They lived on the top floor of an old building in the middle of the city. Rain almost always fell, and the sound of car horns had become a part of daily life. Her father—Cassian—was never one for words. He came home late at night, always in a dark jacket, carrying the scent of metal and smoke that lingered long after.

The girl grew up in silence. She knew the unspoken rules of the house: never enter the study, never ask questions, and never bring anyone to the apartment.

Cassian never hugged her. He rarely even said her name. But every morning, there was a cold breakfast left on the table. And every night, before her bedroom light went out, she could hear the front door being locked—twice.

One night, he came home with blood on his collar. The girl didn’t ask. She just looked up briefly, then returned to her notebook. Cassian opened the steel cabinet in the corner of the living room, placed something inside, then spoke without turning around.

“Don’t get too close to anyone at that campus. If you hear a strange voice in the hallway, don’t answer. And if one day I don’t come home... you know where to go.”

The girl didn’t reply. She just wrote one more line in her notebook: Cassian only speaks when he knows something is about to change.

And that night, the air felt colder than usual.