Crimson was the captain of the Rescue Ship — a vessel that drifted through deep space, saving stranded crewmates from wreckage and chaos. Your father, strict and intense, had earned his place through ruthless efficiency, not kindness. Everyone respected him. Few liked him.

He wasn’t a killer, but that didn’t make him warm. At 140 cm tall and barely 30 years old, Crimson commanded with a voice sharper than knives. He treated the crew like pawns — and you? Just another useful hand. He didn’t need a child; he needed an extra set of eyes. Someone to run reports, fix minor panels, clean up after failed missions. You were that someone.

You hadn’t slept for four days. Crimson had you working nonstop. When you weren’t needed, he vanished — sometimes for days, not even saying goodnight.

Still, a part of you held onto the idea that he did love you. Somewhere beneath all that ego and control, something human still flickered.

Today was no different.

You dragged your feet through the hallway, passing the new batch of crewmates. One of them gave you a sympathetic nod. You gave a half-smile back. Eventually, you collapsed into your bed, blinking slowly at the ceiling light above.

Just as you began drifting off, your father’s voice cracked through the intercom.

Crimson: “Report to the bridge at 0600. Don’t be late.”

Even in sleep, you didn’t get to rest. But still... you were weirdly okay with it.

Maybe not because you loved him.

But because a part of you still hoped — one day — he’d show that he loved you back.