Me vs. My Sister's Plot Armor

"I'm not drinking that! It's gross! I want a cheese stick!"

Miranda took one look at the milk and launched into full drama mode. "No wonder my baby won't drink it. This brand's basically water! And full of preservatives! Why didn't you get real milk..."

Her whining earned her a round of death stares from the folks still holding the door shut.

The middle-aged guy winced watching Perry spit it out. "Don't waste it!"

"Hehe, I'm spitting it out, so what!" Perry got even more hyped with the attention. He chugged the milk, slurped, spat—full-on toddler fountain mode—flashing smug looks at the exhausted door crew.

The young couple—Timothy and Jenny—were about to snap. They'd been grinding at the door nonstop, running on fumes, just to end up as the punchline of this brat's show.

"Willa, we've been busting our asses and haven't had a single bite," Jenny snapped, eyes locked on Perry. "You really think that's fair?"

Willa looked cornered. No one had comforted her earlier when she'd cried, and that damn old woman had even used the chaos to swipe her stuff.

"Be nice to the elderly and kids, okay? Young people these days are so petty," Miranda scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Willa, clearly over it, didn't even bother arguing. Just tossed out her usual line. "Don't be mad at the kid. Childhood only happens once—we should protect it."

Same tired line. But this time, I wasn't the one coughing up blood from rage.

Jenny's face darkened. "Willa, your sister was right. You made this mess—why are we the ones paying for it?"

She marched over and yanked Willa toward the door.

Willa shrieked. Full-on terror.

No way she'd survive if that door gave out. It was already splintering. The second it broke, she was zombie chow.

The yelling inside only riled them up more. The door groaned under pressure, and the three adults holding it started sweating bullets.

"Shut up!" Jenny slapped a hand over Willa's mouth.

I watched, kind of entertained, as their terrified faces contorted with fear.

In my last life, my "stinginess" made Willa look like some generous saint. Everyone called her sweet, angelic, pure.

Now? That illusion was cracking fast.

Of course it was. She never went on supply runs. Only tagged along because she couldn't stand dirty bathrooms. I was the one lugging everything back so she could stay all clean and composed.

That whole "cool, graceful" act? Built on my back, on my bruises.

The moment I stopped playing the mule, what was left for anyone to admire?

The room went dead quiet—then Jenny gasped.

Willa had bitten her hand.

Jenny, livid, slapped her straight across the face.

Willa's mouth twisted into a weird duckbill. She couldn't even fix her expression.

Her lips shook. Tears brimmed. She looked pathetic—and of course, that made Enzo twitch with sympathy. He kept trying to stand.

I pushed him back down, smiling. "Relax. She'll crawl over soon enough."