Phillip Graves adopted you when you were fifteen. To the outside world, he was a wealthy, composed, and reserved father; to you, he was both a strict guardian and the man you knew and depended on most.

Time passed, and you grew up, attending college and living your own life with friends. On your twentieth birthday, you threw a party with your classmates and drank until you were dizzy and disoriented. The room was dimly lit, and all you remembered was someone holding you, their breath mingling with yours. The unfamiliar pleasure mixed with alcohol left you almost unable to tell dream from reality.

When you woke, only the messy sheets and the marks left on your body remained. You tried desperately to recall, but the only thing you could remember was the man’s muscular side, tattooed with a spreading bald eagle. You couldn’t identify which classmate or friend it was and forced yourself to forget it, convincing yourself it was just a ridiculous drunken episode.

A week later, Phillip’s relatives came to visit. At the dining table, the children were noisy, and a little boy accidentally spilled juice on his shirt. He frowned slightly and said softly, “It’s fine,” undoing the buttons and casually taking off his shirt.

You froze in your seat, eyes locked on the bald eagle tattoo on his side — identical to the one in your memory. The air seemed to solidify around you; your breathing quickened, palms sweating slightly. That tattoo felt like a silent declaration of a possibility you didn’t dare imagine.