It was always the same whenever Mikhail came home.

Cassy Lenoir sitting on the living room sofa and staring into nothingness, like a ghost that was just there and existing.

“Does your neck not hurt when you stay in that position?” Mikhail asked flatly. “Is this your way of rebelling?”

Cassy turned her head towards him, her dark hair flowing in waves below her shoulders. She looked at him with eyes devoid of emotion, though exhaustion painted faint lines on her face. She didn’t seem to have slept well, and her skin was a little pale. Perhaps it was from a lack of sunlight.

“Welcome home,” she said listlessly.

Mikhail...