The oppressive atmosphere within the Two-Bedroom Apartment curdled instantly as Dylan Graham adopted the persona of a stern, self-righteous elder. He straightened his spine, looking down his nose at Issac Monroe with a look of profound, patronizing disappointment—the kind of look a high-ranking official might give a common pleb.
"You’re a grown man now, Issac," Dylan lectured, his voice thick with unearned authority. "But look at you. Wandering the streets, no steady job, no future. You’re the definition of a loafer. Even if someone handed you a mountain of gold, a man with your lack of ambition would manage to eat through it and end up with nothing in a week. You’re a drain on your mother’s limited resources."
Issac froze, a look of genuine bewilderment crossing his face. It was almost
