At the same time, Luciana Moore sat on the sofa, staring at the wall clock. A strange, prickling restlessness clawed at her nerves.

It was nine o'clock in the evening, and Alan Moore still hadn't returned.

"Mom, should I go look for Dad?" Charlotte shifted in her seat, unable to keep still. "He’s never traveled this far on his own. He just got out of holding, and if he’s spiraling—"

"Spiraling? He’s always been the most self-preserving man I’ve ever known. Where could he possibly go?"

Brody sat nearby, his eyes glued to his tablet. His tone was sharp, though his brow remained tightly furrowed. "He’s probably just throwing a tantrum somewhere, waiting for us to beg him to come home. He’s getting older, but his ego is only growing."

As Luciana started to stand, Killian Daniels suddenly clutched his forehead, his face turning an alarming shade of pale.

"Killian, what’s wrong?" Luciana’s reaction was instantaneous; she lunged forward to steady his arm. "Is it an old injury?"

Killian shook his head weakly, his voice soft and breathless. "I'm fine. Just a sudden dizzy spell. Probably low blood sugar." He managed a pained smile. "Luciana, please, go find Alan. I just need a moment to sit and catch my breath."

He made a show of trying to stand, only to stumble and collapse back onto the floor.

"Don't be a martyr," Luciana snapped, though her voice betrayed her concern. "Charlotte, get the medication and a glass of warm water!"

She glanced at the door, peering into the heavy, suffocating night, but eventually turned away, helping Killian toward the guest room instead.

Killian watched her back as she bustled around him, a flicker of something calculating in his eyes.

"Luciana, stop. Just sit and rest for a minute."

Luciana sank into a chair. Killian looked at this woman who had been a titan in her field for decades, his gaze softening into a mask of devotion.

"Luciana, the way things exploded... Alan must have built up quite the resentment. I’ve been thinking, what does that make us?" He paused, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "We’ve fought side-by-side for thirty years. You understand my vision, and I understand your ambition."

He hesitated, then ventured further. "Maybe, when the dust settles, we could—"

Luciana looked into his eyes, seeing the reverence and dependence she had relied on for so long. For a fleeting second, the thought crossed her mind. But then, an image flickered in her memory: Alan’s rough, calloused hands, and the hollow, shattered look in his eyes when he’d been shoved against the wall.

She sat in silence for a long time, then stood up with a heavy sigh.

"Killian, Alan... he did help me look after this family for thirty years." She kept her back to him. "Don't bring this up again."

She walked out of the room, refusing to look at the way Killian’s face contorted with suppressed rage.

The next day was Christmas Eve. It should have been a night of celebration, a proper homecoming. Instead, the atmosphere in the Moore household was freezing.

There was no one left to cook, so Brody had ordered takeout. The food was expensive, but it sat on the dining table, stone-cold and uninviting.

"Where’s the beef stew Grandpa makes? I want Grandpa’s cooking!"

Felix slammed his chopsticks down and squirmed in his chair, sobbing loudly. "This food is disgusting! I want Grandpa!"

"Stop it! Just eat what's there!" Charlotte, frayed by the noise, finally snapped at him.

The boy only cried harder, hiccuping through his protests: "Why isn't Grandpa coming home?"

Brody stared at the cold plates, a hollow ache growing in his stomach. He was accustomed to coming home to hot, fresh meals, and he missed the way Alan would quietly pick every single bone out of the fish before sliding the bowl toward him.

"Mom..." Charlotte looked out at the gloomy, overcast sky. She finally dared to ask, "Why isn't Dad back yet?"

"It's Christmas Eve. He doesn't have much money on him. Where could he possibly have gone?"

Luciana looked at the empty seat at the head of the table, her knuckles white as she gripped her teacup.

Killian sat nearby, adjusting his glasses with an air of practiced anxiety. "Luciana, this is all my fault. If I had realized sooner that the documents were hidden in my notebook, Alan wouldn't have had to suffer that humiliation. He must be furious with me, which is why he refuses to return."

He leaned forward, voice tight. "Should I issue a formal apology? Clear his name publicly?"

"Forget about him!"

The teacup hit the saucer with a sharp, violent crack. Luciana’s voice dripped with irritation. "Do you really think he can hide out there forever?"

She raised her voice, more to convince herself than the others. "He’s just been coddled at home for too long; he’s forgotten his place and decided to use a bit of silence to manipulate us. Once he’s out there, once he runs out of money and realizes how cold the world really is, he’ll come crawling back on his own!"

She glared at them. "Eat. It’s Christmas. I won't have the mood ruined by such trivial nonsense!"