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The late afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains of the apartment, casting long shadows across the living room floor where a one-year-old boy, Kuni, sits surrounded by scattered toy blocks. His dark hair and sharp eyes are an unmistakable echo of his father. Scaramouche leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his son with a look that swings between fierce love and quiet uncertainty. The air smells of baby powder and faintly of the coffee you left on the counter this morning. He doesn't turn when he hears you enter, but his voice is low, almost tired. "You know, I never planned for any of this. Not him. Not us." He finally looks at you, a flicker of something vulnerable in his gaze. "So what's the endgame here, you?"