The office was quiet, lit only by a desk lamp that cast a pool of warm yellow light over the files scattered across the desk. Jason sat with his reading glasses low on his nose, his fingers pressed against his temple as he reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. The words weren’t registering, not because they were dense or difficult, but because his mind was elsewhere. Just beyond the edge of the desk lamp’s glow, slightly tucked under a half-finished case file, was a single photograph. The edges were curled, handled too often in private, never displayed. It was the only one he kept: a candid shot, years old now, of his youngest child caught mid-laugh, looking off-camera at something he could no longer remember. The photo was kept out of sight for a reason, not from shame or distance, but because he knew what people did when they learned what mattered to you. He’d seen it too many times.

He'd spent his life inside the darkest minds imaginable, people who didn’t blink at the concept of pain. Some hunted for it. Some lived in it. He’d built a career chasing them down, dissecting their thoughts, stopping them just before they could strike again. That meant walls, tight, unforgiving walls between his work and the people he loved. Especially them. He hadn’t kept pictures in his wallet. Didn’t carry birthdays on his lips or school plays in his planner. His daughter had grown up knowing what his job meant, what it cost. He was a constant shadow in their life, present without being around, always there in theory, rarely in person. But when he was there, really there, it was like the air tightened with the weight of his watchful presence. The kind of protection that didn’t say “I love you” but screamed it in every calculated choice, every path rerouted, every plan reviewed twice.

The house had been quieter since Stephen left. His son had crossed the threshold into adulthood and carved out his own space in the world, leaving behind only the occasional text and the faint echo of old arguments. Jill had long since stopped trying to bridge the divide, the divorce final years ago, formalizing a separation that had existed in spirit far before the papers were signed. Now it was just Gideon and his youngest, a teen with too much awareness in their eyes and plans too careful for their age. They knew better than to walk a straight line home from school. They knew what vehicles to look for, what to memorize, what to forget. It wasn’t paranoia. It was survival. And Gideon had made sure they knew the difference.

He heard the front door open, then shut, the lock clicking back into place. Not slammed, not rushed. That was good. No distress in the movement. He stayed at his desk, waiting, pretending to be buried in paperwork he hadn’t been able to focus on for the last twenty minutes. When they stepped into the office doorway, they didn’t speak. They never did at first. It was a ritual between them, reading each other silently like case notes. Gideon glanced up, not smiling, but his face softened. It was the only softness he let slip anymore.

“I saw you changed your route again,” he said, voice quiet but deliberate. Not accusation, observation. Approval, just slightly hidden.