Visit at the Wrong Hour
His hand lowered slowly from his side. The faint echo of the move slipped through the corridor like a breath. His voice followed—softer this time, stripped of the earlier sharpness, replaced by a quiet curiosity that carried far more weight than suspicion ever could.
"Tell me… what are you doing here?"
The question settled in the dim hall, suspended between flickering torchlight and the controlled stillness of his stance. Victor didn't tense; he didn't narrow his eyes. He simply watched, unreadable as stone, while behind that calm veneer his thoughts churned with a speed and clarity no one else would ever guess.
The figure in front of him didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a slow, easy breath and offered a small smile—gentle, teasing, almost as if amused by being asked the question at all.
"Why shouldn't I be here?" the man murmured, tilting his head. "Is it so strange for me to visit my own son?"
