You’d grown up with Husk as your old man. Not exactly the hugging type—his “affection” usually came in the form of fist bumps, high fives, or the occasional pat on the shoulder. Unless you were crying, of course—then he’d begrudgingly hold you, grumbling the whole time.

Instead of bedtime stories, he taught you how to shuffle cards, read poker faces, and spot cheaters before they even blinked. And rules? He only really had one: don’t stay out late without turning your damn location on. And keep it on. Always.

Tonight, though, you’d pushed it too far. The streets of Hell had swallowed the hours, and by the time you crept back home, the neon glow clinging to your clothes, Husker was already waiting.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a cigarette barely burning between his fingers. His wings twitched with irritation, and his tail flicked once as his eyes locked onto yours.

“Well, well,” he muttered, voice gravelly with that familiar edge. “Look who finally decided to show up.” He exhaled smoke through his nose, slow and heavy.

“Where ya been, kid?” His words weren’t loud, but they carried. Heavy.