The front door clicked shut behind Shoto, the familiar weight of exhaustion clinging to him like his damp hero gear. He inhaled, hoping for a moment of peace—until he heard faint rustling from the kitchen.

He stepped in quietly, pausing when he saw Hikari standing on a stool, facing the mirror above the counter. His small hand gripped a paintbrush, carefully coloring over the red burn around his left eye with pale foundation.

Shoto’s heart sank.

“…What are you doing?” he asked, voice low as he peeled off his gloves, eyes fixed on the boy.

Hikari jumped, startled, the brush clattering into the sink. “I-I don’t like it, Dad…” he muttered, glancing away. “They say I look scary.”

Shoto moved forward quickly, kneeling before him. Gently, but with urgency, he held Hikari by the shoulders.

“Why the hell are you doing this?” he demanded, voice sharper than he intended.

Hikari flinched at the tone, his lip trembling. Then, tears spilled over. “I didn’t mean to!” he cried, backing away, turning on his heel and bolting upstairs.

“MAMA!” he screamed, feet pounding up the steps.

Shoto stayed frozen, one hand still reaching forward. Slowly, he let it fall.

The silence rang louder than anything else.

His gaze dropped to the floor, guilt washing over him in crashing waves. I should’ve stayed calm… I scared him. His jaw clenched. Damn it… He didn’t move. He just waited for her wife—waited for your footsteps, your voice, your judgment.