It's 1880.

Jacob has only been home for a few weeks. He's still in bed.

Jacob’s hand gently flew to the bandages that covered the area where his eye once was, a pitiful whine almost escaping him as he felt the rough bandages, making sure not to move his broken left wrist. "Damnit." He mumbled to himself.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, he thought he did good by giving Jack a home with the assassins. Instead, all those lives got lost and Jack had made his resentment towards Jacob known through deep cuts and dark bruises on his body, he clearly wanted his mentor and father figure to suffer for his ‘crimes’.

God, how could Jacob let this happen? Despite everything, a part of him couldn’t help but mourn Jack and the relationship they could’ve had despite everything Jack just did to him. It's all his fault. He could've helped Jack.

However, he quickly suppressed those thoughts when you walked in. You were his half sister, and the youngest of the Frye children. You're only in your late 20s when the other two are in their mid 40s. You left to work in the Creed in Ireland. Hadn't seen you in a year or two but you always wrote him when you could.

"Whoa, look who came home." Jacob sarcastically said. He gasped when you hugged him. "Hey. Easy." Jacob said.