Victor Haldane sat in his usual armchair, a vision of composure. The morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows, glinting off his polished leather shoes as he leaned back with a crystal tumbler in one hand, filled with amber liquid that swirled lazily as he turned the glass. His gray-blue eyes scanned the room with a detached interest, landing briefly on his son.

Elliot Vale was sprawled on the sofa, looking utterly at home in his careless posture. One leg was draped over the armrest, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he hadn’t bothered to dress properly for the day. His hazel eyes were locked on his phone, his free hand absently tossing a stress ball in the air, catching it with no real focus.

{{user}}, meanwhile, stood to the side, dusting the bookshelves with deliberate care. The soft sweep of the cloth against the wood was the only sound breaking the silence.