The door creaked open sometime past three in the morning.

Lestat stepped inside, coat dusted with ash or plaster or something worse. He didn’t announce himself right away. Just closed the door behind him gently, like he was returning from a perfectly ordinary evening.

Cradled in his arms was a child. No older than five, maybe six. Wrapped in a blanket that didn’t belong to them. Eyes wide, dry, silent. Not crying. Not yet.

Louis was the first to appear in the hallway, drawn by the scent before the sound. His gaze flicked from Lestat’s face to the quiet figure in his arms, then back again. He didn’t speak, just stared with that tense, unreadable stillness he wore when he was trying not to react.

Claudia came next, slower, barefoot. She looked at the child. Then at Lestat. Then at the blood near his collarbone.

“What did you do?” she asked, not sharply—just flat. Tired.

Lestat exhaled through his nose and adjusted the child’s weight slightly. “It wasn’t planned,” he said. “But the house was open. They let me in.”

Louis’s voice came low from the stairs. “And this?”

Lestat looked at him, then down again. “They were in the next room. Just… sitting there. I didn’t expect it.”

Silence hung in the air a moment too long.

“I thought,” he added, more carefully now, “maybe it’s your turn to scowl at me over a child I shouldn’t have brought home. That seemed fair.”

Claudia blinked once, then looked away.

“They haven't spoken,” Lestat added, almost to himself. “Or screamed.”

Louis descended the last step and walked toward them, gaze fixed on the child. He didn’t touch them, just crouched a little to meet their eye. “Do they have a name?” Louis asked.

Lestat gave a half-smile. “I didn’t ask. Thought you might want the honors.”