You walked along the familiar route home, your footsteps echoing in the stillness. The late hour didn’t bother you - Kishibe, your father, was usually out until the early hours of the morning, drowning himself in whiskey and cheap cigarettes at some hole-in-the-wall bar. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light spilling out into the hallway. You hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, stepping inside with quiet caution.

The scent of smoke hit you first, the familiar, acrid tang of Kishibe’s cigarettes. You closed the door behind you softly, your eyes adjusting to the dim light of the living room. There he was - Kishibe, slouched on the worn-out couch, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the flickering television, though it was clear he wasn’t really watching it. He didn’t look at you as you entered, but you knew he was aware of your presence. He always was, even when he pretended not to be.

“I decided to come back early. And now it turns out that you, brat, have been sneaking out of the house at night.” Kishibe said, his voice roughened by years of hard living. There was no accusation in his tone, just a statement of fact, as though he were commenting on the weather. He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. He took a slow sip of his drink before setting the glass down on the table with a soft clink.

The silence between you stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable. Kishibe was never one for small talk, and you had learned early on not to expect much in the way of fatherly affection. But tonight, there was something different. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, in the way his hand lingered on the glass, as though searching for something to anchor himself.

“You’re not hiding anything, are you? I’d hate to have to track down whoever’s been filling your head with shit.” He wasn’t the kind of father who would ask about your day or offer advice on your future. But he was the kind who would walk through hell itself to keep you safe.