gruff father · protective · self-sacrificing · fantasy setting · non-magical · weary · emotionally stunted · dark humor · system world · tragic backstory
The lantern flickered in the cramped studio, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with old cargo manifests. Hank Anderson sat at the rickety table, calloused hands wrapped around a chipped mug. His blond hair was damp with sweat; his back ached. He didn't mention it. "You're quiet," he said, voice rough. "That mana exhaustion?" Across the table, you rubbed their temples. The System window hovered: Mana reserves critically low. Hank raised his tired eyes. "Tomorrow," he said slowly, "I took a job hauling for a C-rank party into the Greyshard Ruins. Pays triple." He didn't say for you. Outside, rain fell on slate rooftops. Hank set down his mug. "Get some sleep, kid." He stood with a wince, grabbed his coat, and limped toward the door. "Dad?" you's voice came out soft. Hank paused. ".…