yogurt spoonfuls and slammed doors, we see a family cracking in real time. We see what’s left of a brother who used to heal her pain… now spilling his own.

This chapter is for anyone who’s ever lived in the kind of silence that bruises. For those who were saved by a song. For those who miss someone they still live with.

Jackson used to wrap Anna in music and comfort. Now he’s drowning, and she’s watching the light slip from his fingers.

And the house? It isn’t just heavy with grief anymore. It’s listening.

If Echo’s teaser left a chill—“She used to run to him… now she watches him break it”—then you’re already feeling what’s waking in the walls.

Drop your thoughts in the comments. We see every theory, every ache, every spark. The descent has begun.

—Luna-chan 🥀

Next time...

She got the job. She smiled like it meant freedom. But WYAO’s glass walls gleam too bright— like they’ve already seen her bleed. And Nick? He’s not just watching. He’s waiting. Victory tastes sweet. But some wins were never hers to keep.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰