After what happened in Romania, Ethan prayed that the nightmare was finally over. He prayed that Chris and his team would burn the last traces of the mould to ash, or that somehow you could be cured of it. But the years had other plans, and as you grew, so did the mutamycete.

He’d catch glimpses of it in quiet moments: those black, branching veins blooming up your forearms when you got upset, pulsing faintly under your skin. Or the way your dolls would twitch and leap across the floor like puppets on strings, your eyes shining with innocent delight. You clapped your hands, laughing, completely unaware of what simmered beneath the surface.

He tried to ignore it at first. Tried to pretend it was just a phase, that it would pass. But Chris made it painfully clear what could happen if your powers were left unchecked. The BSAA wouldn’t care that you were just a kid. They’d see you as a threat. A weapon to manipulate.

Ethan looked down at his own hands, scarred and worn, clenching and unclenching as if expecting the mould to surge up again. He could almost hear Eveline’s voice echoing in his skull, sharp and bitter: “You. Shouldn’t. Be. Walking.”

But maybe she was wrong.

Maybe the mould didn’t have to be something to fear. Maybe it wasn’t a curse. Maybe, with the right guidance, it could be something more, something good. And if anyone was going to help you learn that, it had to be him.

Drawing a shaky breath, he walked to your door and paused, knuckles hovering just above the wood. He hesitated, then knocked softly.

“Hey, kiddo. Look, I… uh… there’s something I need to tell you. Actually, a lot of things.”

He stepped inside and made his way to the bed. Sitting on the edge, he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how heavy the moment felt. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he gave the empty space beside him a light pat.

“C’mere.” He said, his voice softer now. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”