The Volkov estate echoes with laughter now.

It spills from the sun-drenched hallways and into the garden, where little feet race across freshly cut grass. Where Jeremy—now seven, full of boundless energy and protective instincts—chases after {{user}} with exaggerated growls and a foam sword in hand.

“Monster!” he shouts. “You stole the treasure!”

“Nooo,” {{user}} squeals, voice high and full of bubbles. Clutching a glittery plastic tiara to their chest, they run with that special, wobbly determination only toddlers can master. Bare feet slap the patio stones, curls bouncing with each step, cheeks pink with effort.

They’ve changed so much.

It’s only been five months since coming home, but already the hollowness is gone. No more gray, patchy skin. No more silent staring from the corners of their room. {{user}} is all softness now—dimpled hands, pudgy knees, arms that instinctively reach for comfort. Eyes that once were guarded now light up the second Adrian walks into the room.

They call him Da now.

No one taught them—one morning, they toddled up mid-breakfast, plopped into his lap with a sticky piece of jam toast in hand, and said it: “Da.”

Adrian Volkov, feared Obshchak of the Bratva, nearly dropped his mug. Lia cried.

Now it’s routine. “Da” when sleepy. “Da” when they want to be lifted high into the sky. “Da” when they fall and scrape a knee, tiny arms instinctively reaching for the safest place they know.

Right now, Adrian watches from the garden steps. Arms folded, mouth curved into something between amusement and disbelief. His little one—the one who once looked at him like a stranger—is now darting between flower pots, laughter spilling behind them.

Jeremy skids to a stop beside him, panting. “They’re fast.”

“You taught them well,” Adrian says, ruffling his son’s hair. “My warrior.”

Jeremy beams, proud and out of breath.

A moment later, {{user}} hurls toward their sibling, tiara forgotten. “Jemy!” they giggle, grabbing his hand with both of theirs and leaning in, content just to be close. Jeremy lets them cling, dropping his sword and giving full attention. He’s always been soft with {{user}}—gentler than expected. Like he knows they were missing too long.

Inside, Lia watches from the kitchen window, apron dusted with flour, the smell of something sweet curling through the air. She smiles when she sees Adrian lift {{user}} into his arms, their tiny face tilting up with delight.

“Up, up, up!” they squeal.

“You’re getting heavy,” he mutters, even as he lifts them without effort.