Our Christmas Sister Angel · [Chapter: 3]

A gentle tale about the rebirth of mercy, second chances, the warmth of Christmas, and the meaning of being family.

 
If you’d like to walk this warm path from the very beginning and read the story from its first chapter, you can start [here]  and follow the links within each part until you find your way back to this moment again.

To read the chapter that comes just before this one, kindly click [here].

Chapter : [3]:
Brothers in Fight

Milo’s car screeched forward, its tires spitting sparks as it surged past Sorin’s. He shot a daggered glare sideways when their cars locked for a breathless instant—then he swung the wheel with the precision of a predator.
In one brutal motion, Milo cut across the asphalt, his vehicle sliding broadside until it blocked Sorin’s path.
The shriek of brakes tore through the winter air. Sorin’s crimson car fishtailed violently, rubber screaming, before it jerked to a halt mere inches from Milo’s bumper. The night froze in that suspended heartbeat.
From the hatchback behind, Cian, Tavin, and Rein gasped as if their lungs had seized. The headlights carved the scene before them like a crime frozen in time.

Milo erupted from his car like a dragon set ablaze, his breath pouring white steam into the icy December night. Fury radiated from him like smoke and fire. He stormed to Sorin’s door, fists clenched, veins straining.

He wrenched the door open, seized Sorin by the collar, and roared:
“Get out of the damn car, you bastard. Get out, now!”
Sorin shoved his hand away with a violence of his own, stepping out slowly, a chill sharper than the night air clinging to his voice.
“Well? Here I am. What now? Why the rage, Milo?”

The hatchback screeched to a halt beside them. Tavin, Cian, and Rein spilled out, rushing forward,  their breaths ragged in the bitter air. They tried to wedge themselves between the two leaders, pushing, pulling, pleading.

Tavin grabbed Milo’s arm, straining to restrain him, but Milo thundered over Sorin:
“Why the rage? You really don’t know? After everything we’ve built—our sweat, our blood—they now spit on us, call us poison to youth? Pulse 5—us! The same press that once said, even monks in monasteries sing Pulse 5 songs! The same children who danced to our tracks at school plays!  And now? Now we’re a threat? A stain on children’s  morals? They fear us? This is what we’ve become?”

Milo’s voice cracked as rage surged hotter.
“We are Pulse 5—the hidden jewel of Novaris, its pride, its national treasure! And they exclude us from the World Cup opening ceremony? If Pulse 5 cannot sing there, then who deserves it? Tell me! Who??!”
His fists shook as he lunged at Sorin.
“I warned you, Sorin! I begged you not to shoot that damn clip, to reject those lyrics through! Why  didn’t you listen, you reckless bastard?!”

Cian shoved Sorin back, while Rein rushed to Milo, tugging desperately at his sleeve.
“Milo, stop—please, calm down!”
But Milo spun on him, shoving him so hard that Rein crashed to the asphalt with a grunt, snowflakes scattering across his shoulders.

“And you, Rein! How many times will you humiliate us? Changing lyrics live on stage, twisting our song into filth?! explicting words !!! How dare you? You think it’s clever? You think it’s fun?”

Then he shouted at them all, saying, "Have you all gone mad?”

Rein scrambled up, fury flaring in his eyes.
“Everyone does it! I told you I’d change the words before we went on. You all laughed—I thought you approved!”

Cian barked, disbelief cutting through the chaos.
“Laughed? We thought you were joking, Rein. A joke, not madness!”

Through it all, Sorin stood like a storm swelling to break. His silence snapped : 
“Enough!”

His voice cut through them, thunder under frozen skies. His eyes, dark with venom, 
locked onto Milo.

He stepped closer, fists trembling.
“What are we guilty of, huh? Look at our success! That live performance—yes, Rein twisted the lyrics, it has spread widely, so much so that it has brought us producers from beyond Novaris. And my video clip? It exploded across the world! One hundred million views in 
days! And you—what do you call it? A betrayal? Madness?”
Sorin sneered, voice rising like an electric surge.
“Half-naked dancers, explicting words , provocative moves—so what? This is art. This is the world. Everyone does it!”
 

Milo staggered back, disbelief carved across his face. His shout shattered the air:
“So what?! 
Since when do we follow ‘everyone’? 
We were the ones others copied !  
‘Global’? You think we’re not global already? We reached it our way! And we won—remember? The Harmonia Award, the highest honor, in our language! In our own way! We filled halls with trophies. We already made it!”
His voice broke into raw hurt.
“And now you dare spit in that legacy?”

Sorin’s fury surged back.
“Legacy? And will we cling to it forever? Do you want us chained to this place till we rot? Don’t you remember our dream? Las Regance—the city every artist longs for! We played concerts there, but why stop? Let’s live there, break free from these cowards who cast us aside! Novaris doesn’t want us—so let’s go!”

Milo’s breath came ragged, chest heaving.
“What are you saying, Sorin?”

Sorin’s lips curled into a blade.
“I’m saying maybe your anger isn’t about morals or the opening ceremony at all !.  Maybe it’s jealousy. My solo track soared while your own album tanked.”

Gasps tore from Tavin, Cian, and Rein. Their faces froze in horror.

Cian shouted, aghast:
“Sorin, what the hell are you saying? Milo’s never been like that!”

But Sorin roared over him:
“Then why this rage? You love being leader, don’t you? Do you think we’ll bow to you forever?  We’re thirty now—not teens at your command in a high school music room! Treat us as equals—or maybe…”

His words sliced the night.
“…we break apart.”
 

Time fractured. Milo’s vision tunneled. His fists moved before thought could catch them.
He slammed a punch into Sorin’s face with the weight of anger itself.
Blood exploded from Sorin’s nose and lips, splattering the ground. Sorin reeled back—but then he roared, charging, and his fist crashed into Milo’s jaw.
The world ignited.
The two collided like wild beasts. Fists flew, crunching against bone.  Boots scraped the asphalt,  ground churned under their heels , each blow sharper, heavier, fueled by years of brotherhood twisting into war.

Milo drove Sorin back against his car hood, raining blows, knuckles raw. Sorin snarled, grabbed  Milo’s jacket, and hurled him sideways—the leader crashed into the asphalt, rolling with a grunt. 
He sprang up, lip split, rage unbroken. They collided again, the night ringing with violence, their brothers shouting, pulling, failing to pry them apart.
Tavin’s arms locked around Milo’s chest; Cian clung desperately to Sorin’s shoulders; Rein screamed until his voice cracked. But the two leaders tore free, fists flying again.
For a moment, it seemed endless—an eternal storm of rage.
 


And then—They froze.
Because over the chaos, through the hiss of tires cooling, through the panting of lungs and   drip of blood, came a sound.

A melody.
That unmistakable guitar riff. That steady beat.

Their first song:
"One Hand – Five Fingers."

Snowflakes drifted in time with the rhythm, as if the world itself had begun to breathe their music  back to them.

They turned, stunned, bleeding, chests heaving.
There, faint against the night, the music rose from somewhere beyond the roadside shadows.

And then… 
they saw her.




............To be continued in “chapter : 4  ” next week.
© 2025 , CorNer. All rights reserved. This work is protected under international copyright law.

 

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