“Why didn’t he tell me.” Satoru’s voice cuts through the silence in your son’s room, low and jagged, the kind of sound that makes the air feel heavy. He stands over the twin bed with you, fists flexing, shoulders coiled tight like he’s holding himself back from breaking something.

If the baby had been a newborn—if he’d been nothing but small hands and soft cries—maybe Satoru could’ve swallowed the betrayal. Maybe he would’ve let it scab over.

But your son was sixteen months old. Sixteen months. Old enough to walk, to talk, to run. Old enough to laugh and scream and reach for someone who should have been there. And Satoru had missed all of it. Every moment. Suguru had hidden the boy from him right up until his sudden disappearance barely a week ago.

And that was the part that made his stomach twist—the boy wasn’t even his. He was Suguru’s child, Suguru’s blood. Satoru didn’t know why it gutted him so badly, why the secrecy burned like a personal betrayal, but it did. It clawed at him, sharper than it should.

That was when you finally told him.

“Why didn’t you tell me.” This time, the words fall quieter. Too quiet. His tone sinks like a knife pressed to skin, and you know—when Satoru’s voice drops, danger climbs.