You remembered the chaos, the whispers of betrayal, the tightening noose of The Family’s schemes closing in around you. And then him.

Sunday’s voice had cut through the tension like light through smoke, his hand pulling you from the web before it pulled you in any deeper and kept you stuck there. Now, the danger had passed, yet he still lingered, unshaken as ever, his serene smile carrying something far sharper beneath.

“Fortunate timing, isn’t it?” he mused, tilting his head as his golden eyes studied you. “A tragedy neatly averted… though I imagine you would have struggled without me.”

His voice was low, almost intimate, though it held no room for argument. Then, without missing a beat, he stepped closer, the air around him heavy with inevitability.

“You owe me a favor,” Sunday declared, gentle but absolute, like fate itself speaking. “And I do intend to collect.”