"What?"
"Call Sean ‘Walter McGrath’ from now on."
My grin widened, the idea of screwing with Sean more than appealing. "Oh yeah, I’m in. Let’s also change the name on his door. Make it official."
Emma’s eyes gleamed. "And slap it on his clothes."
We shot to our feet so fast, you’d think we were about to be chased down by a horde of Radicals, laughing like a pair of evil masterminds as we set the plan into motion. It started small—some of his documents mysteriously signed by ‘Walter McGrath,’ an official-looking plaque outside his room.
But then we kind of…escalated.
By morning, every single piece of Sean’s clothing was labeled with a neatly embroidered “Walter M.”
His Offensive gear? Walter. His casual wear? Walter. Even his damn socks.
And then, for the final touch, we spread the word. People started calling him Walter like it was second nature. Passing greetings. Friendly nods. No hesitation. Just pure, seamless execution.
When Sean finally stormed into the breakfast room, gripping a shirt which now sported a perfectly stitched ‘Property of Walter McGrath’ across the collar, he looked ready to murder someone.
"WHO THE FUCK IS WALTER?!"
Emma barely glanced up. "You, obviously."
I sipped my coffee, stone-faced. "Yeah, Walter. You should really embrace it."
Sean sputtered, his gaze darting between us like he couldn’t decide which one of us to throttle first.
"This is—this is insanity! Do you have any idea how many people greeted me as Walter today?!"
Emma sighed dramatically. "The people have spoken."
Sean groaned, rubbing his temples, but I didn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed when someone called out, ‘Walter!’ from the hall.
He turned, ready to correct them, but then he hesitated. Only for a second, as if a part of him was starting to accept his fate.
Which was the real fucking victory.
Later that night, I stood outside alone, savoring the quiet—which was rare, almost foreign in my world.
I’d quit smoking a while ago. Not that it did much damage—Healers could translate all that shit out of our bodies in seconds.But the idea of depending on something as insignificant as a fucking cigarette bugged me.
So, I quit.
Except on nights like this, when sleep felt impossible. When something inside me was restless, itching beneath my skin.
Which is why I was standing outside at one a.m., my eyes drifting over the darkened grounds surrounding my home.
Which is also why I saw a small figure slipping out of the manor like they had something to hide.
My brow furrowed. Who the hell needed to sneak around out here? I wasn’t anyone’s fucking father. If they wanted to take a midnight stroll, by all means. But the secrecy of it bothered me.
I took one last drag before pressing the cigarette out between my fingers, then trailed after them, silent, and unseen.
The grounds at night were as familiar to me as they were in daylight, my steps instinctive, guided more by memory than sight.
They moved with purpose, their pace steady but unhurried, as if they knew exactly where they were going. No hesitation, no second-guessing. That alone told me this wasn’t the first time they’d done this.
I tracked them through the shadows of the estate, weaving between trees and stone pathways, my footsteps muffled by the damp earth.
