Felix froze, then threw himself onto the floor, wailing.

"I don't want it! Mom said Grandpa Killian is a scientist. Scientists don't cook! Only the help does that!"

Charlotte walked in behind her son, scooping him up while shooting Alan an accusatory glare. "Dad, are you really going to pick a fight with a child? Besides, you’ve been doing this for decades. It’s your specialty, isn't it?"

She sighed, her voice dripping with annoyance. "I thought you’d finally cleared your head after that apology, but look at you—still the same old martyr."

Alan didn't bother to argue. He was too exhausted, drained of even the desire to defend his dignity. He had guarded this house for thirty years, and it took this final, pathetic display for him to realize his entire life here had been a mistake. He should have left years ago.

For the next few days, the kitchen in the Moore household stayed cold. No matter how much his children or even Luciana tried to goad or guilt him, Alan remained unmoved. He quietly packed a few changes of clothes and retrieved his passbook—the modest savings he had scraped together penny by penny for his retirement.

Following a few clumsy tutorials he’d found online, he managed to book a train ticket to a mountain town in the South. It was a place Luciana had mentioned casually thirty years ago, claiming the weather there stayed like spring all year round, and that one day, they would retire there together.

*Now,* Alan thought, *I suppose I’ll have to go alone.*

On the eve of his departure, as he snapped his suitcase shut, the bedroom door was shoved open with a violent thud. Killian Daniels stood there, looking anxious, flanked by Charlotte and Brody.

Before Alan could speak, they forced him into the study. Luciana sat behind the desk, her expression glacial.

"Alan," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Where is the technical schematic from my desk? Don't tell me you didn't take it."

Alan’s ears rang. He could feel the raw, near-manic fury radiating off Luciana, but he had no idea what schematic she was talking about. He frowned. "I didn't take anything."

Luciana didn't believe him. She clicked across the room in her heels, towering over him, radiating pure, suffocating authority.

"I’ve tolerated your recent mood swings, but have they turned you into a criminal? Do you have any idea what kind of professional catastrophe this is? That file contains classified state intelligence!"

Alan shook his head frantically, pointing toward the family records and his ID card on the bed. "I only went into the study to grab my documents for the trip!"

His denial was met with a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Still lying," Luciana sneered. "You don't even know how to book a train ticket. Where do you think you’re going?"

She didn't wait for his response. She gestured sharply to Brody. "Search him. And check that suitcase. Find out where he’s hidden it."

Brody hesitated for a split second, but that was all. The next moment, Alan felt his son’s hands pinning his shoulders back, forcing a physical search.

To be manhandled by his own son, treated like a common criminal in his own home—the humiliation burned, but it was nothing compared to the ice that settled in his chest when Brody spoke:

"Dad, didn't you teach me that a man should be honest? How did you end up being a thief?"

Alan’s breath hitched. He stared into his son’s face. "Brody... you don't believe me either?"

He felt an overwhelming, crushing wave of disappointment as he looked at the cold faces surrounding him. A sudden memory flashed in his mind: years ago, when Brody was wrongly accused of stealing a fountain pen at school. Alan had stood firm against the judgment of all the other parents, declaring, "I believe in my son. He would never steal."

Back then, a young Brody had hugged his legs and sobbed, "Dad, you're the only person in the world who trusts me."

Pinned against the wall, Alan stared blankly. Now, the very boy he had raised wouldn't even give him the benefit of the doubt. Luciana had been absent for so many years; he had played both father and mother, sacrificing everything to keep them afloat. But clearly, he had failed to teach them the one thing that mattered.

He watched limply as Brody ripped through his personal belongings, even shaking out his underwear, searching for a ghost of a document that didn't exist.

Finally, Luciana took out her phone. She didn't hesitate. She dialed the police, her eyes fixed on Alan with cold, clinical precision.

"He’s suspected of stealing classified materials," she said, her voice steady and lethal. "I am Luciana Moore. I have my credentials ready. Please, come here immediately and take him into custody for questioning."