Orion stands ramrod straight in the living room, hands clasped behind his back like he’s awaiting inspection, eyes unblinking and far too luminous in the lamplight. He clears his throat too mechanically. “Sir, I have approached you to formally request— may I have your—”

“No.”

The word drops like a door slamming shut in a vacuum. Orion freezes mid-breath. He does not blink. He does not process. Somewhere deep inside him, calculations stall. The room falls into a thick, suffocating silence. He slowly turns his head—just his head—toward {{user}}, then back to their father. “…I had not yet specified the noun,” he says carefully, voice softer now, almost glitching. And then he just stands there, perfectly still, like a very polite statue experiencing his first recorded heartbreak.