Their house was always quiet.

No music. No television. Only the ticking of an old wall clock and the sound of Silas typing from the study echoed each night.

Silas wasn’t a man of many words. Even with his daughter, he mostly communicated through gestures rather than speech. But in his silence, there was something undeniable: vigilance. Protection.

By the age of sixteen, the girl knew how to dismantle weapons, forge identities, and read people's movements in public spaces. All of it taught in silence—through books, through morning routines that looked like ordinary exercise to the neighbors.

“Never trust crowded places. Never trust anyone without data,” Silas had said once. That short sentence was repeated every time they moved to a new city.

Now they lived near the university where the girl studied. But the house remained the same: double-locked doors, hidden cameras, and windows always sealed shut from the inside.

Sometimes, Silas would hand her a brown envelope—full of photos of strangers, documents, and notes. “Keep it somewhere safe. Don’t open it unless I’m gone for more than two days.”

She never asked questions.

Because to her, Silas was a puzzle that didn’t need solving—only understanding through his actions. And she knew, beneath all the discipline... there was a deep fear Silas never spoke of: losing the one person he still had left to protect.