The doors slid open.
Cold air hit him.
Sterile. Sharp.
Different from outside.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
Sebastian stepped inside.
Shoes against polished floor.
Soft. Echoing.
The scent of disinfectant lingered.
Faint. Constant.
Unavoidable.
He didn't slow.
Didn't hesitate.
Not yet.
The reception desk was ahead.
A nurse looked up.
Recognition flickered instantly.
"Mr. Wolfe."
Respectful. Careful.
Expected.
He gave a small nod.
Nothing more.
"He's been expecting you," she added.
Of course he had.
Everything always planned.
Always controlled.
"Room?" Sebastian asked.
Short. Precise.
"Third floor. Private wing."
Naturally.
She gestured toward the elevators.
"They're ready for you."
Always ready.
Sebastian turned.
Walked.
Measured steps.
Controlled pace.
The elevator doors opened before he reached them.
Of course they did.
He stepped inside.
Pressed the button.
The doors slid shut.
Silence.
Just the hum of movement.
Upward.
His reflection stared back at him.
Sharp suit.
Straight posture.
Composed.
Always composed.
But his eyes—
Tired.
Tense.
Something deeper underneath.
The elevator dinged.
Doors opened.
Third floor.
Quieter.
Colder.
The hallway stretched ahead.
Long.
Empty.
Too empty.
Fluorescent lights hummed above.
Soft. Constant.
Annoying.
His footsteps echoed.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each one louder than it should be.
Too loud.
Too real.
Memories slipped in.
Uninvited.
Unwanted.
"You stand straight."
His father's voice.
Sharp. Controlled.
"No weakness."
Another step.
"You represent this family."
Another.
"Do not embarrass me."
His jaw tightened.
The hallway didn't change.
But it felt smaller.
Closer.
Like before.
Like then.
A nurse stepped out from a side room.
She paused when she saw him.
Recognition again.
"…Mr. Wolfe."
Quiet.
Respectful.
He nodded once.
"He's awake," she said carefully.
A beat.
"…He's been asking for you."
Of course he had.
Sebastian didn't respond.
Just looked ahead.
"He's… weaker today," she added.
Careful choice of words.
Measured.
Controlled.
Like everyone here.
Like him.
"Thank you," he said.
Flat.
Polite.
Nothing more.
She stepped aside.
Let him pass.
The hallway continued.
Longer than before.
Or maybe it just felt that way.
Doors lined the walls.
Closed.
Silent.
Then—
One door at the end.
Slightly different.
Private.
Isolated.
Waiting.
His steps slowed.
Not by much.
But enough.
His chest tightened.
Breathing still steady.
But heavier now.
He stopped in front of it.
Just stood there.
Looking at the handle.
Cold metal.
Still.
Unmoving.
His hand lifted.
Paused mid-air.
Didn't touch it.
Not yet.
Nine years.
Nine years of distance.
Silence.
Avoidance.
And now—
This.
His jaw clenched.
Memories pressed in again.
A younger version of him.
Standing straight.
Hands behind his back.
Eyes forward.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
"To be worthy," his father's voice echoed.
"To be better."
"To be enough."
His hand dropped slightly.
Fingers curling.
Tension building.
He exhaled slowly.
Not shaky.
Not broken.
Controlled.
But heavy.
Another memory.
Different.
Sharper.
A raised voice.
Anger.
Disappointment.
"…You are a mistake."
The words hit harder than they should.
Even now.
Even after all this time.
His breathing faltered.
Just for a second.
Then steadied again.
Control.
Always control.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Once.
Short.
Sharp.
He didn't move at first.
Then slowly…
He pulled it out.
Screen lit up.
Lillian.
A message.
He didn't open it.
Just stared at her name.
For a second.
Two.
Then the screen dimmed.
He locked it again.
Slipped it back into his pocket.
Not now.
If he looked…
If he read it…
He might not walk through that door.
And he had to.
He had to.
His hand lifted again.
This time—
It didn't stop.
Fingers wrapped around the handle.
Cold. Solid. Real.
He turned it.
Slowly.
The door opened.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Just a crack at first.
Then more.
The room came into view.
Dim lighting.
Muted.
Machines.
Soft beeping.
Steady.
Unforgiving.
A figure in the bed.
Still.
Small.
Too small.
Sebastian froze.
That wasn't—
That couldn't be—
His father.
The man in the bed looked…
Different.
Weaker.
Fragile.
Nothing like the man in his memories.
Nothing like the voice in his head.
The power…
Gone.
Or fading.
Something twisted in his chest.
Unfamiliar.
Uncomfortable.
He pushed the door open further.
Stepped inside.
One step.
Then another.
The door closed behind him.
Soft click.
Final.
No turning back now.
The man in the bed shifted slightly.
Barely.
But enough.
Eyes opened.
Sharp.
Even now.
Even like this.
They landed on him immediately.
Of course they did.
Recognition.
Calculation.
Still there.
Always there.
A long silence followed.
Heavy.
Measured.
Unavoidable.
Then—
His father spoke.
Voice weaker.
But still controlled.
Still precise.
"…You took your time."
Sebastian didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Didn't look away.
The air between them tightened.
Years of silence.
Compressed into one moment.
One room.
One breath.
Sebastian stepped closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Controlled.
Back straight.
Hands at his sides.
Exactly how he was taught.
Exactly how he used to stand.
In front of him.
For him.
For approval.
For validation.
For nothing.
Because it was never enough.
Never would be.
"…Traffic," Sebastian said finally.
Flat.
Neutral.
A lie.
But it didn't matter.
Nothing did.
Not here.
Not anymore.
Another silence.
Longer this time.
He could hear the machines.
The quiet beeping.
The steady reminder of time.
Running out.
His father watched him.
Closely.
Like always.
Analyzing.
Judging.
Measuring.
Then—
A faint shift.
His gaze changed slightly.
"…You've changed," he said.
Sebastian's jaw tightened.
"…People do."
A pause.
"…Not always for the better."
The words landed.
Sharp. Familiar.
Expected.
Sebastian didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't break.
Not this time.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
His hands stayed steady.
At his sides.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
But inside—
Something stirred.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
And far more dangerous.
The silence stretched again.
Thicker now.
Heavier.
Unavoidable.
Sebastian stood there.
In that room.
With that man.
With everything unsaid between them.
And for the first time in nine years—
He didn't look away.