The kitchen was never truly silent.
Even in the early hours—before the estate fully stirred, before guards rotated shifts and staff filtered in—the St. Hunter kitchen breathed. Wood settled. Metal cooled. The faint hum of refrigeration whispered beneath everything else, steady and patient.
Kaino sat cross-legged on the cool floor tiles, back pressed lightly against the cabinet beneath the counter.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He watched.
Above him, just beyond the edge of the marble countertop, his father worked.
Keano St. Hunter moved differently in the mornings. There was no audience, no schedule, no expectation. His motions were slower, stripped down to their essentials. He cooked for the same reason he breathed—because not doing so felt wrong.
Kaino's eyes followed every detail.
The way Keano stood: feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced evenly. Not rigid. Not lazy. Ready. Always ready.
Posture matters, Kaino realized.
The knife came next.
Keano picked it up without looking, fingers settling naturally around the handle. Not clenched. Not loose. Thumb and index finger pinched the blade just ahead of the bolster, the rest of the hand wrapping securely around the grip.
Kaino's small fingers twitched.
He lowered his gaze to his own hands.
Like this…
Carefully, quietly, he mimicked the grip in the air—thumb and finger pinching something invisible, the rest of his hand closing around nothing. It felt awkward. Wrong. His hands were too small. His fingers lacked strength.
But the shape mattered.
Above him, the knife moved.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythm was precise. Each cut identical to the last. Keano didn't watch the blade—he watched the ingredient. The knife followed his intent, not the other way around.
Kaino leaned forward slightly, breath shallow.
He's not cutting fast,
he's cutting efficiently.
The carrot became uniform pieces, edges clean, size exact. Keano paused occasionally—not to rest, but to adjust. To align. To decide.
Timing.
Not speed.
Kaino's mind latched onto the idea.
A faint internal pulse echoed, quiet but attentive.
Motion pattern recorded.
Grip analysis: incomplete. Hand size insufficient.
He didn't hear the words. He felt them—as a pressure behind his eyes, a gentle insistence to remember.
When Keano turned away to reach for a pan, Kaino acted.
He rose quickly and padded toward the far corner of the kitchen where a low drawer remained unlocked. Inside were harmless things—wooden spoons, silicone spatulas, old utensils no longer sharp enough to matter.
He chose a butter knife.
It was dull. Rounded. Safe.
He crouched again, this time beside the small prep stool Kaia sometimes used. He placed an imaginary carrot on the stool and raised the knife.
His grip was wrong.
Too tight.
His wrist stiff.
He adjusted, recalling the exact placement of his father's fingers. Thumb and index pinching forward. Wrist relaxed.
Tap.
The knife struck wood with a soft clack.
He winced, glancing up instinctively.
Keano didn't turn.
Relief washed through him.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythm was off. Too fast. Uneven.
Kaino stopped.
Again, he told himself.
He slowed down. Breathed. Watched his father out of the corner of his eye.
Keano shifted his weight subtly as he moved from chopping to stirring. His shoulders remained loose. His elbows never flared unnecessarily.
Everything is connected, Kaino realized.
Hands… arms… feet…
He straightened his back and tried again.
Tap.
Tap.
Better.
Still wrong—but closer.
He practiced silently, over and over, adjusting grip, angle, posture. Every mistake was cataloged. Every correction deliberate.
Simulation ongoing.
Error rate: high. Acceptable for developmental stage.
Behind him, tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen.
Kaia.
She stopped beside him, head tilted, watching with wide, curious eyes.
"What're you doing?" she asked.
Kaino froze.
Slowly, he lowered the butter knife and shrugged.
"Playing," he said quietly.
Kaia squatted beside him, studying his hands instead of the knife.
"You're holding it wrong," she said matter-of-factly.
His chest tightened.
"How?" he asked.
She reached out, adjusting his fingers with surprising confidence. "Papa holds it here," she said, pinching closer to the blade. "Like this."
Her grip wasn't perfect—but it was closer than his.
Kaino stared at her.
She sees it too,
just differently.
Kaia sniffed the air suddenly, nose wrinkling. "He added pepper early."
Kaino glanced up.
Keano was at the stove, freshly cracked pepper visible on the surface of the pan.
Kaia shook her head. "It's gonna get bitter."
Moments later, Keano tasted, paused, then added a small splash of liquid.
"…She's right again," he murmured.
Kaia grinned proudly.
Kaino felt that familiar twist in his chest—not resentment, but pressure.
Her talent is instinct,
mine is observation.
Different paths.
Same destination.
Kaia lost interest quickly, wandering off toward the breakfast table where Mirabel was setting plates.
Kaino returned to his practice.
He watched Keano plate with surgical precision. The final dish wasn't extravagant—just eggs, vegetables, simple bread—but it looked right. Balanced. Intentional.
Simplicity isn't easy, Kaino thought.
It's controlled.
Keano wiped his hands and turned.
"Kaino."
Kaino looked up.
"You've been quiet," Keano said, kneeling down. His eyes flicked briefly to the butter knife, then back to Kaino's face. No anger. No judgment.
"Watching," Kaino replied honestly.
Keano smiled faintly. "Good."
He gently took the butter knife, set it aside, then placed his own hand over Kaino's, guiding his fingers into the correct grip.
"Not yet," Keano said softly. "But soon."
Kaino nodded.
He understood.
Later, after breakfast, the kitchen emptied. The staff would come. The estate would wake fully.
But Kaino lingered.
He stood where his father had stood. Placed his feet where he remembered seeing them. Lifted his empty hand and mimicked the motion one last time.
Tap.
Tap.
No sound.
No blade.
Only intention.
Foundation established.
Observation capacity: abnormal.
Growth trajectory: accelerating.
Kaino lowered his hand and looked toward the doorway where Kaia laughed with Mirabel, happily critiquing the taste of jam on her toast.
He didn't smile.
But inside, something burned quietly and steadily.
I will learn everything, he promised.
Even if I never speak.
Even if I only watch.
The kitchen remained still, holding his vow in its walls.
And Kaino St. Hunter—the silent observer—returned to his place on the floor, eyes sharp, hands patient, waiting for the day observation would finally become action.