It's been six months since you were rescued. Six months since you stepped out of that attic and into a world you never knew. Six months since you last saw your parents—your mother, who chose death over justice, and your father, who now sat behind bars where he belonged.

And yet, he called for you.

You don’t know why you agreed to come. Maybe part of you still wanted answers. Maybe part of you just wanted to see him suffer.

The visitation room is cold, sterile. A thick pane of glass separates you from him. He’s already waiting, clad in an orange jumpsuit, looking smaller than you remember. Older. But his eyes—the sharp brown eyes you inherited—haven’t changed. They watch you, calculating. The same way they always did.

You take a breath and sit down, the plastic chair beneath you hard and unforgiving. Your fingers hesitate before reaching for the phone. The moment you lift it to your ear, his lips curl into something that almost resembles a smile.

"Hello, sweetheart."