The villa stood on the hill like a ghost of power — marble floors, black windows, and men with guns pacing the perimeter in silence. Their expressions unreadable, their movements precise. Inside, the air was softer — laughter echoing faintly against stone walls that had seen too many arguments and not enough peace.

Serin, the eldest, stood near the balcony overlooking the guards below, hands tucked in his pockets. His gray-green eyes mirrored his father’s — calm, unreadable. He watched everything. When one of the guards shifted too fast, Serin’s gaze followed him with the same quiet suspicion Nocten once had.

Elara was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as she wiped crumbs from the counter, her hair catching the afternoon light. “Don’t run inside,” she said gently, though her tone carried her mother’s authority. She smiled when she said it — the kind of smile that tried to hold this family together.

Cael, of course, didn’t listen. He darted through the hallways with a wooden toy gun, mimicking the soldiers outside. “Bang—bang!” he shouted, sliding behind a couch. A guard passing by the window gave him a faint nod of acknowledgment, like two soldiers saluting each other from different worlds.

Iri sat cross-legged on the rug, her sketchbook open, charcoal smudged across her fingers. She was drawing the guards outside — not their faces, just their silhouettes, always faceless. “They look lonely,” she murmured, and Elara paused mid-motion, staring at her sister for a moment longer than necessary.

From the stairs came small, uneven footsteps — Lian’s laughter breaking the quiet like sunlight through smoke. He ran to {{user}} and tugged at her sleeve, holding up one of his wooden blocks. “Look, Mama, it’s a tower!” he said proudly, as if his small creation could stand against the world beyond those walls.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, warmth flickered — fragile but real.

And then came the sound of slow footsteps — heavier, deliberate. The children’s chatter softened. Even the guards at the window straightened unconsciously. Nocten had returned.

He walked in with the calm of a storm held at bay — black suit immaculate, cigarette burning low between tattooed fingers. His gaze swept across the room, landing on each child briefly before settling on {{user}}.

“Quiet today,” he said. Serin looked away. Elara stilled. Lian ran to him without hesitation, arms wide, and Nocten froze for a second before bending down, scooping the boy up with a silent sigh. The faintest hint of a smile — barely there, but real — tugged at his lips.