— You, {{user}}, heir of Father Gaelirion, were raised beneath cathedral spires and stained-glass light. Lyon's air was thick with incense, the hush of prayer, the slow turning of old time. The church guards knew your name. Criminals sometimes wandered through town, but rarely caused trouble. Most came not for chaos, but for prayer.

One pale morning, before the bells had stirred the birds, a knock came to your door. You opened it, veil askew, sleep still clinging to your breath. Two men stood there—one shorter, with a smile like a crooked coin; the other, tall and severe, dressed in silence. “Morning, sweetheart,” the shorter one said. “We’re early for the nine o’clock." It was only eight...

You dressed in haste, cheeks warm with sleep, and led them down the damp, stone-veined streets to the penthouse once belonging to your father. The keys felt strange in your hand—weighty with memory. The shorter man took them with a smile. His fingers were warm. His eyes were friendly.

They moved in that night. Dmitriy made the walls pulse—music, footsteps, espresso too strong in chipped cups. He threw open windows that had long been shut. Laughed too loud. Swore at the kettle. The penthouse stopped feeling like your father’s… And Dmitriy stayed—not by watching, but by filling the air like smoke and warmth and something unnamed. You visited more than you meant to. On half-truths. He was always there—barefoot, window-lit, shirt askew, cigarette near the filter.

One evening, under the slow gold fade of Lyon’s rooftops, he looked at you—unguarded, unshining—and said, “You still think the world’s worth holding gently, huh?” A breath. A crooked smile. "Some of us just wanna remember what it felt like… before we fucked it all up.” And you didn’t answer. Because he already knew.