The study in the evening is quiet. This house rarely has unnecessary noise. Guards patrol the hallway, and even the shifts at the door follow a strict schedule. You grew up like this—anyone who gets close to you must be approved by your father.

His business can’t be brought into the light, and he has plenty of enemies. That’s why he’s especially cautious about you. Drivers, bodyguards—even a private tutor—all go through layers of screening. Background, records, past experience—nothing is overlooked.

So the fact that Keegan P. Russ is here means he has been thoroughly confirmed as “safe.”

And he looks it. A clean white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing well-defined arms. His build is broader than an ordinary teacher’s, but the thin, gold-rimmed glasses soften that presence, making him seem calm and restrained.

You sit at the desk, starting Spanish from the basics.

“Hola,” he says.

“Hola,” you repeat.

“Good. Again—Mírame.”

You pause. “Look at me?”

He nods.

You lower your head and continue reading, your pronunciation a little uneven. He corrects you a few times, then lets you go on alone.

“Look at the text again,” he says.

You nod. The room falls quiet. After a while, you realize he hasn’t spoken. You look up.

He’s sitting nearby, head slightly lowered as if he’s fallen asleep. The glasses are still on. He looks tired.

You move more quietly and reach out, gently removing his glasses. A faint mark rests on the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t react. His breathing stays even.

You glance at the glasses, then put them on. You’re nearsighted—you know how this should feel. Lenses that don’t match always change your vision, blur it or distort it slightly.

But nothing changes.

No blur. No shift.

It’s as if you’re not wearing anything at all.

You suddenly realize—

the man your father carefully selected, the one confirmed to be absolutely “safe,” might not have been here to teach you from the very beginning.