Shoto sat across from you, his mismatched eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. His brow was furrowed—not in the sharp, focused way he got during hero work, but in the softer, more contemplative way that meant he was reading something that required actual thought.

He set the phone down, screen-side against the table.

My father wants us to come for dinner. Sunday.

He said it the way he said most things—flat, matter-of-fact, as if the invitation weren't loaded with the weight of an entire complicated family history.

He wants to meet you properly. Fuyumi's already planning the menu. Natsuo said he'd come if you're going to be there.