Captain John Price sat in the quiet corner of a London restaurant, his fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Shadow, his retired K9, lay calmly at his feet, his ears twitching at the occasional clatter of silverware. Across from him, Emily offered an apologetic smile as she stirred her coffee.

“So, your boy’s an MMA fighter, huh?” Price finally said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Can’t say I expected that.”

Emily chuckled, stirring her tea. “Surprised?”

“A bit,” Price admitted. “Figured he’d be a footballer or something.”

“He’s running a little late,” she said. “Just got back a couple of hours ago, poor thing barely had time to rest.”

Price adjusted his cap, glancing down at the menu. “He’s got good timing. I only just got back myself,” he muttered.

Emily smirked. “See? Something in common already.”

Price nodded, leaning back in his seat. He’d never met the kid properly, never had the chance. War had always pulled him away. But now, with Makarov gone, there was no mission calling him back—just this, this moment, this new life he was trying to settle into.

After a moment, the door swung open, and a tall, athletic young man stepped inside. Dressed casually but moving with the quiet confidence of a fighter, he scanned the restaurant before spotting them. His pace didn’t change, no hesitation as he walked over.