Morning sunlight pressed weakly through the heavy curtains of the Volkov mansion.
The old man sat in his leather armchair, a thick blanket over his knees, but his mind was far from sleep or comfort.
His fingers tapped slowly against the armrest—an old habit he had whenever something bothered him deeply.
Leonid.
Damian's words from the other night echoed in his head, refusing to leave:
"He killed my father. He killed your son."
The room suddenly felt colder.
He shut his eyes, breathing out shakily.
He had suspected.
Little signs, little cracks, little things that didn't add up the night his son died…
But he had pushed the thoughts away.
Pushed them deep into a corner where they could rot without touching him.
But Damian… Damian had dragged them back to the surface.
The old man's heart squeezed painfully.
Could he have truly been blind?
Was he so desperate to keep the family together that he failed to see the knife in Leonid's hand?
