The morning light bled in slowly through the curtains, silver and soft. Eltherion's sun looked ordinary again—warm, restrained, almost forgettable. Adrian opened his eyes to the quiet hum of a world pretending to be safe. His room remained still, unchanged from the night before. The sheets beneath him were rumpled but clean. The air smelled faintly of citrus detergent and dust.
He sat up, letting the silence settle. Then, he stood and stretched, walking barefoot toward the bathroom.
The shower steamed quickly. Water splashed against old tile as he ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back. Long, disheveled strands clung to his forehead — another insult. "You had good bones," he muttered. "A face like that, and you let it rot under stray hairs and an overgrown beard? What a waste. What a disgrace."
He lathered, scrubbed. His own reflection began to emerge again beneath the excess. It doesn't change much form yesterday. He still need to act like the same old gloomy Adrian.
Clean, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back into the bedroom. The wardrobe, if it could be called that, greeted him with quiet poverty. A few shirts hung limp like defeated flags. Most were faded at the collar. Buttons missing. Wrinkled beyond redemption.
Adrian picked through them with the expression of a surgeon examining tumors.
"This is the best of the trash," he said flatly, pulling out a black formal shirt and matching slacks. "And no suit in the wardrobe. Of course. This guy is hopeless"
He changed quickly. The fabric was rougher than it looked and just slightly too short at the wrists. It would pass, but only barely.
Psychiatrists weren't surgeons. They didn't need coats. They didn't carry stethoscopes or wear hospital IDs on lanyards. If anything, visible symbols of medicine only made patients defensive — reminded them of labels they feared. Gowns were for doctors. For healers. Psychiatrists needed to be furniture. Familiar. Reassuring. Unthreatening.
Formal wear. Clean lines. Normalcy wrapped in pressed cotton.
Adrian adjusted the collar and nodded once to himself.
Then he glanced toward the corner of the room. The car keys still hung on their usual hook — keys to a battered old saloon car, older than it should've been. He remembered the model. The make. The faded university parking tag still clinging to the rearview mirror.
"He had savings," Adrian muttered. "He gave half his salary to his mother, yes. But the rest? Enough to dress himself like a human. Enough for a new vehicle."
A soft snort.
"And yet…"
He shook his head once, the disgust quiet but lingering.
This was the life he'd taken — not by choice, but by necessity. A man who gave, who served, who kept quiet and allowed himself to shrink. And what did that earn him? A threadbare wardrobe. A rusting car. A funeral without mourners.
Adrian slipped on a pair of black leather shoes — one sole slightly loose — and headed downstairs.
The mask was ready.
The performance would begin again.
The scent of browned butter and toast wafted through the kitchen like a soft greeting.
Sunlight poured in through the lace curtains, casting pale golden rays across the worn wooden table. Adrian stepped inside, freshly showered, hair still cover his eye, black shirt tucked into slate slacks. He looked crisp — or as crisp as this borrowed wardrobe allowed.
"Morning, sweetheart," Mira said as she slid the last sunny-side-up egg onto a plate.
Her voice had that morning softness, unhurried and warm. "Perfect timing. Breakfast's just ready."
"Morning," Adrian replied with a gentle nod, taking his seat at the end of the table.
Tessa was already seated, still in her smart gray blazer, sleeves rolled to the forearms.
A law journal lay open beside her plate, marked with color-coded notes.
She looked up briefly, offered a half-smile. "You're not usually up before me."
"Miracles do happen," Adrian said smoothly.
She gave a small laugh and returned to her food.
Lira sat across from him in a cozy sky-blue sweater, spooning a bit of jam onto her toast.
She glanced up and smiled, eyes a touch less sleepy than usual.
"You look good today," she said. "Shirt's a little small, but you wear it well."
"Best of the closet," Adrian replied with mock solemnity. "Not a lot of competition."
Mira placed a plate in front of him — sausage, toast, eggs glistening with oil and heat.
"Eat while it's hot."
"Thanks, Mom."
They ate together in that familiar rhythm only families seemed to master — forks tapping, coffee mugs gently clinking, the occasional clatter of toast crust being chased across ceramic.
The food was simple but satisfying. Savory. A little greasy in just the right way.
Conversation flowed like a small stream — unforced and calm.
"I'm thinking of doing soup for dinner," Mira said.
"That miso one you like. If we have any of that seaweed left."
"I think there's some in the bottom drawer," Lira said. "Unless Dad used it last week."
Tessa took a long sip of coffee. "I'm out late tonight. Meeting a client near the central court. Might not be home until ten."
"That's fine," Mira said without looking up. "Eat something while you're out. I don't want you skipping again."
"I won't."
Adrian chewed quietly, watching it all — the way Tessa kept adjusting her blazer sleeves, the subtle way Lira added sugar to her coffee without stirring, Mira humming an old tune while refilling the water pitcher.
It was warm.
It was safe.
It was ordinary.
"I might be home late, too," Adrian said, setting down his fork. "Depending on the cases."
"That's alright," Mira replied. "Just let us know."
"Of course."
Mira sat down at last, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Honestly, having everyone here like this feels rare. I almost forgot what a full table sounds like."
"It's just missing Dad," Lira said as she reached for the butter. "He already left?"
"Early morning shift," Mira confirmed. "You know how it is. They've been understaffed for weeks."
"I still don't get how he never complains," Tessa murmured, adjusting her journal as she tore off a piece of toast.
"Six days a week, zero fuss."
"That's just Dad," Lira said. "Quiet persistence. It's kind of his thing."
Adrian nodded slightly. "Some people endure louder than others."
The table fell into an affectionate quiet.
Mira reached across to pour Adrian a cup of tea, her fingers brushing the rim of the cup with motherly care. "You know," she said, her voice gentler now,
"I really am glad you're looking better today."
Adrian looked up. "I wasn't aware I looked bad before."
"You didn't," she said quickly.
"But you've been… distant. That's all. It's alright. We all have our moments."
Tessa glanced over. "You've always carried things a little too privately."
"And seriously," Lira added, this time with no teasing in her voice.
Adrian gave a small smile. "Some things are just better left unspoken."
Mira frowned softly at that but didn't press. Instead, she leaned back and gave an approving nod. "Well, your appetite's back, at least. That's a good sign."
"His appetite never left," Lira smirked. "Even when he's brooding, he eats like a machine."
Adrian chuckled. "Fuel is fuel."
"You say that like you're not human," Tessa muttered, shaking her head with a half-smile.
"Who talks like that first thing in the morning?"
"Someone who's always been weird," Lira supplied helpfully.
"Professional weird," Adrian clarified. "It's in the job description."
They all laughed — not loudly, but fully. It was the kind of laughter that made a room feel smaller and safer. The kind that made the world outside feel like it could wait.
For a brief second, Adrian allowed himself to forget what he was. What he'd become.
He was just a son. A brother. A young man with toast on his plate and people who cared.
It was a lie.
But it was a beautiful one.
And for now — he'd let it be real.
The garage was dim, the concrete cool underfoot as Adrian unlocked the old saloon car. It had scratches on the doors and a dent near the left rear wheel — signs of years long ignored. He slid into the driver's seat and stared at the cracked dash.
"This is the best he could do? With half his salary untouched in savings?"
He glanced at the ignition key. The original Adrian had money. He wasn't poor. He just never spent it on himself. No better wardrobe, no better car. Not even a proper suit.
"A waste of a decent salary," he muttered. "And a disgrace to a face this handsome."
The engine turned reluctantly, then growled to life.
The morning roads in eastern Eltherion were quiet, but already tinted gold by the rising sun. Towering buildings and curved glass panels flanked the skyline, reflecting a soft shimmer. Banners fluttered in the distance, denoting sector boundaries. This was the capital of the Eastern Part — the most developed zone of the continent, under centralized government control. Everything here functioned with precision.