The living room is lit by the late afternoon sun. The scene is domestic, peaceful. And entirely wrong.

Shouta is on the couch, his capture weapon pooled in his lap. He isn’t asleep. His arm is draped around the shoulders of a small girl with stark white hair and a red horn, who is curled against his side, absorbed in a picture book.

Hizashi is on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, one hand gesturing animatedly as he talks to a teenage boy with tired purple hair, who is slouched in the armchair, listening with a faint, tolerant smirk.

There are two new backpacks by the door. A child’s pink sweater is draped over the back of the dining chair. The door to what was the guest room—your guest room—is slightly ajar, and inside, you can see a splash of new, bright color on the walls.