Chapter 166 - Chapter 161: A Father Made of Scars - Part 2

Chapter 161: A Father Made of Scars - Part 2

Clef sat alone in the middle of the field.

The grass was tall, brushing against his boots whenever the wind shifted. Above him stretched a sky so clear and dark it almost looked hollow, scattered with cold stars that didn't care about human tragedies.

Beside him were two half-empty packs of cheap beer.

He wasn't drunk.

Not yet.

He had trained himself over a lifetime to never get drunk when he wanted to.

So he just drank slowly, silently.

The words Meri had screamed at him echoed again and again, replaying like a curse.

Monster.

You killed mom.

I never want to see you again.

He didn't cry.

He didn't scream.

He didn't break anything.

He just sat there, breathing.

Taking another slow sip.

The night was quiet, until faint headlights appeared at the edge of the dirt road.

Clef watched without really reacting.

A black car approached, tires crunching gravel, then stopped more than ten meters away from him, as if whoever was inside respected his space… or was afraid to get any closer.

Two Resh-1 operators stepped out first, their silhouettes rigid as always.

Then the back door opened.

And the smallest, calmest shadow stepped out.

Even in the darkness, Clef recognized him instantly.

"…Boss?" he muttered.

Leonard raised a hand, signaling the two operators to remain by the vehicle. They stopped immediately, forming a silent guard.

Then Leonard walked alone toward Clef, his steps soft over the grass.

Clef didn't bother standing or hiding the beers. The Administrator simply approached and sat down beside him, uninvited but not unwelcome.

Leonard glanced at the cans, at Clef's unreadable face, then said quietly:

"Mind if I join you?"

Clef shrugged.

His voice was hoarse.

"Make yourself at home."

Leonard reached over, grabbed a can, cracked it open.

-pshhht-

And took a sip.

His expression froze.

Then he spat it out instantly.

"…It tastes like piss."

Clef let out a faint exhale that might have been a laugh in another lifetime.

Leonard sighed, wiped his mouth, and leaned back on his hands, staring up at the stars.

"Need to talk about it?" he asked.

Clef didn't answer.

He kept staring at the sky.

The beer in his hand trembled just a little, so little most people wouldn't have seen it. Leonard saw it.

Silence stretched on.

Long. Heavy. Suffocating.

Leonard took another sip of his own beer, forcing himself despite the taste, and made a face that almost seemed comedic.

Another minute passed.

Two.

Only the distant rustle of grass and the faint hum of the car engine filled the air.

Finally.

Clef exhaled.

A long, tired, defeated breath.

Then he spoke.

"I never wanted to kill her mother."

His voice cracked at the edges, barely noticeable unless one listened closely.

Leonard did.

Clef didn't look away from the stars.

"I wanted a normal life.

A wife.

A daughter.

A home.

Peace."

His grip tightened around the can.

"I wanted… to protect them."

His throat tightened. He swallowed hard.

"But I couldn't protect anyone. Not her. Not Meri."

He shook his head slowly, bitterly.

"I'm just trash.

Not even human."

He took another drink, not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do other than shake.

Leonard didn't argue.

Didn't tell him he was wrong.

Didn't comfort him like a child.

He just sat there, letting the silence stretch again, letting the pain settle instead of trying to erase it.

Clef appreciated that more than anything he could have said.

After a while, Leonard's voice cut through the night, soft, steady, but firm.

"Tell me about you and Lilly."

Clef's breath stopped.

His shoulders stiffened.

For a second, he didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Didn't move.

Then, without looking away from the sky, he whispered:

"…Where do you want me to begin?"

---

The grass swayed gently beneath the afternoon sun, warm and soft against the young Clef''s ankles as he walked through the edge of the woods behind North Access. Birds chattered overhead; distant waves rolled against the Cornwall cliffs. He had come here looking for beetles, or maybe tadpoles, anything to distract him from another lonely day.

Then he heard it.

A quiet, uneven sob.

Clef froze, turning his head toward the sound.

There, beneath the low branches of an old oak, stood a girl.

Blonde hair spilled past her shoulders in tangled waves, almost too long for a child her age.

Her hands covered her face, her shoulders shaking with every breath.

Something tugged at him.

He stepped forward.

A twig snapped beneath his foot.

The girl jolted upright with a small gasp. She hurriedly wiped her eyes with her sleeves, trying to hide the tears streaking her cheeks. Only then did Clef notice the tiny dark horns pushing through her hair, strange, delicate, real.

He stared.

She stared back.

Neither spoke.

Finally, Clef swallowed and managed, "H… hey."

The girl sniffed. "…Hello."

Her voice cracked just a little.

"I'm Francis," he said, awkward but sincere.

She hesitated. Then, softly:

"…Lilly."

His eyes drifted down, she had a small cut on her knee, bright red against pale skin.

"You're bleeding."

"It doesn't matter," she murmured.

"It does."

He stepped closer and knelt beside her. "Can I help?"

Lilly looked confused, caught between fear and curiosity, but she didn't move when he reached out. Francis pressed his palm gently over the cut.

Warmth spread beneath his hand.

A soft shimmer, barely visible, rippled across her skin.

The bleeding stopped.

The flesh closed.

Within seconds, the wound was gone entirely.

Lilly gasped so quietly it was almost a breath.

She stared at her healed knee, then at him.

"You… you can do that too?"

Francis blinked. "Too?"

Lilly took a step back, wiping her face again. She scanned the ground until she spotted a fallen twig. She lifted her hand toward it, and the twig trembled, lifted off the grass, and floated shakily into the air.

Francis's jaw dropped.

"That's amazing!"

Lilly flinched like she wasn't used to praise.

The twig fell.

She clasped her hands together nervously.

"I thought I was weird," she whispered.

Francis shook his head. "No. You're not weird. Not at all."

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of fear or disgust. She found none.

Slowly, timidly, Lilly reached out.

Francis blinked as her small fingers brushed his.

She held his hand tighter.

"I don't… I don't have anyone to talk to," she murmured. "No one else understands."

Francis flushed at the sudden contact but didn't pull away. He squeezed her hand gently, clumsy but sincere.

"I do."

A tiny smile tugged at her lips, shy, fragile, hopeful.

Under the shade of the oak trees, surrounded by warm light and summer wind, two strange children stood hand in hand.

And Lilly whispered, barely audible:

"…Will you be my friend?"

Francis nodded immediately.

"Yeah. I will."

---

Clef let the words trail off, the memory hanging between them like mist in the cold night air.

He stared at the beer can in his hand, thumb tracing the rim.

A brittle laugh slipped out, tired, hollow.

"She was crying that day," he muttered. "I didn't know why. Didn't ask. I just… wanted to make her smile."

He leaned back against the grass, eyes fixed on the sky.

"She was the first person who wasn't scared of me," he said. "The first one who didn't look at me like I was some… freak."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"And I was the first person who didn't flinch at her horns. Didn't run. Didn't scream."

He let out a slow breath. "I guess we were both just lonely kids with powers we didn't understand."

Léonard stayed silent, listening.

Clef's fingers tightened around the can.

His voice dropped.

"When she smiled at me for the first time…"

He shook his head.

"…I thought the whole damn world had finally decided to give me a break."

He scoffed, bitter and aching.

"Shows what I knew."

He took another long sip, eyes distant.

And then, without looking away from the stars, Clef said quietly:

"…We met again the next day. That's when things really started."

---

The next morning, Francis was already waiting under the same oak tree.

He didn't know why.

Maybe he hoped the girl wasn't just a dream.

Maybe he hoped she hadn't run away after seeing his… trick.

A soft rustle of leaves answered him before anything else.

Then she stepped out.

Lilly, same pale blond hair, same awkward oversized cardigan, same long, shy glance at him before she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You came back," Francis said. He didn't smile, but something eased in his shoulders.

"You did too," she replied softly.

They stood there for a moment—two kids who didn't know how to say I'm glad you're here without sounding strange.

Lilly shifted her weight. "Wanna… play something?"

Francis shrugged. "Sure."

"What do you like?"

He hesitated.

"…Movies."

Her eyes lit up. "Me too! Which ones?"

"Poltergeist."

Her whole face brightened. "I love Poltergeist!"

Francis blinked. "…You do?"

She nodded eagerly, then said with a mischievous spark, "Wanna try the scene with the chairs?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "We don't have chairs."

Lilly looked around the clearing, then pointed at fallen branches.

"We have these."

He opened his mouth to point out how dumb that sounded, then stopped.

Because the branches were rising.

Slowly. Wobbling a bit. But definitely floating.

Lilly concentrated, her tongue poking out slightly from between her teeth, cheeks puffing with effort.

The branches arranged themselves into a half-wobbly, half-neat stack behind Francis.

He turned.

She grinned, proud and blushing. "Tadaaa."

Francis stared at the floating branches.

Then at her.

"You can do that too?" he asked quietly.

Lilly tilted her head. "Too?"

He swallowed.

He lifted a hand toward a rock half-buried in the dirt.

It trembled.

Shook.

Then popped free and hovered a few centimeters above the ground.

Lilly gasped. "You can!"

She ran closer, beaming. "I knew it! I knew you were like me!"

Francis looked away, embarrassed. "It's not a big deal."

"It is to me," she said gently.

Something warm bloomed in his chest.

He didn't know what it was yet.

Later, sitting in the grass, they found an old radio someone had tossed out near the forest trail.

It barely worked, sputtering static into the air.

Francis tapped the side of it. "It's broken."

"Maybe not completely," Lilly whispered.

Her eyes narrowed, and the knob on the radio flicked on its own.

The channel jumped.

click -zzzt- -crackle-

Top 40 pop music floated out, distorted but real.

Francis laughed, actually laughed, a sound he didn't make often.

He leaned forward. "Let me try."

He focused.

The dial slid to the left.

Another crackle.

Then a classical station hummed through the old speakers.

Lilly clapped like he'd done something amazing.

He flushed. "…It was nothing."

"No! It was perfect."

She leaned closer.

"Want to try something harder?"

Francis frowned. "Like what?"

She dug into her pocket and produced a penny.

She placed it on his palm, her fingers brushing his skin for the first time, warm, light, gentle.

"Can you bend it?" she whispered.

He stared at the coin.

At her.

At the trust in her eyes.

He closed his hand around it.

No force.

No pressure.

Just intent.

When he opened his palm, the penny was curled like a crescent moon.

Lilly gasped softly, awe lighting up her face. "That's beautiful…"

She took the bent coin carefully, like it was fragile glass.

Then she pulled another penny from her pocket.

"Your turn."

Her hand hovered over it, fingers trembling with focus.

The coin twisted.

Not fully.

Not perfectly.

But enough.

Francis watched her, watched how she bit her lip, how her hair fell over her eyes, how she smiled proudly when the penny finally bent.

And something in him softened, warmed, changed.

She wasn't just like him.

She was with him.

A friend.

Maybe the first real one he'd ever had.

They spent the rest of the afternoon switching radio stations with their minds, bending pennies until their pockets were empty, reenacting scenes from Poltergeist, floating sticks, swirling leaves, levitating pinecones.

Their laughter echoed through the clearing.

Two children in a quiet English town.

Two little reality benders who, for once, didn't have to pretend they were normal.

For the first time in their lives…

They weren't alone.

---

Clef let out a long breath, the can of beer dangling loosely between two fingers.

The stars above him blurred slightly, not from the alcohol, but from the memories pressing into his skull like old bruises.

"…We grew up together," he murmured, voice rough. "Every damn day after school. Every weekend. Every free hour we had."

He didn't look at Léonard.

He just kept staring at the sky, as if the constellations were safer to face than the truth.

"She was the only one like me," he said quietly. "We didn't have words like reality bender back then. All we knew was that the world bent… differently around us."

A humorless smile tugged at his lips.

"We'd sneak out to the woods whenever we could. Float sticks around. Pretend to be in Poltergeist. Bend pennies until our thumbs turned green. Make the radios in our houses flip channels until our parents yelled at the static."

He chuckled once, a tired, broken sound.

"We were idiots. Kids who thought having powers meant we were special. Invincible. Like the world had been made just for us."

He finished his beer in one long swallow.

Silence stretched for a beat.

Then he spoke again, softer.

"And then… we got older."

The wind shifted. Grass rustled around them.

"By the time we were teenagers… I think I knew." He paused. "And she knew too. You don't spend half your life with someone without noticing when you start looking at them differently."

He squeezed the empty beer can until it crumpled.

"I fell for her. Hard. And she fell for me."

A long breath escaped his chest, shaky, uneven.

"We were stupid. Young. In love. And we thought the world would just-"

He gestured vaguely at the horizon.

"-let us be happy."

He closed his eyes.

"And for a while… it did."

He didn't say more.

---

The woods were unnaturally still.

Not silent, just watching.

Tall pines formed a cathedral of living pillars, their branches arching overhead like a vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of wild mint and blooming moss. A faint silver mist drifted low across the ground, swirling whenever something unseen brushed past.

Francis straightened the collar of his too-big suit and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.

He wasn't alone.

On the left side of the clearing, dozens of Faeries gathered in perfect, unnerving stillness.

Not the fairy-tale kind, the real ones, the ones who made humans instinctively take a step back.

Tall Homo sapiens sidhe with pale skin like polished porcelain and hair the color of wild plants, ivy-green, flower-pink, autumn-leaf orange. Their black eyes reflected no light at all, like bottomless wells.

Tiny Trans stellaris hovered near them, small humanoids with light green skin and six eyes arranged in two vertical rows. Their wings shimmered like thin sheets of mica.

A few members of the pointed-ear green-skinned subspecies sat quietly on exposed roots, whispering in a language that sounded like leaves brushing against stone.

They were guests, but none smiled.

Faeries rarely smiled at humans.

On the right side, vastly outnumbered, stood three humans:

His grandmother, short, round, stubborn, wearing her favorite knitted cardigan.

His grandfather, stiff as a board, gripping his cane as if the Faeries might leap at him.

And his mother, trying to pretend she wasn't terrified out of her mind.

"Henry," his grandmother whispered, elbowing his grandfather, "stop glaring. It's his wedding."

His grandfather muttered, "Wedding? Boy's marrying into a species that eats humans for breakfast…"

"Henry."

He fell silent.

Francis's heart pounded.

Then the church doors creaked open.

Every Faerie turned their head at once, perfectly synchronized, no breath wasted, no motion delayed. A ripple of unnatural grace.

And then she appeared.

Lilly.

Her blonde hair flowed down her shoulders in loose curls, dotted with tiny white blossoms that bloomed the moment she touched them. Her gown was simple white linen, stitched with faint, natural green thread. Pale sunlight caught the edges, giving her an almost divine glow.

She looked like she belonged to both worlds.

Human warmth.

Faerie magic.

She smiled when she saw him.

His lungs stopped working.

Lilly stepped barefoot onto the mossy ground, every touch of her foot making small vines unfurl beneath her.

Faeries bowed their heads in acknowledgment to her.

Even the smaller six-eyed ones blinked reverently, wings fluttering.

She reached him, slipped her hand into his, and whispered:

"You okay?"

Alto swallowed. "Not even a little."

She laughed softly, and the forest brightened.

A figure stepped from the church.

The priest.

He was a faerie too, impossibly tall, his pale skin marked with faint spirals of dark green across his cheeks and forehead. His eyes were entirely black, reflecting the world in warped, curved shapes. His hair looked like living willow branches, gently swaying even without wind.

He held a wooden staff topped with a glowing moss-covered stone.

He raised it.

The forest hushed.

"By pact of grove and hearth," the Faerie priest intoned, voice vibrating like wind through hollow bark, "we gather to bind two who walk between worlds."

Lilly squeezed Francis's hand.

"Step forward."

They did.

The priest's black eyes flicked to Alto.

"Do you, Francis, son of humanity, tie your life and breath to this child of the Green Court?"

"I do." His voice surprised him, steady, sure.

"And do you, Lillian of the Wild Walkers, bind your heart and path to this man of the mortal realm?"

Lilly smiled at Francis, eyes glowing faintly with joy.

"I do."

The Faeries bowed their heads briefly.

His mother quietly wiped her tears.

His grandfather grunted approvingly.

"Then seal it."

Lilly lifted her hand and a small crystalline thorn appeared between her fingers. She pierced her palm and golden blood welled up, glowing faintly, falling to the ground where it burst into a blooming white flower.

Francis took a small pocketknife and pricked his hand. A drop of human red fell beside her golden one.

The two drops merged.

One red. One gold.

Twisting.

Fusing.

Sinking into the earth.

The priest struck his staff lightly against the ground.

"Two paths intertwined," he said. "Two souls, bound under witness of Court and kin."

He lowered his staff.

"You may kiss."

Francis didn't wait.

Lilly met him halfway, hands cupping his face as he wrapped his arms around her. The Faeries made a strange chorus, a mixture of soft chiming, low humming, and fluttering wings. His grandmother clapped excitedly; his grandfather tried to hide a smile; his mother sobbed openly.

When they pulled apart.

Lilly whispered, forehead resting against his:

"We did it."

Francis smiled back, breathless and full.

"Yeah," he whispered. "We really did."

For that brief moment.

in a forest where humans and Faeries stood together,

in a world where magic and reality intertwined—

Everything was perfect.

---

Clef leaned back in the grass, letting the night breeze wash past him. The empty beer can rolled from his fingers and bumped gently against his boot.

He didn't look at Léonard.

He just stared at the stars, jaw tight, breath slow, as if talking hurt more than staying silent.

"…That day," Clef finally muttered, voice thick, "was the happiest I've ever been."

He let out an exhausted laugh, the kind that wasn't really a laugh at all.

"Can you imagine?"

He shook his head.

"Me. Married into a Faerie court. A bunch of six-eyed goblins and black-eyed supermodels watching me say 'I do' like I stumbled into the wrong fairytale."

His chest rose and fell as he exhaled.

"But Lilly-"

His voice trembled, barely noticeable.

"Lilly looked at me like I belonged there. Like I was… worth something."

He rubbed his face with one hand, wiping nothing away.

"We were just kids, you know. Kids who thought 'love' fixed everything. Kids who didn't understand what we were, what the world was… or what we were bringing into it."

He lowered his hand, eyes unfocused.

"We were stupid. Happy, but stupid."

The grass rustled as he shifted, picking up another can and opening it, even though he didn't seem to taste it.

"We didn't have a plan. No jobs, no money, no future. Just two idiots with barely-controlled reality bending and enough hormones to level a building."

A dry smile tugged at his mouth, then faded quickly.

"So after the wedding… we decided to do the grown-up thing."

He took a slow sip.

"Find a place. Make a home. Start a life."

He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of memory settling heavily over him.

"That's when things started changing."

---

The front door creaked open, letting in the scent of salt air and old wood. Dust floated lazily through the warm afternoon sun. The house was bigger inside than it had looked from the outside, three floors stacked like uneven books, old stone walls, and wooden beams that gave it the charm of a place that had lived a long life before either of them existed.

Francis pushed the door fully open with his shoulder, a heavy cardboard box in his arms.

"All right, home sweet home," he muttered, stepping inside.

Behind him, Lilly followed with two smaller boxes that she carried as if they weighed nothing. Her long blonde hair swayed behind her, antler-like branches of sunlight catching the dust in the air.

She looked around with a bright smile.

"It's beautiful," she said. "It smells like old tea and forgotten ghosts."

Francis snorted. "It smells like mold."

"You have no poetry in your soul," she replied, bumping her box lightly into his arm.

He set his load down on the floor with a grunt.

Boxes were stacked everywhere, some labeled, most not. Furniture was half-assembled, half-broken, or half-found in the attic. The whole place was chaos.

But it was theirs.

Lilly knelt beside one of the half-open crates Francis's mother had packed years ago. Inside were dozens of old books, cracked leather bindings, handwritten notes tucked between pages, countless languages neither of them could read.

"These were your mother's?" Lilly asked softly.

Clef nodded, wiping dust from his hands. "Yeah. She studied weird stuff. Folklore. Rituals. Old stories. Some of it she wrote herself."

Lilly gently picked up a thick, heavy volume wrapped in rough cloth. "Can I…?"

He shrugged. "Go ahead. Just don't break it. She'd haunt me."

She carefully unwrapped the cloth.

The cover revealed itself slowly, a dark, reddish-brown binding with strange angular symbols carved like claw marks, and a circular emblem pressed into the center. The letters at the top were English… or close to English.

The Erikesh Codex

(Translated Edition)

Lilly's breath caught.

"This is… beautiful," she whispered, brushing her fingers along the embossed text.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "That one's dangerous to read. Not cursed, just… brain-melting. Mom always said you had to be part masochist to get through it."

Lilly opened it to a random page. Strange diagrams covered it, impossible geometry, symbols that curled like living vines, and entire paragraphs written in a language that flickered between English and something far older.

"Who translated it?" she asked.

"Some scholar in Reykjavik," Francis said, dragging another box inside. "Mom said the original Erikeshans disappeared centuries ago. Or fell into another dimension. Or were eaten. Depends on who you ask."

Lilly smiled softly. "Your family really does collect strange things."

"Yours literally lives in both courts of Faerie and occasionally communes with tree spirits."

"Yes," she said with a teasing tilt of her head, "but we don't collect books that bite back."

"That one doesn't bite," Francis said. "Probably."

She gave him a look.

He held his hands up. "Fine. It bit my cousin once. But he deserved it."

Lilly laughed, a bright, melodic sound that filled the old house like it had been waiting years just to hear it.

Her thumb brushed the edge of a page again, reverent, curious.

"…Can I read it?" she asked.

Francis paused, halfway through lifting another box.

He watched her.

The way she looked at the book, like it wasn't just paper, but a secret waiting for her, a door into something bigger, something ancient, something calling.

He hesitated.

Then he shrugged.

"Sure. Knock yourself out. Just-"

he pointed a finger at her,

"don't summon something awful. We just moved in."

"No promises," she said, smiling.

She hugged the heavy tome to her chest like a treasure and stood.

"Where should I start?"

"Anywhere but the back chapters," Clef said. "Mom kept telling me those were written after the author went insane."

Lilly raised an eyebrow. "After?"

"Yeah."

She giggled again and opened the book as she walked toward the old wooden staircase leading to the second floor.

Clef watched her for a moment, warmth stirring in his chest.

---

Clef took a long pull from his beer, eyes fixed on the stars above them.

For a while, he didn't speak at all. The night breeze moved through the tall grass, carrying the faint scent of pine and soil.

Finally, he exhaled.

"She loved Cornwall," he said quietly. "The quiet. The sea air. The way the whole town slowed down at sunset… She fit into that place like she'd been born from its soil."

He turned the can slowly between his fingers.

"She opened a flower shop on the ground floor of our building. Lilly's Garden."

A dry, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"She grew flowers nobody else could keep alive. Hell, she grew things I didn't even have names for. The townsfolk thought she was just incredibly talented."

His smile faded.

"And they had no idea how right they were."

He leaned back on one hand, staring ahead without blinking.

"We were good then. Really good. Just… living. Working. Laughing. Doing stupid things. For a while I thought we pulled it off."

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

"I actually believed we could just… exist in peace."

The wind shifted. His expression hardened.

"But that's also where it started. The… cracks."

He took another sip, slower this time.

"The first argument wasn't anything dramatic. No screaming, no violence. Just… something small. A shadow where there hadn't been one before."

Clef looked over at Léonard, tired but steady.

---

The late-afternoon sun spilled through the kitchen window of their new home, warm and golden, painting dust motes in the air like tiny fireflies. The building creaked softly when the sea breeze brushed against it, old wood settling in after a long day.

Francis stood at the small dining table, sorting through bills and invoices. Electricity. Water. Rent. Supplies for the flower shop downstairs. A half-filled ledger. His hands moved automatically, he'd grown used to juggling two lives.

One as Francis, florist's husband.

The other as Agent Ukulele, a special operative of the Global Occult Coalition.

He heard footsteps on the stairs before she appeared.

Lilly walked in barefoot, a light dusting of pollen on her apron, hair glowing in the fading sunlight. She smelled faintly of soil and orchids. Her presence always made the room brighter.

At least, until today.

She looked at the table, then at him.

"Francis," she said lightly, "why are there so many invoices up here? I thought we had everything handled this month."

Francis cleared his throat. "We're fine. Just… sorting things."

She walked over, plucking one of the papers from his hand before he could stop her.

Her smile faltered.

"Late fees?" she murmured. "For the shop?"

"It's just a temporary thing," he said quickly. "Some irregular hours. Not a big deal."

She set the invoice down slowly, like she was placing something fragile.

"Not a big deal," she repeated, voice soft. "Francis, we agreed you'd handle the books. I trusted you."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "And I am handling them."

"By letting things fall behind?"

He didn't answer.

Her eyes narrowed, not angry, not yet. But sharp. Searching.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

Francis swallowed. "…A few weeks."

She sighed. "Why didn't you tell me? I could've helped. We could've adjusted stock. Raised prices. Anything."

He looked away, jaw tight. "I didn't want you worrying."

"Worrying?" She stepped closer, the warmth in her voice cooling. "Francis, this is our home. Our business. Our future. I'm supposed to worry."

He stared at the numbers on the table.

He couldn't tell her the truth.

Couldn't tell her the resources he had came from missions she must never know about.

Couldn't tell her the reason he looked tired some mornings was because he'd spent the night disposing of something monstrous for the GOC.

She touched his arm gently.

"Please," she whispered, "just be honest with me."

He forced a smile. "I'm doing my best. I promise."

Something flickered in her expression, something subtle, almost imperceptible, but new.

Doubt.

She stepped back, crossing her arms lightly.

"We'll go through everything together tonight," she said. "And we're reorganizing the books. I can't run the shop blind."

Francis nodded stiffly. "Okay."

But inside, a knot formed.

If they went through the finances together…

She'd notice the disappearances. The gaps. The strange deposits.

She'd ask questions he couldn't answer.

Lilly was still talking softly, planning solutions, thinking aloud.

But her eyes kept drifting back to him, watching, analyzing.

And Francis felt something he never had around her before:

Fear.

Not of her…

but of the widening space between them.

---

Clef let out a long breath, the kind that carried years of weight behind it. The beer can dangled loosely from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes didn't leave the sky as he spoke.

"…That was the first time something felt wrong," he murmured. "The first time I saw her look at me like that."

He shifted slightly, grass rustling under him.

"We were supposed to be a team. Two kids who grew up together, messing with radios, bending spoons, pretending we were in Poltergeist." A weak laugh escaped him. "And suddenly we were adults. With bills. A shop. A future."

His expression hardened just a little.

"And secrets. Mine. Hers."

He rubbed the side of his neck, remembering the tension in that kitchen, the way her smile had cracked, the way her voice had sharpened like a blade she didn't know she was holding.

"It was just a small fight. Nothing dramatic. But looking back…"

He swallowed.

"It was the first fracture. The first moment she stopped seeing me as Francis, the boy she grew up with… and started seeing something else."

He finally glanced at Léonard.

"She didn't know yet. About my work. About what I did. About the kind of monsters the Coalition hunted."

His voice dropped, brittle as old glass.

"And she hadn't started changing. Not fully. Not yet."

He took another sip of beer, not for taste, but because he needed something to do with his hands.

"But that day… I could tell something had woken up inside her. A spark. A doubt."

A pause.

"And that spark eventually became a fire."

He turned back to the sky, jaw tightening as the next memory surfaced behind his eyes.

---

Rain tapped gently against the kitchen windows, the old three-story building breathing with the soft hum of pipes and the smell of fresh flowers. Boxes lined the hall. A kettle hissed somewhere in the background.

Francis stood at the counter, brow furrowed over scattered bills. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable, stressed, muttering numbers under his breath.

Behind him, Lilly arranged roses and tulips in a vase, humming softly. She always hummed when she was content. It made the room feel like home.

Then she glanced over her shoulder.

She saw him hunched over the bills.

And she laughed.

A light, melodic laugh, but sharp as a paper cut.

"God, Francis," she said with a teasing grin, "you look like a sad stuffed potato trying to solve a puzzle."

He stiffened, turning halfway toward her. "A… potato?"

She didn't even look up from her flowers.

"It's just true, darling," she said casually, adjusting a stem. "You're kind of… round."

Francis blinked, uncertain if she was joking. He forced a smile.

"I'm just tired, Lilly. That's all."

"Mhm." She brushed her hair aside. "But honestly, it wouldn't kill you to lose a bit of weight. I mean-"

her tone softened, but only slightly,

"-you pant just from carrying boxes upstairs. It's not… attractive."

His throat tightened.

"Oh."

"And it affects us, you know?" she continued, still focused on her bouquet as if discussing the weather. "You're slower, you get tired easily… sometimes I feel like I'm living with an old man instead of a husband."

The words landed gently, but they cut deep, precise, effortless, almost clinical.

Francis stared at her.

She didn't look back.

She didn't see the way he swallowed hard.

She didn't see how small he suddenly felt.

"Sorry," she added lightly, placing the vase on the table, "I'm just being honest."

Then she started humming again, as if nothing had happened.

Francis lowered his gaze to the bills, blinking rapidly to keep his expression steady.

The flowers were beautiful.

The home was warm.

Lilly was still humming.

But something inside him had taken the first crack.

---

Clef let the memories fade like smoke.

He took a slow drink from his can, staring straight ahead at nothing. The stars above him felt impossibly far away.

"After that day…" he finally murmured, voice low, raw around the edges,

"…it just kept getting worse."

Léonard didn't interrupt.

Clef let the silence breathe, then continued.

"She used to joke," he said. "Teasing, little comments. Stuff I thought couples teased each other with."

He let out a bitter laugh. "But they changed. They got sharper. Meaner. Every week, every month… something else."

He rubbed his thumb along the cold metal of the can, as if grounding himself.

"One day it was my weight."

He shook his head.

"The next day it was my job, how I wasn't good enough, how I wasn't doing enough, how I was lucky someone like her even looked at me."

His voice dropped further.

"And eventually… she didn't bother dressing it up as jokes anymore."

The wind rustled the grass.

Clef inhaled deeply, exhaling a shaky breath.

"It felt like every time she opened her mouth, it was just to remind me that I was worthless… pathetic… embarrassing." He gave a hollow smile. "And I let myself believe it."

His shoulders hunched.

"I kept telling myself she was stressed. Or overwhelmed. Or hurting. That it was temporary. That she'd go back to being the girl I grew up with."

He shook his head again.

"But she didn't."

There was no anger in his voice.

Just exhaustion.

And grief.

"She changed, Boss," he said quietly. "Little by little… the kindness vanished. And the cruelty stayed."

He looked at the sky again, eyes distant.

"And I was too stupid, and too in love, to see where it was leading."

He didn't say anything else.

He didn't need to.

---

The late afternoon sky over Cornwall glowed orange, streaked with violet clouds as the sun slipped behind the trees. A soft breeze carried the scent of pine needles and distant sea salt.

Francis stepped out the back door of the house, arms full of papers, neatly sorted notes from months of research, diagrams, drafts, and half-finished theories he'd been hoping to refine. His mother's old notebooks were stacked on top.

He blinked.

Lilly stood in the yard.

Next to a bonfire.

A tall one. Burning hot enough that the air shimmered above it.

And in her hands was a stack of his documents.

"Lilly…?" he asked slowly, stepping forward. "What are you doing?"

She turned with a bright smile, too bright, too casual, her blonde hair catching the firelight like strands of molten gold.

"Oh, Fran," she said lightly, "I'm helping you."

Before he could ask what she meant, she tossed the stack of papers into the flames.

The fire swallowed them instantly.

Francis froze.

All the breath left his lungs.

"M-my-" He stepped closer, panic rising in his throat. "Lilly, those were my notes, why would you-?"

She waved a hand dismissively, as if throwing away months of his life was a small household chore.

"Oh, come on. You don't need all that silly stuff cluttering the house. You barely read half of it."

"That's not the point," he said, voice cracking. "I needed those for work-"

She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows arching.

"For your little job?" she asked, lips curling. "Please, Francis. You're always so stressed about that nonsense. I'm trying to help you relax. You should be thanking me."

He stared at the fire, at the edges of scorched pages curling into ash, his stomach twisting.

"This… this wasn't your decision to make," he whispered.

Lilly sighed dramatically, turning back to the flames.

"Oh, don't be so sensitive," she said, tossing another handful of papers in. "You get like this every time I do something to fix your messes."

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you're worse when you're hormonal."

Her tone was light, teasing, but sharp underneath, like a knife hidden in velvet.

Francis opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to shout. To pull the papers from the fire. To demand an explanation.

But instead-

He looked at her face.

Her smile.

The way the fading sunlight glowed behind her like a halo.

And his resolve crumpled.

Maybe she was stressed.

Maybe she really was trying to help.

"Lilly…" he said softly, voice deflating. "I… I just wish you'd told me first."

She turned, smile widening as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

"There," she murmured, pressing her cheek against his chest. "See? Was that so hard? I'm looking out for you, Fran. Someone has to."

Her arms tightened.

He slowly hugged her back.

Even as the last remnants of his work were devoured by fire behind her.

---

Clef stared at the grass for a long moment, beer can dangling loosely from his fingers. The fireflies blinked lazily around them, but he didn't seem to see any of it.

When he finally spoke, his voice had none of the sharpness or sardonic bite he was known for.

Just tired honesty.

"…That day," he muttered, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the can, "I should've realized something was wrong. Really wrong."

He let out a breath, shaky and defeated.

"But I didn't. I told myself she was stressed. Told myself she meant well. Told myself she was just… having one of her moments."

He laughed, flat, humorless.

"I even apologized to her afterward. For 'overreacting.'"

He scoffed at himself. "Overreacting. She burned my work and I apologized."

Léonard stayed silent. He didn't interrupt, didn't comfort, didn't flinch.

He let Clef speak.

Clef took another gulp of cheap beer, swallowed hard.

"It didn't happen all at once. People like to think there's some big turning point, a moment where the switch flips."

He shook his head slowly.

"No. It's slow. Tiny things. Small cuts. Little cruelties you convince yourself are accidents."

He crushed the empty can in his fist.

"From that day on… it just got worse. Bit by bit. She pushed boundaries. Took more. Controlled more. Snapped more. Hurt more."

He exhaled sharply, staring at the crushed aluminum like he wished it were something else.

"And every time," he whispered, "I forgave her. Because I loved her. Because she was my wife. Because I thought… I thought love meant enduring it."

Clef's voice cracked for just a second.

"I thought I could fix her."

He set the can down in the grass, finally lifting his eyes toward the stars.

"But all it did was break me instead."

---

The kettle whistled sharply on the stove, steam curling upward in the cramped Cornwall kitchen. Francis moved toward it automatically, reaching to turn off the flame.

"Don't touch that."

Lilly's voice cut across the room like a blade.

He froze, hand hovering over the knob.

"It's just tea," he said quietly. "I'm making us-"

"I said," she repeated, turning from the counter, "don't. Touch. That."

Francis lowered his hand slowly. "Okay. Sure. You can finish it."

She scoffed, brushing past him, grabbing the kettle with a flare of irritation in her movements. She slammed it down on the counter hard enough to rattle the mugs.

"Honestly, Francis," she muttered, "do you ever think before you do things?"

He blinked, taken aback. "I just thought-"

"That's the problem," she snapped, spinning to face him. "You don't think. Ever."

He swallowed. "Lilly, what's wrong? You've been tense all week-"

Her laugh was sharp, humorless. "Oh, so now you notice? Congratulations."

He felt a chill creep up his spine. "I'm not trying to fight."

Lilly slammed the cabinet door shut. "You don't try anything. You drift. You coast. You just… exist."

"That's… not fair."

She stepped closer, eyes bright with contempt he didn't understand.

"You know what isn't fair?" she said. "Being stuck with someone no one else even looks at."

Francis tensed. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, don't make me say it." She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Fine. I'll say it. Nobody, and I mean nobody, finds you appealing, Francis."

He flinched as if slapped.

"You're not desirable to anyone. Not romantically, not… not even as a friend. You know how many people asked about you after the wedding? Zero."

She held up a finger. "None."

"That's not-"

"You don't charm anyone," she went on ruthlessly. "You don't attract anyone. You fade into the background like a fucking curtain."

Francis's hands trembled slightly. "Lilly… why are you saying this?"

"Because you need to hear it!" she yelled, stepping forward.

"You think you're some tragic, brooding, quiet type? No. You're boring. You're invisible. And the only reason anyone even talks to you, anyone, is because of me."

The tea kettle whistled again, shrill and piercing, matching the tension coiling in his chest.

"Lilly, stop."

"Make me."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't move.

Her voice grew colder.

"Honestly, Francis… sometimes I wonder why I even married you. There's nothing special about you."

She gestured at him vaguely. "No prospects. No charisma. No presence. You're just… there."

"That's cruel," he whispered.

She leaned in, eyes burning.

"What's cruel is you pretending you're enough."

Something inside him felt like it cracked.

Lilly scoffed, shook her head, and brushed past him.

"I'm done with this conversation."

She stormed out of the kitchen.

Francis stood frozen in place, chest tight, breath shallow.

Then-

SLAM.

The bedroom door shook the whole house as she shut herself inside, leaving him alone in the ringing silence.

And he just stood there.

Not angry.

Not shouting back.

Just wounded.

And still wondering what he had done wrong.

---

Clef took a long, hollow breath, staring at the can in his hand as if the answers might float somewhere inside the cheap beer.

"It didn't happen all at once," he said, voice low, rough. "People always imagine that abuse is some big, dramatic thing. A slap. A scream. A breaking point."

He shook his head slowly.

"No. It's drip-feed poison. One remark here. One joke there. One little cut after another until you don't even realize you're bleeding."

He rubbed his thumb over the rim of the can.

"That argument in the kitchen? That wasn't even the worst. It was just… the first time it got truly mean."

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"And I still told myself she was stressed. Or tired. Or that I really was the problem."

He exhaled sharply.

"She kept going. Every day. Something new. Something sharper. Ten seconds here, a stray insult there."

His gaze drifted back to the stars.

"'Unlovable.' 'Too soft.' 'Dead weight.' 'Nobody would ever want you.'"

He swallowed.

"And you know the worst part, boss?" He looked at Léonard, eyes shadowed, hollow.

"I believed her."

He tapped his chest with two fingers.

"I thought that was normal. I thought couples fought like that. I thought love was supposed to hurt a bit when things were hard."

He let out a dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"I thought it was just… marriage."

Clef leaned back on his elbows, staring upward again.

"I told myself over and over that she'd been different before. That the kind girl I grew up with was still in there."

His voice weakened.

"So I kept forgiving her. Again. And again. And again. Because that's what you do when you love someone, right?"

Silence stretched for a moment, the night air cool against their skin.

Then Clef murmured:

"…I didn't even notice how much of me she wore down. Not until it was too late."

He raised the can to his lips and drank, eyes empty.

Then he fell quiet, waiting for the next memory to surface, the one he'd been avoiding.

-/-/-

The late afternoon sun filtered through the little back-garden greenhouse behind their Cornwall home, scattering warm light across rows of potted flowers. The place smelled of damp soil, lilies, jasmine, and something faintly sweet that only Lilly's plants ever produced.

Francis stepped inside cautiously, carrying a small box of gardening gloves she had asked for earlier.

"Lilly? I brought-"

He didn't finish the sentence.

His foot knocked lightly against the corner of a wooden planter.

A single white blossom fell from the stem.

Lilly spun around instantly.

Her eyes, already tired from tending the plants, narrowed into a sharp, venomous glare.

"Did you just step on that?" she hissed.

Francis froze. "No, I- I didn't step on anything, I swear. My boot just brushed the box a bit-"

She didn't wait.

Her hand shot to the small table beside her, grabbing the nearest object.

An earthenware plate.

"Lilly, wait-"

CRASH!!

The plate smashed against the side of his head.

Shards burst outward, an explosion of ceramic dust and pain. Francis staggered, gripping the edge of a shelf to keep from collapsing as warmth began to run down his temple.

Blood.

His ears rang. The greenhouse warped slightly around his vision.

Lilly stood in front of him, chest heaving like she'd just run a sprint, the remaining half of the broken dish trembling in her hand.

"DON'T TOUCH MY FLOWERS!" she screamed, voice cracking with fury.

"Don't you EVER touch ANYTHING in MY work again! You ruin everything you come near!"

Francis blinked through the dizziness, throat tightening.

"I- I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean- I didn't step on it, Lilly, I swear-"

"UPSTAIRS," she snapped, pointing violently toward the house. "NOW."

She looked at him like he was filth.

Like he disgusted her.

Francis swallowed the metallic taste of blood.

"I'll clean it up," he whispered, reaching for a broom with trembling hands.

Her voice cut through him like ice.

"Did I stutter?"

His hand froze.

He let go of the broom.

And nodded.

"S-sorry."

His voice cracked.

"I'm sorry. I'll… go upstairs."

He turned away, staggering slightly as he left the greenhouse, blood dripping onto the stone pathway behind him.

The door shut quietly behind him.

No apology from her.

No concern.

Just silence.

In the fading light of the garden, one petal fell from the plant he had brushed.

And she watched him go with the same cold intensity she used on weeds.

---

Clef let out a long, shaky breath. He didn't look at Léonard. He didn't look at anything. His eyes stayed fixed on the empty field ahead of him, as if the answer were written somewhere in the grass.

"That was the first time," he murmured. "The first time she ever… hit me."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached for his beer again. The can crumpled slightly under his grip.

"I remember the sound," he said quietly. "The plate breaking. The way it rang in my skull. And the only thing I could think was…"

He let out a humorless laugh.

"…I must have deserved it."

He shook his head slowly.

"Isn't that pathetic? I was bleeding. Dizzy. Could barely see straight. And the only thing that felt wrong was that I'd upset her."

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

"I kept telling myself it was nothing. Just stress. Just her plants. Just a bad day. Just me being clumsy."

A bitter breath escaped him.

"Just me being in the way."

Clef took another drink, longer this time.

"Looking back… it's obvious. That was the moment things stopped being normal. The moment her moods started to turn into storms."

His voice cracked for the first time.

"And I still thought… if I just tried harder… if I loved her enough… if I never made mistakes… maybe she'd smile at me again like she used to."

He dragged a palm across his face.

"I was a grown man with powers that could reshape matter, and I still felt like a scared kid hoping not to disappoint his mom."

He sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

"But that was only the beginning."

He looked down at the ground, jaw tight, eyes hollow.

"The beginning of… everything else that came after."

---

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Clef shut the door behind him and slipped off his coat, still brushing dirt from his boots. He had come home late again, another mission for the Coalition. Another night of pretending he was just a "consultant." Another lie.

From the kitchen, he heard her voice.

Soft. Controlled.

"Francis?"

He froze.

That tone always meant trouble.

"Yes, sweetheart?" he answered, trying to keep his voice light.

Lilly stepped into the doorway.

At first she looked normal, beautiful, golden-haired, dressed in her usual soft green cardigan. But her eyes… there was already something wrong with them. A sharp red shimmer pulsed underneath the irises, like veins glowing from within.

She folded her arms.

"You're late again."

Clef forced a smile. "Work ran longer than-"

"What work?"

He swallowed.

"You know I can't tell you that-"

Her expression twisted.

"You refuse to tell me."

"It's not that-"

"Then what is it, Francis?" she whispered. "What could possibly be so important that you can't share a single detail with your wife?"

Lilly stepped closer, slow and deliberate, each footstep echoing across the wooden floor.

He backed up instinctively.

"Lilly," he tried, "I love you. I'm not hiding anything from-"

"Oh, stop lying."

The lights flickered.

He felt the air twist, pressure rippling like a drop hitting water. Her wings unfurled slightly behind her back, shimmering like fractured moonlight.

"Francis," she said softly, "look at me."

He didn't.

He kept his gaze on the floor.

He knew that looking at her during a mood swing was dangerous. The Field Manual said certain faeries could influence emotions, force confessions, plant suggestions-

"Francis," she repeated, sharper this time.

He shook his head.

"I don't want to fight. Just… please. Let's talk later. I'm tired-"

Her hand snapped forward.

Clawed fingers wrapped around his jaw and yanked his face upward.

"LOOK. AT. ME."

His breath stopped.

Because her face-

It wasn't human anymore.

Hundreds, hundreds, of tiny, blood-red eyes had opened across her cheeks, her forehead, her temples. Some blinked independently. Some stared directly into him.

Her mouth opened.

And another mouth opened inside it.

And another.

Rows upon rows of needle-thin teeth pushing outward in impossible directions, glistening, shifting, multiplying like a swarm.

Her hair writhed like living vines.

Her antlers darkened to coal-black, pulsing with color.

Her voice dropped, deep, distorted, ancient and furious all at once.

"Tell me the truth."

His knees buckled.

Pain seared through his jaw from her grip, but he couldn't pull away. His powers flickered involuntarily, sparks dancing across his fingers.

"L-Lilly-"

"Tell me the truth."

He felt something drilling into his mind, pressure behind his eyes, like claws scraping the inside of his skull. She was forcing him, compelling him, bending reality around his thoughts.

He choked, gasped-

"I… I WORK FOR THEM!" he blurted, voice breaking. "The… Global Occult Coalition!"

The red eyes pulsed, all staring.

"Why."

"I… I protect us! I protect you!" he cried. "I'm trying to keep the world safe! Please, don't-"

"WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME."

"I didn't want to scare you!" he shouted. "I didn't want you to think I was… I was dangerous-"

Her grip tightened until he felt bone creak.

Every eye on her face widened at once.

"You kept secrets from your wife."

Her teeth bared, jagged and dripping warm saliva on his cheek.

"And secrets… are betrayal."

The lights blew out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Only her eyes,hundreds of them, continued to glow in the black.

She leaned in, her breath cold as winter frost.

"Francis."

He trembled uncontrollably.

"You're mine. Aren't you?"

He nodded frantically, choking on his own breath.

"Yes. Yes. I'm yours. Always-"

"Good."

Instantly.

Her face snapped back to normal.

Eyes normal.

Smile soft.

As if nothing had happened at all.

She released him gently.

"Welcome home, love," she said sweetly, brushing his cheek with her thumb. "Dinner's in the oven."

She turned and walked back into the kitchen, humming softly.

Leaving Clef standing alone in the dark hallway.

Shaking.

Bleeding from his cheek.

---

Clef sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then took another long drink. His fingers trembled just slightly around the can.

He stared straight ahead, not at Léonard, not at the stars, just at nothing.

"That was the first time," he muttered. "The first time she changed during an argument."

He gave a weak laugh. Not amused, ashamed.

"You know what's funny? I didn't even think it was wrong. Not then. I thought I deserved it. Thought I'd pushed her too far. Thought if I just… if I just told her what she wanted to hear, she'd calm down."

He rubbed his jaw unconsciously, as if the phantom ache of her grip still lingered.

"I kept telling myself she was stressed. That faeries lose control sometimes. That she didn't mean it."

He exhaled sharply. "Anything except the truth."

He leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out.

"Wasn't until much later I realized how insane that was. How twisted. How blind I let myself be."

His voice dropped, almost a whisper.

"I should've run. I should've left. But I stayed."

His eyes softened, unfocused, filled with the weight of old choices.

"Because I loved her. And because every time she broke me down, she'd patch me up again ten minutes later, smiling like nothing happened."

He swallowed.

"That's the worst part, you know. The kindness after the cruelty. It screws with your head."

A long pause.

"And that was just the beginning."

Clef looked down at the beer.

Then at his own hands.

---

The evening had been quiet.

Too quiet.

Francis sat on the edge of the bed, still half-dressed from work, rubbing his temples. His head pounded. He barely heard Lilly pacing downstairs, her footsteps sharp against the old wooden boards.

He should have known something was wrong.

The air felt wrong, heavy, tense, electric.

He called gently:

"Lilly? Are you okay?"

No answer.

Just those footsteps.

Pacing.

Slow.

Measured.

Then-

The footsteps stopped.

And the house became completely silent.

Francis stood, unease clawing up his spine. He stepped into the hallway.

And she was suddenly there.

Blocking the staircase.

Blocking the only exit.

Eyes glowing a deep, unnatural red, pupils split like fractures in glass.

Her smile was wrong. Too wide. Too sharp. Too calm.

"Francis," she whispered. "Come here."

He froze.

Her tone… he had heard it only once before, the night she demanded the truth about his work. A tone that carried a weight older than the house around them.

He swallowed. "Lilly, I-I don't think…"

"Don't think," she said softly.

Her hand pressed against his chest, forcing him back into the bedroom.

Not pushing. Not shoving.

Just pressing.

And yet his legs buckled under the pressure.

He stumbled backward. "Lilly, wait-"

She closed the door behind them with a soft click.

"Why are you shaking, Francis?" Her eyes studied him with an almost curious cruelty. "You're not scared of me, are you?"

He tried to speak. His voice cracked. "You're… not acting like yourself."

Her smile sharpened.

"I'm acting exactly like myself."

Her fingers traced his jaw, a gesture that once had been tender, now cold, possessive, commanding.

Then her hand tightened.

Her grip wasn't human.

It wasn't gentle.

Pain shot through his spine.

"L-Lilly- stop!"

She didn't.

She leaned close, her voice a whisper of warm breath and quiet danger.

"You're mine," she said. "And you're going to do what I say."

Francis felt something inside him fracture, not bone, but will.

She didn't ask.

She didn't wait.

She simply took.

The room blurred, a haze of fear and pain. He didn't even understand half of what was happening,just flashes:

Her weight pinning him

His wrists held down effortlessly

The mattress groaning under her strength

His breath hitching, not from desire, but from terror

Her voice, low and commanding, drowning every protest

He tried to push her away.

He couldn't.

His body wasn't his.

The world dimmed.

His thoughts scattered.

And everything went dark.

He woke hours later.

The room was cold.

Moonlight spilled across the sheets.

Lilly slept beside him, peaceful, almost angelic.

But Francis.

Francis couldn't move.

A deep, throbbing ache pulsed through his body.

Sharp pain radiated through his lower abdomen, making his breath hitch.

His legs trembled when he tried to shift.

The sheets beneath him were sticky with half-dried blood.

He stared at his own hands.

They trembled uncontrollably.

Not from cold.

From something much deeper.

He tried to sit up.

A stab of pain forced him back down.

His voice came out barely above a whisper.

"…Lilly… what did you do to me…?"

She didn't wake.

She didn't hear.

He turned his face away from her, tears slipping down his cheeks soundlessly.

He wrapped his arms around himself, knees curling weakly toward his chest. Every movement sent agony rippling through him.

He stared at the wall until dawn.

Not sleeping.

Not moving.

Just shaking.

And trying, failing, to understand how the woman he loved could hurt him this deeply.

---

Clef's voice in the present was barely above a whisper.

"She was so gentle when we were young," he said, staring at the grass. "So kind. So soft. And then one day she… wasn't."

He swallowed hard, throat trembling.

"That night… I didn't even understand what happened. I just knew something inside me broke. And afterward…"

He tried to laugh.

It didn't work.

"…I couldn't even walk straight for days. Weeks."

He closed his eyes.

"I told myself it was fine. That she didn't know what she was doing. That she was just upset. That I deserved it."

His hands clenched slowly into fists.

"That's the kind of man I was back then. That's how much I loved her."

He breathed shakily.

"And the worst part?"

He looked at Leonard.

"I still loved her afterward."

---

The morning had been quiet.

Francis had just come home from a late shift, still wearing the faint smell of gun oil and cold night air on his jacket. He rubbed his eyes, exhausted, and wandered toward the bathroom, hoping to wash his face before collapsing into bed.

He pushed the door open.

At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing.

Something hung from the shower rod, large, furry, swaying gently.

A towel?

A coat?

Then the thing twitched.

A rasping, wet sound filled the space.

Francis blinked, his mind refusing to process the shape in front of him.

It wasn't a towel.

It was a cat.

Or what used to be one.

A large Maine Coon dangled from the rod, suspended by nothing visible. Its abdomen was ripped open as if by claws. One leg was broken backward. Fur was missing in chunks. Blood dripped in slow, rhythmic taps into the bathtub.

The animal writhed, back arching in a grotesque curve.

Francis froze.

His breath stuck in his throat.

His mind had been trained for monsters, abominations, unnatural geometry.

But this,

This was cruelty so raw and intimate he couldn't make sense of it.

Another convulsion shook the cat.

Its mouth opened in a silent cry.

Francis stumbled backward, hitting the wall with his shoulder.

"L-Lilly!" he choked out. "Lilly!"

Footsteps approached.

She appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a towel, golden hair damp from a shower. She followed his gaze, glanced at the hanging, mutilated cat…

…and smiled lightly.

"Oh," she said casually. "That's interesting."

Francis stared at her, trembling.

"What ?!! what do you mean interesting? Why is there a dead cat in our shower?!"

"It's not dead yet," she corrected calmly.

As if that made it better.

The cat spasmed, its claws scraping against nothing, suspended in impossible midair.

Francis couldn't breathe.

He felt cold all over, heartbeat loud in his ears.

"Are we, are we going to help it?!" he gasped.

Lilly tilted her head, almost thoughtful.

"No. It'll stop soon."

The cat gave one last twitch.

Then it stopped moving, body hanging limp, swinging gently.

Lilly stepped closer and touched the cat's fur with two fingers. She looked at the blood, smeared a little between her fingertips, and hummed.

"Pretty pattern," she murmured softly. "Like a painting."

Francis felt sick.

His voice cracked. "Why… why would this happen? Why is it hanging like that? What did you do?"

She shrugged lightly, unfazed.

"I didn't do anything. It just appeared. Maybe it wandered into the wrong place."

Her eyes drifted away, already bored.

"We'll clean it up later," she said, turning toward the hallway. "Come downstairs when you're ready."

And she walked away.

Just like that.

As if a tortured, mutilated cat hanging in their bathroom was no more strange than dirty laundry.

Francis stared at the corpse for a long, shaking minute.

His mind raced for explanations.

Faeries have different customs, he told himself.

Different rituals. Different superstitions.

Maybe it's symbolic. Maybe it means something.

This isn't malicious… it must be cultural… something faeries do…

He clung to the thought like a lifeline.

Because the alternative, that Lilly had simply allowed this, or caused it, or didn't care-

…was too terrifying to accept.

Blood dripped onto the tile.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Francis swallowed hard, chest tight and burning.

He shut the bathroom door and walked out, pretending, forcing himself to pretend that nothing was wrong.

That everything was normal.

---

Clef stared at the ground as he spoke, beer can turning slowly between his fingers. His voice had gone low, flat, like something worn smooth by years of grinding pressure.

"That cat…" he muttered. "I told myself it had to be some faerie custom. Some ritual. Something harmless. Something normal for her people."

He let out a short, humorless breath.

"That was the only way I could make sense of it."

He took a long swallow from the can before continuing.

"But the next morning, there was another."

He didn't look at Léonard.

He looked past him, into memories he clearly didn't want.

"Same place. Same way. Hung from the shower rod, screaming until it wasn't."

His fingers tightened around the can, metal creaking.

"And the next day? Another. And another. Every damn day."

He shook his head slowly.

"I tried to ignore it. I tried to clean them up before she saw. I tried to pretend it was still some cultural… thing." He scoffed bitterly. "But she always knew. She'd come in, look at the body, smile and say something like 'pretty little thing' or 'nice color.'"

He swallowed hard.

"I didn't understand what was happening to her. Or what she was… becoming."

The prairie wind brushed past them.

Clef let the silence stretch.

Then he added, softer:

"But after a while… after the fourth, fifth, tenth cat… I stopped trying to explain it."

He stared down at the crushed can in his hand.

"I just accepted it. Like everything else."

He laughed once, quiet, broken.

"That's the worst part. The things you can convince yourself are normal… when you're trying to love someone."

He didn't drink again.

He didn't look up.

He just sat there, staring into the grass, as if the memory itself weighed on his spine.

Clef didn't look at Léonard.

His eyes stayed fixed on the empty field ahead of them, as if the tall grass could swallow the memories he was dragging back to life.

"Then one morning," he said, voice low, "she told me she was pregnant."

He didn't smile.

There was no joy in the words.

Just a distant heaviness.

"She didn't ask what I thought. Didn't ask if I was ready. Didn't even ask if I wanted to choose a name with her."

A faint, bitter huff escaped him.

"She just said she'd already decided. Her name would be Meri. Because-" he lifted his free hand mockingly, "-a mother knows best."

He took another drink. Not because he liked the beer. Because it gave his hands something to do.

"And when Lilly decided something, that was it. Final. No discussion. No room for me."

He let the can drop between his knees, fingers steepled loosely.

"When I realized she was serious… I threw myself into work. Double shifts. Triple shifts. Missions I should've said no to."

He gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't matter. I signed every damn paper the GOC dropped on my desk."

He rubbed a thumb over his temple, like he was trying to erase the memory.

"I told myself it was for my daughter. That if I prepared enough, worked enough, saved enough… maybe I could give Meri the life I'd dreamed of."

His voice softened, almost hopeful for a moment.

"A quiet home. A small garden. A family that didn't have to hide."

Then the hope faded.

"But as the months went on… Lilly changed. More mood swings. More anger. More of those damn cats in the shower."

He exhaled shakily. "And I still told myself it was fine. That she'd go back to the woman I knew once the baby came."

He shook his head slowly, eyes dark.

"I kept working myself to death for nine months. Barely slept. Barely ate. Everything I had went into preparing for that kid."

Then he went silent for a long moment.

When he finally continued, his voice had a tremor, like a man touching a scar that still hurt beneath the skin.

"And then… the day came."

He swallowed.

"The day Meri was born."

---

Francis ran.

Boots slamming on pavement, lungs burning, coat drenched in seawater and sweat. The wind howled in his ears as he sprinted down the flooded road toward home. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel the rain. He didn't feel anything except the sickening twist in his gut.

She's in labor.

She's early.

Oh God, Lilly-

Cornwall had been normal when he left for work that morning. Gray skies, salt air, fishermen shouting by the docks.

Now?

The whole damn town was drowning.

He turned the corner and froze for half a second.

The street ahead had become a river.

Water surged between houses in violent currents, rising fast, carrying crates, trash bins, pieces of roofs. The ocean had swallowed Cornwall whole. People screamed somewhere far behind him, rooftops cracking under pressure, windows shattering under the rising tide.

Francis didn't hesitate.

He jumped.

Cold water hit him like a punch to the chest, dragging him under. His breath vanished, bubbles escaping his mouth as he kicked upward, arms cutting through the flood. The taste of salt, mud, and something metallic filled his throat.

He surfaced with a gasp.

"LILLY!" he shouted, voice raw.

A wave slammed into him, forcing him to swim diagonally just to stay afloat. Wooden planks drifted past. A fishing boat smashed against a lamppost. The water was getting hotter, too hot.

Steam rose from the surface.

Francis gritted his teeth and kept going, kicking hard, forcing his body through the growing heat. His palms burned every time he brushed debris. His fingers cramped. His muscles screamed.

He didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Because above the roar of the flooding town,

above the cracking beams and collapsing roofs,

he heard her.

Lilly.

Screaming from their house.

Not a normal scream.

Not a human scream.

A tearing, agonized shriek that echoed through the flooded streets like something ancient and furious.

"Hold on!" Francis choked, swallowing warm brine.

He swam faster, chest heaving. The heat increased, like the ocean itself was beginning to boil. His skin prickled painfully. His eyes stung.

He reached the front fence, pulled himself over it, slipped, nearly fell back, but caught the ledge and dragged himself to the submerged porch.

The lower floor windows were underwater.

Their house was groaning under the strain.

And the water was now hotter than bathwater.

He shoved himself through the door, it drifted open on its hinges with a loud creak and stumbled inside, half climbing, half swimming as he fought his way through the steaming flood in the living room.

"LILLY!" he yelled.

Her scream tore through the house again from upstairs.

Francis staggered through the waterlogged hallway, rising to his knees now as the floor sloped upward and froze when he saw something he had never seen in years of living here:

The basement door was open.

Wide open.

Black, gaping stairs leading downward into a place Lilly had forbidden him to enter for months. She had threatened, begged, pleaded, everything, to keep him out.

Now the door stood there like a wound in the house.

Cold air seeped from below, mixed with the heat from the flood.

Francis's breath hitched.

What the hell was down there?

Another scream from upstairs snapped him out of it.

He forced himself away from the basement door, grabbed the railing, and sprinted up the stairs, feet slipping on wet wood. Something cracked behind him. The house shuddered.

He reached the landing.

The door to their bedroom swung inward and slammed against the wall from the force of Lilly's movement.

She was there.

In the center of the room, on her knees, drenched in sweat, clutching her swollen stomach with white-knuckled fingers.

Steam rose from her skin.

Her eyes glowed faintly.

Her breath came in ragged, animalistic snarls.

Francis froze.

"L-Lilly…?"

She looked up at him.

And screamed again.

Not in fear.

In agony.

The air vibrated with the force of it.

Francis stumbled toward her, dropping to his knees beside her.

"I'm here," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm right here."

She grabbed his shirt with trembling hands.

Her grip was scorching.

Her nails dug into his skin.

"It's… coming… Francis!" she cried out, voice fracturing.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, heart pounding.

"I know, I know, just breathe!"

The floor shook.

The windows rattled.

The entire town seemed to cry out with her.

"Francis…"

Lilly's voice broke through clenched teeth, trembling and desperate.

"Get… the medicine… downstairs… please…"

He nodded, too quickly, panic swirling in his chest.

"I'll be right back. Hold on, Lilly. Just,!don't move."

She let out another scream that tore at his ribs, and Francis practically fell down the stairs, gripping the railing so hard it burned his palms. The house shook again, the waterline retreating slightly as steam poured from every crack.

He reached the bottom floor in seconds, boots splashing into the hot water swirling around the furniture. He sprinted toward the kitchen and froze.

A voice.

Soft. Weak. Almost nonexistent.

"…help…"

Francis stopped breathing.

The sound came from behind him.

From the basement door.

He turned slowly.

The door was still open.

A black mouth in the wall.

And from inside-

"…h-help…"

A whisper.

A whimper.

A sound that didn't belong in his home.

His pulse hammered in his skull.

No. No, no, no.

Lilly had sworn there was nothing down there. She'd forbidden him from entering. She'd cried. Screamed. Threatened.

Begged.

Francis swallowed, fear climbing up his spine like cold fingers.

But then-

"…please…"

A small, broken plea.

Something inside him cracked.

He stepped toward the basement.

One foot.

Another.

The air grew cold the further he went, clashing violently with the steaming heat from the flood. The wooden stairs creaked loudly beneath him as he descended, heart thundering in his ears.

Halfway down-

The smell hit him.

Copper.

Rot.

Salt.

Old blood.

Francis gagged, covering his mouth.

He descended the last steps-

And the world stopped.

The basement had transformed into a massive underground chamber, far larger than their actual foundation should allow. Stone walls dripped with dark, viscous liquid. Ritual symbols were carved everywhere, glowing faintly like infected wounds.

And across the room-

Six figures.

Girls. Young women. One maybe no older than fourteen.

All of them chained by the wrists to stone pillars.

All of them bruised, bleeding, trembling.

All of them staring at him with hollow, terrified eyes.

Francis staggered backward.

"What- what is this- what…"

One of the girls tried to lift her head, the movement sluggish and agonizing.

"…help…" she whispered.

Tears stung Francis's eyes.

"No… no, this can't be, this can't…"

He turned in a daze, almost tripping over something on a table.

A book.

Leatherbound.

Ancient.

Heavy.

The Erikesh Codex.

The same one he found among his mother's belongings.

The same one Lilly had asked to read.

It lay open, pages soaked in dark stains, displaying a ritual diagram.

A ritual describing:

Six brides bound in torment.

A seventh vessel awaiting birth.

A divine child meant to be sacrificed to feed a god of hatred and ruin through human suffering.

Francis's blood ran cold.

The images…

The symbols…

The layout…

It all matched the chamber he was standing in.

Perfectly.

His legs shook.

His ears rang.

His heart stopped.

Lilly… did this?

Behind him, a girl whimpered again.

"…please… help us…"

Francis grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles white, bile rising in his throat.

This wasn't a mistake.

This wasn't an accident.

This wasn't misunderstanding Faerie culture.

This was deliberate.

This was monstrous.

And Lilly… his Lilly.

the woman he slept beside,

the woman he loved since childhood.

had built this place beneath their home.

He stumbled backward, shaking violently.

Upstairs, Lilly screamed,

A raw, tearing cry that shook the walls.

Francis jerked toward the stairs.

He hesitated, just for a second, caught between horror and duty.

Then he turned and ran.

Francis burst into the kitchen, hands shaking so violently he almost dropped the pill bottle. He didn't dare look back toward the basement door. He couldn't.

Not now.

Not while Lilly was screaming upstairs.

He grabbed the medication with trembling fingers and sprinted, nearly slipping on the soaked floor, up the stairs two at a time.

"LILLY!! I'm here, I'm here!!"

He shoved the bedroom door open.

Just in time to hear it.

Not Lilly's scream.

A different sound.

High. Raw. Wet.

New.

A baby's cry.

Francis froze.

Lilly lay half-collapsed against the pillows, drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her skull. Steam curled off the floor, the temperature fluctuating wildly with each of her ragged breaths. Blood streaked her thighs.

And in her trembling hands.

A tiny bundle, slick with afterbirth.

Their child.

Francis didn't even think. He dropped the medication on the floor and rushed to her side.

"Give her here, Lilly, I got her… careful… careful."

He gently guided the baby into his arms, his breath catching in his throat as he held her for the first time.

A little girl.

Small.

Red, flushed cheeks.

Her tiny fists curled and uncurled as she wailed, voice thin but fierce.

Francis blinked rapidly, vision blurring.

"Hey… hey, hey, sweetheart… shhh…"

He fumbled for the emergency kit beside the bed, pulling out the sterilized scissors. His movements were clumsy, desperate, terrified.

but he managed to clamp and cut the umbilical cord.

The baby cried harder, tiny limbs flailing.

Francis wrapped her in the clean towels he'd thrown aside earlier, securing her against his chest.

He cradled her close.

Her screams softened.

Then quieted into whimpers.

"…Meri…" he whispered.

The name escaped him before he could think.

It felt right.

It felt like breathing.

He pressed his forehead gently against hers.

"Meri… my little Meri…"

His voice broke completely.

"You're here… you're really here…"

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks as he held her, tiny, warm, alive, against his chest.

Outside, the floodwater churned.

The windows rattled from the heat.

The basement door groaned in the distance.

But none of it mattered.

In that moment, Francis saw nothing except the fragile miracle in his arms.

"My baby…" he choked out.

"My little girl…"

He held her tighter, swearing silently to protect her with everything he had.

The baby had finally stopped crying.

Francis held little Meri close, her tiny breath warming his chest.

But his hands trembled, not from fear of dropping her, not from exhaustion…

…from realization.

A cold, suffocating realization that crawled up his spine like ice.

He remembered the Erikesh Codex lying open in the blood-soaked basement.

He remembered the page.

Seven sacrifices.

The final one: a newborn.

His heart dropped into a void.

"No…" he whispered.

His throat tightened.

"Impossible…"

But the pieces fit.

Too well.

Lilly had been glowing with obsession for weeks.

She'd been performing something in the locked basement.

The town was flooding, boiling, because of her labor.

He looked down at Meri.

Perfect. Fragile. Barely alive.

He felt sick.

Behind him, Lilly pushed herself shakily from the bed.

Her body barely held together after the trauma of birth.

She took one step toward him, then another, face strangely soft, almost serene.

"Francis…" she breathed.

"Do you love me?

More than our daughter?"

A sharp, unnatural chill filled the room.

Francis felt something pull tight inside his mind.

A hook.

A thread.

A command sewn into his ribs.

His mouth opened on its own.

"I love you."

He said it automatically. A reflex.

Like muscle memory wired through fear instead of affection.

And suddenly, his mind cracked open with clarity.

Why do I still love her?

After everything she's done?

He should hate her.

He should despise her.

He should recoil from her touch like fire.

But he didn't.

Because deep inside, buried under survival instincts and years of emotional erosion.

A small, broken voice whispered:

"Because being treated like shit hurts less than being alone."

He blinked and a whole lifetime of suppressed feelings poured through him in a single thought:

i-would-make-ends-meet-somehow-and-protect-you-and-meri-somehow-and-love-you-somehow-right-up-until-i-couldnt-anymore-and-i-would-keep-forgiving-you-and-letting-things-go-and-being-tired-and-letting-you-tell-me-how-worthless-i-am-and-waiting-for-the-days-you-wanted-sex-again-and-i-would-freeze-with-terror-and-still-love-you-because-i-wanted-the-life-we-could-have-had-and-i-would-pretend-forever-if-i-had-to-because-i-didnt-want-to-be-alone

He felt nauseous.

Lilly turned toward the bedroom door.

A thin line of water slid under the frame, boiling against the tile.

"Francis," she began, without looking back,

"I need to tell you something-"

BANG.

Her skull snapped backward.

A violent jerk.

A spray of gold against the wall.

Lilly collapsed instantly, eyes still open, body limp on the soaked floor.

Dead.

The gun's recoil nearly tore Francis's arm open.

He hadn't even felt himself raise the rifle.

He only realized what he'd done when smoke curled from the barrel.

Meri screamed.

Francis clutched her tighter, trying to shield her eyes, tears spilling fast and hot down his face.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered brokenly.

"I'm so sorry, Lilly…"

His voice shattered.

"…but I have to protect our daughter. I have to protect her… from you."

He staggered from the room, holding the newborn with shaking hands, and hurried toward the basement.

Water was pouring in fast now, knee-deep, heat rising from it.

The basement door hung open.

Francis descended the steps and froze halfway down.

The chamber was almost completely submerged.

Debris floated everywhere, pages, chains, ritual tools.

And bodies.

All six kidnapped girls.

All drowned.

All lifeless, drifting limp like ruined dolls.

"No… no no no-"

His voice gave out.

He punched the wall, knuckles splitting open.

He punched again, harder.

He wanted the house to collapse.

He wanted this nightmare to end.

But Meri cried against his chest, and that was enough to pull him back to reality.

There was no time to mourn.

No time to bury.

No time to think.

He fled.

Francis ran from the basement, through the boiling water, through the collapsing town, through streets filled with steam and death.

and never once looked back.

He held Meri close, shielding her with everything he had left.

Something inside him died that night.

Something he would never get back.

---

Clef stared at the grass for a long, heavy moment.

The night wind drifted across the empty field, cool against his skin, carrying the faint smell of wet soil and distant pines. His beer sat warm in his hand, half-finished, untouched for minutes. He didn't drink. He didn't blink. He barely breathed.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"…There it is."

His voice sounded scraped raw, like something dragged across broken glass.

"That's the story."

He let out a bitter, humorless exhale that was too hollow to be called a laugh.

"A pathetic bastard," Clef muttered, eyes locked on the dirt. "That couldn't protect his own family."

His fingers tightened around the can until the metal dented sharply.

"My wife needed help, and I didn't see it. My daughter needed a father, and all she got was a man too scared to leave a monster. Too scared… too stupid… too fucking hopeful."

He dragged a shaking hand across his face, as if wiping away ghosts instead of sweat.

"I didn't save anyone. Not Lilly. Not the girls she tortured. Not the people she boiled alive. Not Meri."

A hollow breath escaped him.

"I couldn't even save myself."

He looked up at the sky, at the cold stars staring back with indifference.

"All I did was run. Run with a newborn in my arms, tell myself that made me a hero. Pretend I was doing something noble when really… I was just terrified."

His throat tightened.

"And now she looks at me like I'm the monster."

A pause.

"…Maybe she's right."

The silence after that was suffocating.

He swallowed hard, breath unsteady.

"That's me, Administrator," he whispered.

His voice almost broke.

"A fuck-up. A coward. A man who couldn't protect anyone, not even the people he loved."

Léonard rose slowly, brushing dirt and crushed grass from his gloves.

"I think," he said quietly, "it's time you talk to your daughter. For real."

Clef froze.

Then, barely audible, he whispered:

"I… I can't. She hates me."

Léonard didn't flinch.

"I don't think you have a choice," he said, eyes shifting toward the dirt road. "Look."

Clef followed his gaze and his breath caught.

A wooden carriage had arrived beside Leonard's black vehicle, flanked on all sides by four armored trucks. Spotlights panned the perimeter, illuminating the treeline. A full security formation, twenty agents at minimum, stood guard in disciplined silence.

Down the center path, between the armed escort and the carriage…

A small silhouette stepped forward.

Golden hair.

Antler-like horns catching moonlight.

Bare feet touching grass that bloomed under each step.

"Meri…" Clef breathed, voice cracking.

She stopped a few meters away, watching him with unreadable eyes.

Clef's shoulders folded inward.

He lowered his gaze, unable, unworthy, to look at her.

But Meri spoke, steady and soft:

"Your boss told me everything. About your past."

Clef's head snapped toward Léonard and the Administrator gave him a calm, almost mischievous wink.

Then Meri walked closer, each step deliberate.

"I want to hear the truth," she said. "From you."

She lowered herself onto the grass across from him.

Clef, trembling, mirrored her movement and sat.

A quiet, fragile space formed between father and daughter.

A space for truth.

A space for pain.

A space for healing.

Clef inhaled shakily.

And he began to speak.

Léonard stepped back, leaving them alone beneath the night sky.

He returned to the security perimeter. Agents saluted instinctively. He waved it off.

To the team captain, he said:

"Make sure SCP-166 returns to Site-19 safely once they're done. No exceptions."

"Yes, Administrator."

Footsteps approached. Not hurried, silent, precise.

One of the Resh-1 operators walked up beside him.

Graves.

He kept his voice low, half-concerned, half-annoyed, half-respectful, an odd mix that only existed around Léonard.

"Boss… did you really need to come in person? A call would've done the job."

Léonard stopped walking.

He turned his head slightly, the pale glow of his eyes reflecting the moon.

And he spoke.

Calm.

Soft.

"Some truths don't travel well over a phone call. They must be carried… by the person willing to bear them."

Graves stared at him, then let out a slow breath, half a laugh, half admiration.

"…Fine, boss."

He stepped ahead and opened the car door.

Léonard shook his head.

"That won't be necessary. I'll walk back to Site-19."

Graves blinked. "Walk? That's, Boss, that's a thirty-minute-"

Léonard interrupted gently:

"It's been a long time since I enjoyed a starry night."

Graves closed his mouth.

Then nodded once.

He fell into step beside the Administrator.

The second Resh-1 operator followed silently.

And under the quiet glow of the moon, the trio walked, unhurried, unafraid, back toward Site-19.

——

It was supposed to be one massive chapter, but Webnovel said "Nuh uh" because it had more than 100,000 characters (I wrote 134,266). 😭😭