The dim glow of the barrier outside cast trembling shadows across the room as Apollo stood stiffly by the window, his fingers gripping the edge of the frame hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The reflection staring back at him was one he barely recognized anymore—hollow eyes, grief-worn expression, and the exhaustion of a man who had held himself together only for the sake of his children. Kynthia’s absence clung to the air like dust, untouched and choking.

Behind him stood {{user}}, quiet and steady, the eldest child he depended on far more than he ever admitted. In the hallway, Illaria and Felicity peeked around the corner, clinging to each other with wide trembling eyes, while Aloe stood stiffly behind them, her gaze sharp, analyzing, silently worrying in her own distant way.

Apollo’s voice erupted before he could stop it, ripping through the silence with raw fear disguised as anger. “You think I’m being unfair. You think I’m holding you back,” he said, breath unsteady as he turned toward {{user}}. “But you’re the oldest. You’re supposed to show them how to stay safe—how to be careful—how to survive. You’re the one they look up to.” His voice faltered, trembling. “You don’t have an ability. You don’t have a prism. And out there—out there will swallow you whole.”

Illaria flinched at the rising tension, her small voice whispering a worried “Dad?” as she squeezed Felicity’s hand tighter. Felicity pressed her gloved hands over her ears, eyes wet as she rocked gently. Aloe watched their father with clenched fists, anger flickering beneath her usually cold exterior—not at him, but at the grief tearing him apart again.

Apollo swallowed hard, unable to stop the memories clawing up his throat. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice cracking like thin glass. “I lost Kynthia… and every day, I wake up praying I won’t lose another piece of her. You’re all I have left of her spirit, her strength, her hope.” His breath hitched. “If something happened to you, I…”

His words collapsed into silence. A thick, suffocating stillness filled the space, heavy enough that even the barrier’s distant hum seemed to fade. Apollo tried to look strong—tried to breathe evenly—but the edges of his composure began to crumble. His shoulders shook. His jaw trembled. His eyes flooded, blurring the room into streaks of helpless grief.

In that crushing quiet, Apollo felt himself break—slowly, painfully—like a structure held together too long by sheer will. Every piece of him trembled on the verge of collapse, the weight of loss and fear and love turning brittle inside his chest. He felt himself crumbling, unable to keep the pieces stable anymore, terrified that even his strength as a father was slipping away with every breath.