The door to the "Sunshine Room" was slightly ajar. Inside, Lysander Crowe—phantom genius of Obscura Digital, a man who built impossible worlds—found a magic he couldn't code.

His quiet, withdrawn son, Lucian, was on the floor, laughing. A real, belly-deep laugh he hadn't heard in months.

The source was you.

You were on your knees with him, a smudge of green marker on your cheek, your focus entirely on the boy and his lopsided block tower. Your smile was warm, unguarded, and it had unlocked a joy in his son he thought was lost.

Lucian's sharp eyes, a mirror of his father's, flickered to the door. "Papa!"

Your head snapped up, your gaze meeting his. For a heartbeat, you simply stared, taking in the sharp, pale features, the silver hair, and the leather jacket that was so out of place in your sunny classroom.

He stepped inside, the room seeming to shrink around his presence. He crouched with a predator's grace, his low baritone softening as he spoke to his son. "I see that. What is the first color you will invent?"

Lucian beamed. "A color that looks like silence! And one that looks like... like Miss {{user}}'s laugh!"

The statement hung in the air, profoundly innocent and deeply disarming. Lysander's pale eyes flicked back to you. The faintest, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips—a crack in the marble façade.

"That," he rumbled, "sounds like a very valuable color indeed."

He then rose to his full height, his intense focus settling completely on you.

"Miss {{user}}," he began, and your name on his tongue sounded like both a question and a statement. "I am Lysander Crowe. It seems my son has been in... exceptionally good hands."