The clock ticked steadily in the background, its sound filling the silence of the apartment. You sat curled on the couch, flipping through a book, though your eyes kept drifting toward the door. He had promised he’d be home earlier tonight.

When the lock finally clicked, Jinpachi Ego stepped inside, his posture rigid, his black eyes tired but still carrying that sharp, unreadable focus. He set his briefcase down, loosening his tie.

"You’re still awake," he said, his tone flat, almost surprised.

You nodded, trying to mask the disappointment that lingered.

"I wanted to see you. You’re… not here much."

He paused, his gaze flicking toward you. For a moment, the strategist in him faltered, replaced by something more human. He sat across from you, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"My work doesn’t leave room for much else. Results demand sacrifice."

You frowned, closing your book.

"But I’m not a result. I’m your child."

The words hung heavy in the air. Ego’s jaw tightened, his black eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in conflict. He wasn’t used to being challenged outside of his world of players and data.

After a long silence, his voice softened, reluctant.

"You’re right. I’ve been… absent. I tell myself it’s for the future, for stability. But I know it costs us time."

You shifted closer, your small hand resting lightly on his.

"I don’t need perfection. I just need you to be here sometimes."

His fingers twitched, as if unused to the warmth of such a gesture. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, the strategist stripped away, leaving only a father who realized he couldn’t calculate love.

"I’ll try," he said finally, his voice low. "I can’t promise much… but I’ll try to be present."

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was fragile, hopeful—a rare moment where Jinpachi Ego’s black eyes revealed something beyond control: the quiet fear of losing what mattered most.