DARIAN

I step fully into the living room, eyes scanning the cold space where my father waits with a stoic expression like he was carved in stone. The scent of burning wood still lingers like I remember it, but there’s no warmth here, only a quiet expectation.

Father doesn’t rise. His gaze pins me where I stand, like a wolf marking its territory. “Darian.” His voice is low, clipped, deliberate. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing the tension tight in my throat. “Back.”

He waves a hand, dismissive. “Good. But don’t mistake this for a welcome home. This is strictly business.”

“Isn’t that all I’ve ever been to you, father?”...