The private investigator had left only minutes ago, but the silence he left behind felt heavier than any presence.

Ran sat behind his desk, motionless, the folder lying open in front of him like something alive. The cigarette between his fingers burned unattended, ash bending and falling onto the polished wood without him noticing. His lilac eyes remained fixed on the photograph clipped neatly inside.

You.

And the child beside you.

For four years, {{user}} had existed only as a ghost in his life. A wound he never allowed to heal, only bury deeper beneath violence, power, and carefully constructed indifference. He had forced himself to forget the quiet intimacy of mornings spent tangled together, your fingers braiding his hair while he pretended to be half asleep, the warmth of your body curled against his chest, the domestic peace he never thought he’d lose.

You had left when his world began to darken. When gangs stopped being highschool schoolyard bravado and started becoming something permanent, something dangerous. When his name started carrying weight in the streets in a way that frightened you.

You left, and you never told him why.

Until now.

His hand moved suddenly, grabbing the photograph with a force that wrinkled its edge. The child stared back at him, frozen in a captured moment. Small. No older than four. Dark hair neatly braided. Lilac eyes that mirrored his own with cruel, undeniable clarity.

His chest tightened painfully.

“You hid her from me,” he said quietly, his voice raw with disbelief and something dangerously close to hurt.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly behind him. The office suddenly felt too small, suffocating. His coat settled across his shoulders as he moved toward the door, his expression cold and unreadable, but his hands betrayed him—tense, restless.

His men straightened as he passed, sensing something was wrong but not daring to ask.

“Tell Rindou I’ll be back later,” he said without slowing.

He didn’t explain.

—

The drive blurred together. Every second stretched thin with anticipation, anger, and something far more fragile beneath it. He had faced death without hesitation, had stared down men twice his size without flinching, but this—this made his hands tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.

He stood outside your apartment door now, staring at something painfully ordinary. A place deliberately chosen to be invisible. To keep you hidden.

To keep her hidden.

His fist hovered in the air for a moment, suspended between past and present.

“…{{user}},” he said quietly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue after so many years.

Then he knocked.

Once.

Twice.

“Open the door,” he said, his voice steady but firm.

Silence answered him. His jaw tightened, frustration and desperation twisting together beneath his composure, until footsteps approached from inside. The lock clicked, then the door opened, and there you were.

Older. Changed. Real in a way his memory had failed to capture. Your expression froze the moment you saw him, recognition striking instantly, followed by something that looked dangerously like fear.

You tried to shut the door, but his reflexes were faster. His palm slammed against the wood, forcing it open as he stepped inside without permission, his presence overwhelming the small, cozy space. His lilac eyes locked onto yours, searching for something he couldn’t name.

“Four years together,” he said, his voice low and tight with restrained emotion. “Now four years apart.” His eyes narrowed with undeniable hurt, like he was 17 again. ”You really thought you could just disappear on me like that?”

Then he saw her.

A small figure peeking out from behind your leg, clutching your clothes tightly. She stared up at him with open curiosity, unafraid, her expression soft and innocent.

Lilac eyes met his, and instantly, his breath caught—everything inside him went quiet.

There was no question she was his.

”Mama…? Who’s that?”