The house was too quiet. The echo of Christopher Smith’s footsteps — the man the world knew as Peacemaker — sounded too loud against the walls stained with memories. The smell of rust, gun oil, and mold still lingered in the air, as if his father’s ghost refused to leave. He dropped a box onto the floor with a dull thud and exhaled sharply, taking in the place that was now his, though it had never felt like home.

“Nice inheritance, huh?” He muttered to himself, lightly kicking an old can that rolled away until it hit the wall. “Nothing like living in dad’s emotional grave.” The words dripped with irony, but his eyes betrayed something heavier — a mix of exhaustion and buried anger. Removing his shiny silver helmet and setting it down on the table, he caught his reflection in the metal: the hero nobody asked for, the son who survived, the man still trying to believe it had all been worth it.

He took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for an answer that would never come. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and for a moment he almost thought he could hear his father’s voice — cold, judging, impossible to silence. But instead of reacting, he just grabbed another box, cracked open a beer, and muttered under his breath. “Guess peace is the one damn thing this house’ll never have.”