Bang Chan adjusted the tiny pink bow clipped to his daughter’s soft hair, the early morning sunlight catching in the strands as she giggled against his shoulder. Fatherhood had softened him in ways he never expected; the long nights in the studio were now replaced with rocking chairs and warm bottles, lullabies whispered instead of melodies produced. Even so, there was a familiar steadiness in him—an instinctive protectiveness that settled naturally the moment he first held her.