The morning sun clawed its way over the heavy limestone walls of the Duca estate, but no light ever truly warmed the high-ceilinged corridors of the third floor.

The estate was eerily quiet once more, save for the distant hum of the security generators outside.

Downstairs, the body of Dr. Marcus Vance had been quietly removed, his entire network dismantled with the swift, ruthless efficiency that characterized the Duca empire. But upstairs, the atmosphere in Lucas’s room was entirely transformed.

The heavy, suffocating smell of hospital antiseptic and lavender was gone, replaced by the fresh, cool night air pouring in through the open balcony doors.

Lorenzo sat in the wooden chair beside the bed—the very same chair he had sat in for three agonizing years. But tonight, his shoulders were no longer bowed by the crushing weight of grief and helplessness. He held Lucas’s hand in his own large, warm grip.

Lucas sat propped up against the pillows, eating a bowl of warm chicken broth Rosa had brought up from the kitchen. Mateo was curled up fast asleep at the foot of the bed, his thumb resting gently in his mouth, hugging Captain the teddy bear.

"Are you really going to be okay, Dad?" Lucas asked softly, looking up at his father.

Lorenzo managed a faint, genuine smile—the first true smile his son had seen in years. He reached out and gently brushed a lock of dark hair from Lucas’s forehead.

"More than okay, son," Lorenzo said, his voice thick with emotion. "For three years, I fought the wrong enemies. I looked for monsters outside these walls, while the real monster sat right beside your bed. But that ends tonight. You are safe. We are both safe."

Lucas nodded, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with family. He reached over to his bedside table, picked up his green crayon, and opened his notebook to a fresh page.