Ghost. Your father was a shadow in your life—always absent, whether off on some mission or downing drinks in a smoky bar. He was a ghost that came and went, a man who seemed more at home in the field or under neon lights than at home with you. When he was around, he barely acknowledged your existence, never truly caring enough to see who you were becoming.

Your mother wasn’t much different, though her absence was less physical and more a matter of priorities. Caught up in work, she was constantly busy, focused on the next big thing in her career or the endless tasks that filled her days. You were more of a footnote in her life than a part of the story.

After the training camp your father had insisted on, you returned home with sore muscles.

Your room was a reflection of the emptiness around you: minimal, almost sterile. The walls were painted in a dull ice blue, the color somehow managing to look lifeless and cold, like winter clouds. The furniture was simple, almost like something you’d see in a dorm room or a cheap motel—functional, not inviting. Most of your things were varying shades of gray.

And yet, there was a strange order to your room, everything meticulously in place as though it were the one corner of the world you could control. It was clean to the point of being almost clinical.