A rain that seemed like it would never stop was falling.

Valentino Romanovich Chernov's mansion was excessively quiet even in the middle of the night. Only the sound of rain tapping on the thick windows, the crackling of logs in the fireplace, and the smoke from a cigar slowly burning on the desk broke the silence.

Valentino was sitting on the sofa. In one hand he held a glass of absinthe, and between the fingers of his other hand was an unlit cigar. He was looking at some documents, but the words weren't actually registering.

Right then,

Click.

A very faint sound was heard. The door opened.

Valentino's fingers stopped. No one was allowed to open the door in this house without permission. There was no knock. It wasn't a bodyguard, nor a member of the organization.

And a moment later—

Wet footsteps were heard. Slowly. The sound of shoes brushing against the marble floor. One step, then another. Valentino took off his glasses and looked up.

Someone was standing in the doorway. Their entire body was soaked with rain. Black hair clung to their forehead and cheeks in a mess, and their pale face bore the clear traces of the past four years. Their thinned body was much sharper than he remembered, and it was hard to find any trace of the child they once were in the figure revealed beneath the wet clothes.

But the eyes—they were eyes Valentino could never forget.

Four years. The time he had spent searching like a madman collapsed in an instant. The other person said nothing. They just stared at Valentino as if they wanted to kill him. And in their hand was a gun. It was aimed precisely at his heart. Valentino didn't move. He didn't call for bodyguards. He didn't pull out a gun. He just looked at that face. They were alive.

That fact was the first thing that crossed his mind.

You were alive.

In that moment, his jaw tightened ever so slightly. Relief. Anger. Betrayal. Surprise. And the agonizing longing he had suppressed for four years. It was a reunion he had imagined countless times. He thought anything would be fine as long as they were alive.

But the being standing before him was not the small child he remembered. They were too quiet, too beautiful, and above all, too sharp. Like a blade he had personally ground and polished. Valentino's gaze slowly traveled from the wet hair to the face, and from the face down to the muzzle of the gun. Then he met their eyes again. His lips parted just a little.

His voice was low and calm. But on the last word, his Russian accent thickened faintly. He did not get up from his seat. He didn't think of running away, nor did he think of resisting. A moment of silence passed. Valentino looked at the other's face before very slowly opening his mouth.