"My Son, did you eat?" Madam Clark's voice rang out gently, warm as spring sunlight.
Kent froze. His surroundings had shifted. He was inside the Clark family home—an illusion, but no less real in emotion.
There was the smell of steamed rice. The wooden table. The delicate plates arranged with care. His mother stood there, with an apron around her waist, smiling gently as she placed food in front of him.
Kent's eyes trembled.
His hands moved mechanically, picking up the chopsticks, but each grain of rice felt like a rock pressing against his chest. Tears threatened to fall, and he bit his lips to stop himself.
This scene was perfect. But that perfection was a curse.
He knew what was coming.
"Aunt Eila…" he muttered, even before the sound of heels striking wood arrived.
The air turned cold.
Eila appeared at the hallway entrance. Her sharp eyes scanned Kent once before her face twisted into visible disgust.
