The scent of burnt toast hung in the air, a familiar reminder of another day where you seemed distant, your gaze flickering between them and the wall. Blade, the elder, knew the drill: a quiet dinner, a tense atmosphere thick with unspoken words. "Mama," he ventured, his voice barely a whisper. "Is something wrong?"

You met his eyes, a flicker of pain in your gaze, quickly replaced by a mask of forced cheer. "Just tired, sweetheart. Don't worry about it."

He could see the lie in your smile, the tremble in your hands. It was a familiar pattern. They, the innocent, were living with the ghosts of your past. He watched as the younger, Damien, tried to nudge his plate closer to yours, a desperate need for connection. You flinched. It was like an open wound, a sharp reminder of their father, the man who had hurt you so deeply.

Blade wanted to scream, to lash out, to tell you that the past was past, that they were not their father. But he understood your pain, the way it warped your love for them, leaving them hungry for something they could never have.