"Sleep isn't the priority right now," Ethan said.
"It's your daughter," Rowan countered. "Your clarity is part of protecting her."
Ethan didn't respond, but Rowan wasn't wrong. He walked toward the apartment with steady steps. His daughter needed him clear-headed. She needed him steady. She needed him whole.
When he reached the door, he paused, listening. The gentle sound of her breathing filtered through the thin walls. The world felt still, poised, like the moment before a storm breaks.
He slipped back inside. The lights were dim. The air held the warmth from earlier. He removed his jacket and draped it over the chair, then checked his bag: logbook, braid, notes—all protected. He moved to the window, drawing the curtain slightly aside. The walkway was empty. The lawns were silver under the moonlight. Everything looked peaceful, and for the first time in days, he felt like the scales were shifting. Vivian believed herself untouchable, but evidence didn't bow to authority.
He turned back toward the living room and knelt beside the couch. His daughter stirred, eyes barely open. "You're back," she whispered.
"I'm here," he said softly.
"Did something happen?"
"Yes," he answered truthfully. "Something good."
She closed her eyes again, reassured. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead and rose, moving quietly to the table. He opened his notebook to a clean page, writing one sentence across the top: Tomorrow begins.
He tapped the pen twice against the paper, a habit from a life she'd never seen, and closed the notebook. Before heading to bed, he paused once more by the window and breathed in the stillness outside. That stillness would break soon. And when it did, the truth would land exactly where it needed to.
He exhaled slowly, letting the weight settle. Then he turned off the light.
The apartment was still dark when he opened his eyes long before sunrise. Years of conditioning made waking effortless: silence, awareness, and immediate clarity settling into his mind before his body fully moved. He shifted only enough to check the couch. His daughter was curled in the same position, breathing softly, wrapped in the blanket like she was trying to hide inside it. She didn't stir. Good; she needed sleep far more than he did.
He rose quietly, sliding the notebook from the table and stepping into the faint glow of the kitchen light. The words he'd written last night—Tomorrow begins—sat at the top of the page like a promise he intended to keep. He set the notebook aside and poured a glass of water, letting the coolness ground him. Today wasn't about confrontation; it was about momentum. Truth had already begun surfacing; his job was simply to guide it into the light.
A soft vibration broke the silence. His phone. A text from Rowan: Team is prepping. Keep your daughter home today. I'll update you soon.