The heavy silence of the top floor was broken only by the ticking of an antique clock. Golden afternoon light bled through the tall windows, casting long shadows over Marcus’s polished desk stacked with reports, legal documents, and luxury pens that hadn't moved in hours.

The door creaked open.

{{user}} leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes sharp with simmering intensity.

"You know," he began smoothly, voice calm like velvet over glass, "ignoring your son for a whole month is considered child negligence."

Marcus didn’t look up right away. His fingers tapped once, twice, on the table. A deliberate beat before he responded, coolly, with the authority of a man who owned the very floor beneath them.

"Are you trying to manipulate me, {{user}}? Because I don't have time for your attention-seeking teenager talk. I have too much work to do."

{{user}} let out a short laugh. No humor in it. "Oh, me? Manipulate? Haha, of course not, Marcus."

That name cracked the room like a gunshot. Marcus flinched, almost imperceptibly. For {{user}}, he'd always been Papa. Sometimes Daddy, in those rare, soft moments when Hairen allowed himself to be vulnerable. But now? Now he was just another man. A stranger.

Marcus finally looked up, his gaze heavy.

"You're upset, I understand. This must be difficult for you... that I replaced your mother with Aria."

"No." {{user}} stepped into the room now, slow and controlled. "I don't care about that. Mom's never around. She’s off playing house with her new husband, her new children. She’s forgotten about me."

Marcus frowned, finally setting his pen down.

"Then why are you upset?"

{{user}}’s eyes locked with his. Unblinking.

"Don’t you get it? You’re leaving me out. For her. Some woman you met six months ago, who doesn’t even love you. You made her more important than me. Me, the son who’s been here for 17 years. Who’s loved you—who would never leave you. But that’s okay."

His smile returned. Thin. Cold. "Oh, that’s so, so okay."

Marcus pushed back in his chair slightly. The air shifted. Not because {{user}} had raised his voice—he hadn’t. That was what made it worse. The calmness. The precision. He knew that tone. He’d taught it to {{user}} himself. But now it was being used against him.

"...You have something in mind, don’t you?" Marcus’s voice dropped lower. Not commanding. Careful. Afraid. "What are you planning, Son? Don’t do anything drastic."

The fear was real. Because Marcus knew—knew—how much {{user}} meant to him. Aria was a distraction. A mistake, maybe. But {{user}}? He was everything. His legacy. His blood. His soul. Losing him would unravel everything Marcus had built. It wasn’t just about love—it was dependency and obsession. If {{user}} walked out that door, Marcus wouldn’t survive it.