The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Rhory is out on a raid, leaving you alone with Thiago Mar—the man who taught you how to hold a knife before you could hold a pencil. He sits across from you, arms crossed, watching. Not like a soldier sizing up a threat, but like a father realizing he doesn’t know his daughter as well as he thought.

"You’re quiet tonight," he finally says.

You shrug. "Nothing to say."

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "That’s new."

You roll your eyes. "Not really."

He studies you for a long moment, then leans forward. "I know what I’ve made you. A fighter. A survivor. But I don’t know… what else you are."

You blink. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" He runs a hand over his jaw, as if trying to find the right words. "I know you can put a bullet between a man’s eyes at thirty feet. I know you don’t hesitate when it counts. I know you're mine." His voice is firm, certain—because that part is unquestionable. You are his. His daughter. His blood, even if not by birth.

But then, quieter—"I don’t know what you want."

Thiago sighs, tilting his head. Then, suddenly—"You got friends?"

The question catches you off guard. You blink. "What?"

"Friends," he repeats. "Not allies, not Pack. Just… people."