Travis leaned forward, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity, his dark eyes locking onto Arata and Elio with a mix of disbelief and intrigue. His hands rested casually on the back of a worn, plush armchair, but his fingers tapped ever so slightly—a subtle display of his calculating mind at work. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows that danced across his sharp jawline and emphasizing the charming smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. His posture was relaxed yet commanding, every movement carefully measured, as if he knew he could sway the room with just the right look, the right word.

Arata stood a few feet away, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his brow furrowed in frustration. His fingers drummed against his upper arm, betraying the tension beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched briefly, then relaxed, as if he was holding back a surge of emotion. Beside him, Elio shifted his weight from one leg to the other, the flicker of nervous energy in his fidgeting hands. He glanced at Travis, then quickly looked away, his shoulders tensing as if bracing for judgment.

“Yeah,” Arata finally muttered, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes flicked between Travis and the floor, struggling with the gravity of the situation. “Branded a traitor… because we tried to pry more into Hex.”

Travis nodded slowly, taking in the weight of Arata’s words as if they were a riddle he was eager to solve. His hand left the armchair, gesturing delicately in the air as if to offer his understanding. "I see…" His voice was a velvet whisper, effortlessly drawing attention from everyone in the room, even from those who weren't directly part of the conversation.

Meanwhile, Lance moved around the spacious apartment with deliberate steps, his boots making soft, almost imperceptible thuds on the wooden floor. His sharp gaze darted from one corner to another, occasionally crouching down to inspect an odd groove or misplaced object, his hand hovering just above them as though unsure whether to touch. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a hint of frustration in the way he huffed through his nose when nothing seemed immediately suspicious.

Uriel, on the other hand, moved with more confidence, his fingers tracing along the edges of shelves and furniture with a firm touch. His sword hung at his side, lightly bumping against his thigh as he walked, a constant reminder of his readiness to act at a moment’s notice. Every so often, he would tilt his head slightly, as if listening for something just beyond hearing. His expression remained stoic, but his eyes flickered with a sharpness that suggested he wasn’t letting anything slip by unnoticed.

Cheese, full of boundless energy, moved quicker than the others, bouncing from spot to spot. His hands were constantly in motion, touching every object that caught his attention, tapping on surfaces and shaking items gently as if expecting them to reveal a hidden secret. He let out a soft giggle every now and then, the sound oddly out of place in the tense atmosphere. But despite his seemingly carefree demeanor, his sharp eyes were taking in every detail, missing nothing.

Across the room, the Queen sat gracefully beside Butter, her hands glowing faintly as they hovered over the girl's still-healing wounds. The Queen’s face was a mask of concentration, her breathing slow and steady, though her eyes occasionally flickered with a hint of fatigue. Butter, lying on the couch, winced now and then, her fingers gripping the fabric beneath her in silent pain, but she never uttered a word of complaint. Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed slightly as she focused on her breathing, her body still tense from the remnants of their fight with Divine.

Travis, sensing the tension in the room, straightened up slightly and stepped toward Arata, his steps measured and smooth. His voice lowered, but there was a warmth to it, a charisma that seemed to fill the space. “It doesn’t make sense for someone like you to be branded for simply wanting to know more,” he said, his words sliding effortlessly between them. He reached out a hand, almost as if to rest it on Arata’s shoulder but stopped just short, the gesture lingering in the air, suggesting solidarity without forcing it.

Arata’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if weighing Travis’s words. Elio shifted beside him, rubbing his thumb nervously over the back of his hand. Travis caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and flashed a reassuring smile that was as effortless as it was disarming. “We’ll figure it out,” Travis said softly, his voice just loud enough for the whole room to hear, yet intimate enough to feel like a personal promise.

Behind them, Lance muttered something under his breath as he straightened up from inspecting a suspicious-looking floorboard. Uriel gave him a sidelong glance, his mouth barely twitching in what might have been the closest thing to amusement. Cheese, oblivious to the undercurrent of emotions, giggled softly as he peeked under a couch cushion, though his focus never wavered from the task at hand.

The Queen continued her work on Butter, her movements slow and precise, though the strain of the healing was evident in the way her shoulders drooped ever so slightly with each passing moment. Butter’s breathing was more relaxed now, but her fingers still twitched occasionally, her legs shifting subtly as if seeking comfort in the midst of her pain.

Travis, fully aware of the room's many eyes on him, allowed a brief pause before turning his attention back to Arata and Elio. His gaze softened, his smile widening just a fraction—enough to suggest both trust and control. “We’ve all faced our battles,” he said, his voice smooth, every word laced with charm. “But this isn’t where it ends. You’ve got more allies than you realize.”

There was a flicker of something in Arata’s eyes—doubt, perhaps, or maybe the faintest hint of hope. Travis didn’t press further, but the subtle shift in his stance—legs slightly apart, one hand resting casually on his hip—showed that he had planted the seed of possibility, and he was confident it would grow.

Arata’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he spoke, his voice tight with frustration. His teeth ground together audibly, his jaw set so firmly that the muscles in his neck tensed with the effort to control his anger. His body was rigid, like a coiled spring ready to snap. "I didn’t want to pry into their details,” he growled, the bitterness clear in his tone. “But I couldn’t let hundreds of people die just because of some stupid order.”

His eyes flickered to the side, meeting Travis’s gaze for a brief moment before looking away, unable to maintain eye contact as the weight of his words hung in the air. His chest heaved with a deep, frustrated breath, his shoulders rising and falling with barely contained emotion.

Travis, leaning against a nearby wall with his arms crossed casually over his chest, had been observing Arata with that same unreadable, almost serene expression. But when Angela spoke, his posture shifted subtly. He uncrossed his arms and straightened, a shadow of concern passing over his face, though his charm remained intact. His gaze flickered toward Angela for just a second, acknowledging her words with a slight tilt of his head.

Angela’s voice cut through the tension, her tone calm but firm, her gaze never wavering from Travis. “Travis, my master here… You knew about his father. You need to tell him about his father.”

Travis inhaled sharply, his smile fading into something more serious, more grounded. He pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward Arata, his movements slow and deliberate. His usual air of ease was now replaced by a gravity that seemed to fill the room, commanding attention. “Well, to be exact…” His voice dropped, no longer the smooth, persuasive tone he often wielded but something far more earnest, almost reverent. He glanced at Arata, his eyes narrowing slightly as if carefully considering each word before it left his lips. “Your dad, he was someone far stronger than any of us Ringmasters, Arata.”

Travis’s hands hung loosely at his sides, though his fingers twitched ever so slightly, betraying a flicker of tension he was trying to mask. His gaze softened as he locked eyes with Arata, a subtle, almost imperceptible nod conveying both respect and the weight of what he was about to say. The room seemed to still, the air thick with anticipation.

“But…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments, his brows knitting together, his lips pressing into a thin line as if grappling with the enormity of his next words. His voice, usually smooth and persuasive, carried an edge of genuine disbelief this time. “You shouldn’t have been alive after that incident… I don’t know how you survived, but it’s a miracle, that’s for sure.”

Arata’s expression shifted. His eyes widened ever so slightly, his body stiffening at the weight of the revelation. He inhaled sharply through his nose, his arms dropping to his sides, fingers uncurling as the shock of Travis’s words sank in. The tension in his jaw loosened, replaced by a flicker of sadness that he tried—and failed—to mask.

Travis, sensing Arata’s internal struggle, stepped closer, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. His voice softened again, not with charm, but with a warmth that felt almost protective. “I thought I lost the last good guy in the organization,” he said quietly, his tone full of a quiet sincerity that only someone like Travis could balance so effortlessly with his natural charisma.

Arata swallowed hard, his throat bobbing slightly as he processed everything. His gaze fell to the floor, and his shoulders slumped, his legs shifting as if the weight of the world had just been placed on them. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, his lips parting in a soft, almost resigned sigh. “I see…” The words were barely more than a whisper, a sad acceptance of something he had yet to fully understand.

Travis, ever observant, placed a hand on Arata’s shoulder, the gesture light but reassuring, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of Arata’s shirt. His eyes softened with something akin to understanding, though he said nothing more. His touch, his presence, was enough to convey what words could not—an unspoken promise that, somehow, they would figure this out together.

Travis’s voice dropped as he spoke, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. He watched Arata closely, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense, as though gauging the younger man’s reaction. His hands remained at his sides, but his fingers twitched slightly as if even he felt the gravity of what he was about to reveal.

“Your dad’s name was Harry… Harry Ryan,” Travis finally said, his voice measured and calm. Arata blinked, his face twisting into confusion, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as he processed the name. He shifted on his feet, one foot edging backward unconsciously, a sign of his growing unease.

Before Arata could respond, the Queen’s voice cut through the tension, her eyes widening in sudden realization. She turned her head sharply toward Travis, her lips parting in disbelief. “Wait, wait, wait,” she began, her hands fluttering upward for a moment as if to physically stop the conversation from continuing. “But Harry Ryan should be Elio’s dad. I mean, Sheena Ryan is Elio’s mom.”

Travis’s charming smile returned, but it was a thin veil over the storm brewing behind his eyes. He raised a brow at the Queen, tilting his head just slightly, his tone now carrying a hint of amusement. “Oh… So you don’t know, Queen?” His hands rested on his hips now, his posture deliberately casual, though the intensity of his presence was impossible to ignore.

The Queen’s face tightened as she shook her head slowly, her confusion evident. Her fingers fidgeted at her side, rubbing the hem of her dress as if trying to steady herself.

Travis took a slow, deliberate step forward, shifting his weight onto one leg, drawing all eyes toward him. “What if I said you two are brothers… from different fathers but the same mother?” His voice was calm, almost too calm for the bombshell he had just dropped. “I mean, come on—Arata looks Caucasian, while Elio, you look Black.”

Arata froze, his body tensing up like a live wire, his eyes narrowing as the realization crept over him. Elio, on the other hand, stiffened immediately, his mouth opening slightly in disbelief. His arms, previously crossed in a defensive stance, slowly dropped to his sides, his fists clenching reflexively as the weight of the revelation hit him.

“What are you implying?” Elio asked, his voice strained, his eyes darting between Travis and Arata. He took a step closer to his brother, his body rigid, tension building in every muscle as if bracing for the worst.

Travis turned to Elio, his expression softening, though his words remained sharp. “Do you know the reason Jeremy’s wife left him, Elio?” His tone, although direct, had a peculiar gentleness to it, as if trying to ease the blow that was about to land.

Elio shook his head, the motion almost robotic, his mind clearly racing. “I was too small… I only know they used to have a lot of fights,” he muttered, his voice shaky, as if already anticipating the answer.

Travis sighed, running a hand through his hair, his fingers combing through the strands as he searched for the right words. “You see… I hate being the bearer of bad news, but Sheena was too attractive. To a point even I had a crush on her once.”

Elio’s eyes flared in disbelief, his body stiffening as though struck by a physical blow. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Travis continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper, his eyes flickering with a brief glimpse of regret. “To be exact, we all wanted our way with her.” He paused, letting the words settle in the air like a dark mist, before adding, “But not once did I ever think that night… Jeremy would do that…”

The anger in Travis’s voice was palpable now, his hands flexing at his sides, his jaw tightening as memories of the past bubbled to the surface. His usual charm gave way to something more raw, more human, his gaze dropping for a moment before locking onto Elio once more.

Arata’s face hardened. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths as he glanced at Elio. His eyes were full of a mix of pity and frustration. He took a step toward his brother, his expression serious, his tone edged with bitterness. “I see… I don’t need to know more,” he said to Travis, his voice low and firm.

Elio’s face contorted with a mixture of shock and anger. He spun on his heel, turning to Arata with wide, frantic eyes, his hands flying up in frustration. “HEY! DON’T STOP HIM—” His voice was loud, raw, a desperate need for answers driving him forward.

But Arata’s voice cut through his plea like a knife. His head snapped toward Elio, his eyes blazing with a cold, hardened clarity. “Are you really that dumb, Elio? Can’t you understand?” His voice, sharp and biting, was barely controlled. “The common mother we have is because… Jeremy Taylor raped her.”

Elio’s body went rigid, his mouth hanging open in stunned silence. The disbelief was plain in his eyes as he took a stumbling step back, his legs barely supporting him under the weight of the words. “What?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if refusing to fully comprehend what he’d just heard.

Arata didn’t flinch. His expression remained unyielding, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared down his brother. The silence between them was thick with tension, each heartbeat louder than the last.

Elio’s face twisted in disbelief, his lips trembling as he looked back and forth between Arata and Travis, his hands rising again as if to physically hold onto something tangible. “He’s kidding, right? Dad wouldn’t go that far, right?” His voice cracked, his gaze pleading for reassurance. “Why is he still out if that’s the case?!”

Elio’s questions hung in the air, unanswered. Travis remained still, his gaze unwavering, though the lines of tension in his face told of the storm raging inside him. Arata remained silent, his body tense, his expression unreadable as the room seemed to shrink under the weight of the truth that had just been laid bare.

Travis’s voice was low but commanding, drawing everyone’s attention as he fixed his eyes on Elio. His posture was relaxed, almost too casual for the weight of the conversation, but his gaze was sharp and calculated. He took a step toward Elio, his arms loosely folded in front of him, his fingers tapping lightly against his bicep as though contemplating how to best deliver the truth.

"Do you know who Jeremy Taylor is?" Travis asked, his voice dripping with a mix of curiosity and intent.

Elio, still reeling from the previous revelation, took a shallow breath, his chest rising unevenly. His brow furrowed deeply as he glanced down at his feet, his hands now clenched into tight fists at his sides. “He is my dad… That’s all I know…” Elio’s voice was quiet, almost detached, as though he were grappling with a thousand thoughts at once and couldn’t piece them together.

Travis let out a short sigh, unfolding his arms as he stepped closer to Elio, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder with a firm yet gentle grip. “Once upon a time, Jeremy’s father used to hold the position that Williams is at now. So you understand how much power he holds.” His words were soft, but each syllable carried weight, his hand giving Elio’s shoulder a subtle squeeze, almost as if grounding him to the moment.

Elio’s eyes darted upward, locking onto Travis’s gaze, the confusion deepening in his expression. His body stiffened under Travis’s grip, his legs feeling heavy as though weighed down by the new information. He shifted his feet slightly, trying to find some stability amidst the chaos unraveling in his mind.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Travis’s hand dropped from Elio’s shoulder as he took a step back, his eyes never leaving Elio’s face. “You don’t understand, Elio. The only reason he is the leader of Squad A is because of that incident.” His voice was smooth, almost too smooth for the darkness of the truth he revealed. His eyes flickered for a moment, the charm that usually adorned his face giving way to a more serious expression.

Behind them, Uriel stood leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was distant, his mind clearly processing the gravity of the situation. He exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Talk about dark,” Uriel muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disbelief, his arms tightening across his chest as though to shield himself from the weight of the revelation.

Cheese, who had been pacing the room, stopped abruptly, his large eyes darting toward Arata. His face softened, his concern for his friend evident in the way his brows knitted together, and he took a tentative step forward. “Poor Arata… What must he be going through…” he whispered, his voice filled with genuine worry. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his feet shifting uncomfortably as if he couldn’t stand still in the face of Arata’s turmoil.

Arata, however, stood rigid and silent, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, though his fingers twitched slightly as if he were holding back some deep emotion. His eyes were dark, distant, locked onto some unseen point on the floor. His body was tense, his posture defensive, as though bracing for the weight of the conversation that was now spiraling around him. His chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, the only outward sign of the storm raging inside.

Lance, standing in the corner of the room, observed everything with sharp eyes, his arms crossed and his back leaning against the wall. He shifted slightly, his foot tapping the floor rhythmically as he analyzed the situation. His gaze flicked to Elio, and for a moment, his stern expression softened. “More than that,” Lance murmured, his deep voice cutting through the tension, “it seems that young Elio has taken a bigger hit to his mental state with this talk.”

Elio’s legs seemed to give way beneath him slightly as he staggered back a step, his breathing quickening. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted as he tried to make sense of everything. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching as if grasping at invisible threads. The weight of the conversation was crushing him, and it showed in every movement, every subtle twitch of his muscles. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as though trying to shake off the truth that had been thrust upon him.

Travis took a slow, measured breath, his charming façade slipping back into place as he offered Elio a sympathetic smile. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes softening as though to reassure the younger man. “Elio, this isn’t easy, I know,” he said, his tone smooth and persuasive, each word carefully chosen. He extended a hand toward Elio, palm up, in a gesture that was both inviting and calming. “But you need to understand. What happened—it doesn’t define who you are.”

Elio hesitated, his eyes darting to Travis’s hand, then back to his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t move. His legs remained rooted to the spot, his body trembling with the strain of holding it all together.

Across the room, the Queen sat silently, her eyes fixed on the two men in front of her. She didn’t speak, but her fingers idly traced the fabric of her dress, a small gesture of nervousness. Butter, still recovering from her injuries, sat nearby, watching with quiet intensity, her own pain momentarily forgotten in the wake of this unfolding drama.

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, as everyone in the room waited for Elio’s response, for him to either crumble under the weight of his emotions or find the strength to push through. Travis’s hand remained outstretched, his expression patient yet unyielding, his charm still a powerful force that drew everyone in, even in the darkest of moments.

Arata’s gaze hardened as he looked up at Travis, his body tense and motionless, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first, the weight of the conversation hanging thick in the air. After a moment, his voice finally emerged, low and controlled. “My father, Harry… how did he take this news?” His eyes darted to the floor before slowly meeting Travis’s, a storm of emotions barely concealed beneath the surface.

Travis, always the picture of charm and composure, sighed deeply. His expression softened, but his stance remained firm, his hands resting comfortably in his pockets as though grounding himself. He took a step closer to Arata, his movements slow, deliberate. “They stripped him of his Wolf’s power,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of sadness and regret. “Because he didn’t want Angela to fall into the wrong hands, he sealed her away. He became your mom’s lab assistant… He loved her way too much.”

Travis’s eyes held Arata’s gaze, a gentle warmth beneath the charm. He tilted his head slightly, his shoulders relaxing, trying to ease the tension in the air. “Harry was a good person,” he added, his voice almost soothing. He lifted his hand briefly as if to reach out, but then let it drop back to his side, sensing the distance Arata was creating between them.

Arata’s body stiffened further, his arms folding tightly across his chest. His fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, his nails biting into his skin beneath. The pressure was intense, sharp pain blooming in his arms, but he didn’t release his grip. Instead, he let the pain anchor him as his eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “How did Angela awaken then?” he asked, his voice sharp, barely concealing the hurt that lingered behind his words.

Angela, who had been silent until now, shifted slightly, her eyes flickering with a strange mix of nostalgia and regret. She stepped forward, her movements measured, almost hesitant. “Ten rings,” she began, her voice steady yet filled with an almost haunting tone. “All of a different type, all with different powers, and each with unique quirks… that’s when you will awaken.” She turned to Arata, her gaze softening as her voice wavered slightly. “Those were Harry’s words.”

Arata barely blinked, his posture still rigid, though his hands twitched slightly, the knuckles of his fists paling even more as his nails dug deeper into his arms. His breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale, though he tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. The faintest flicker of emotion crossed his eyes, but it vanished just as quickly.

Travis shifted on his feet, sensing the shift in the room. He rubbed the back of his neck briefly, his usually charming demeanor now tinged with a certain gravity. He took a step closer to Arata, his voice dropping slightly as he answered the next question. “The last question…” he repeated, almost as if preparing himself for the answer. “How did Harry die?”

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze around them. Travis let out a slow breath, his charming mask slipping to reveal a grim, pained expression. “They framed it as an accident,” he said, his tone laced with bitterness. “But Hex was attacking the lab.”

As Travis spoke, Arata’s body stiffened even more, every muscle in his body coiled as if ready to snap. His nails punctured the skin of his arms now, blood seeping from the tiny wounds, but Arata made no move to stop it. His fingers curled tighter into the flesh, the pain grounding him as he stood rooted to the spot.

Travis’s gaze flicked toward Arata’s hands briefly, noticing the blood beginning to stain his sleeves, but he didn’t call attention to it. Instead, he pressed on, his voice low and somber. “In her final moments… they raped her,” Travis said, his words heavy, each syllable dripping with disgust. His jaw clenched, and his fists balled at his sides. “Until her final breath.”

Arata’s breathing hitched, his chest rising sharply before he exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain still. His expression didn’t change, but the tension in his body was palpable. His fingers dug in deeper, more blood seeping through the fabric as his arms trembled slightly.

“They rammed the place with a truck,” Travis continued, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of anger. “An unknown driver, who also died in that incident.”

Travis stepped closer to Arata now, his tone softening just a fraction, as though trying to reach through the pain that was clearly gripping the young man. “You were at that lab too, Arata,” Travis said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “We thought you died… but it’s a surprise you survived.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Arata stood there, his head bowed slightly, his arms still folded tightly across his chest. His grip loosened just enough for the bleeding to stop, but the faint red stains on his arms remained. His eyes were distant, cold, as if the weight of everything was crashing down on him all at once.

“I see…” Arata muttered, his voice devoid of any emotion. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. His body remained tense, as though frozen in place by the weight of the revelations.

Travis watched him carefully, his charming exterior now replaced by a look of concern. He took a small step back, giving Arata space, but his gaze never left him.

Elio’s voice exploded through the tense air, his body trembling with rage as he stepped toward Arata, fists clenched by his sides. “HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM AFTER HEARING ALL THAT, ARATA?!” he screamed, his eyes wild with disbelief. His chest heaved, breath coming in ragged bursts as he stared at Arata, searching for any sign of emotion on his face.

Arata stood still, his posture rigid, but his face remained unreadable, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, before releasing it in a slow, resigned sigh. When he finally opened his eyes, they were calm—almost too calm. “I feel bad about her,” he said, his voice steady but lacking any visible emotional weight. “But I didn’t know her, nor did I know my dad.”

As he spoke, Arata lifted his hand, rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly, his gaze distant as though the weight of the truth was sinking in slowly. “It doesn’t make any sense for me to have feelings for these people, but I do feel angry… and bad for the way they were treated. Mother and Father or not, they were still humans.” His shoulders slumped ever so slightly, though his expression remained composed, betraying only the smallest flicker of internal struggle.

Elio, however, couldn’t stay still. His legs trembled as he took a step back, his hands shooting up to grip his head, fingers tangling in his hair as his eyes widened in confusion. His lips quivered, and he bit down hard on his lower lip as though trying to contain the maelstrom of emotions building inside him. “You don’t feel anything… about Harry or Sheena,” Arata continued, his voice low, steady—almost detached. “But because you heard Jeremy was involved in all of this, you started to feel guilty.”

At the mention of Jeremy’s name, Elio visibly flinched. His knees buckled slightly, and he stumbled backward before catching himself, his hands dropping to his sides and clenching into tight fists. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the fabric of his pants, fingers curling into the material as if trying to steady himself. His breath hitched, and a tear escaped the corner of his eye, sliding down his cheek as his shoulders shook.

Arata’s eyes softened briefly as he watched Elio struggle, but his tone remained steady, almost clinical. “After all, he’s your father… That’s just how it is,” Arata added, his arms crossing over his chest now, his fingers gripping his elbows lightly as though trying to maintain his own composure. “I mean, when you were fighting Sheena back then and you found out she was your mother, your reaction didn’t change much. It only bothered you a bit, but as soon as Jeremy was involved…”

Elio’s breathing grew more ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the reality of Arata’s words began to sink in. His grip on his pants tightened even further, his fingers trembling as they pressed into the fabric, his legs shaking. His lips parted as though he wanted to speak, but no words came out. He blinked rapidly, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was futile—another tear slipped down his face, then another.

“…you became expressive about your feelings,” Arata finished, his voice now soft, almost gentle. He lowered his arms, his gaze remaining fixed on Elio, though his body remained unnaturally still, as if trying to distance himself emotionally from the conversation.

“Tsch…” Elio let out a frustrated, shaky breath, his jaw tightening as he wiped at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. He sniffed, his shoulders slumping forward, but the tension in his body never fully left. “Arata…” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the ground as though ashamed. “I hate admitting it, but you’re right…”

He gripped his pants tighter, his fingers trembling as he pulled at the fabric, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. His whole body seemed to tremble now, and his legs felt weak beneath him, as though they could barely support his weight. His eyes, red and puffy from tears, darted around the room, unable to settle on any one thing as he struggled to contain his emotions.

“I was raised by Dad…” Elio’s voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep himself from breaking down entirely. His fists tightened on his pants, nails digging into his palms through the fabric as though the pain might somehow anchor him. “He was the only family I had… other than Lila, who cared about me.”

His words were laced with bitterness and confusion, each syllable trembling with uncertainty. He shook his head, his hair falling messily into his eyes as he hunched forward, curling in on himself as though trying to disappear. “But after hearing this…” His voice dropped to barely a whisper now, thick with emotion. “I don’t know if I should exist or not…”

Elio’s legs gave out, and he collapsed onto his knees, his fists still gripping his pants as though holding on for dear life. Tears streamed down his face now, unchecked, his body shaking with silent sobs as he stared blankly at the floor, utterly lost. His shoulders heaved with every breath, and his grip on his pants tightened so much that the fabric began to tear under the pressure of his fingers.

Travis, standing nearby, shifted his weight ever so slightly, his usually confident posture softening as he observed the broken figure before him. He didn’t speak, but his eyes held a certain warmth, an understanding that made him all the more persuasive. His charm wasn’t in what he said, but how he carried himself—his calm, collected presence, even in the midst of such emotional turmoil. He took a step toward Elio, his movements slow, careful, as though trying not to startle him.

Without saying a word, Travis knelt beside Elio, his hand hovering just above Elio’s shoulder for a moment before resting gently on it. His touch was light, almost comforting, though he remained silent. His presence alone seemed to carry weight, his charisma subtly diffusing into the room without the need for words. He didn’t force his charm; it was simply there, woven into his every movement, his every breath.

Elio didn’t flinch at the touch, but his sobs slowed, his trembling body gradually stilling under the quiet reassurance of Travis’s presence. His grip on his pants loosened slightly, though he still couldn’t bring himself to look up. The room, once filled with tension, now felt quieter—calmer, as though Travis’s mere presence had managed to ease the storm, if only for a moment.

Arata walked toward the balcony with slow, deliberate steps, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes, dark and emotionless, remained fixed ahead as though he were lost in thought, his shoulders slightly hunched, burdened by the weight of everything he had just learned. The cool air brushed against his face as he neared the doorway, the tension of the room fading behind him.

“Where are you going?” Travis’s smooth voice rang out from behind, curiosity laced in his tone. Travis stood with his usual calm posture, his eyes following Arata’s every movement, a knowing smile still gracing his lips. His charm seemed effortless, as though every word he spoke held weight and intention.

“I need fresh air,” Arata muttered without turning back, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of his footsteps. His pace didn’t falter as he stepped out onto the balcony, the cool breeze tugging at his hair. He gripped the railing tightly, the knuckles of his hands turning white as he stared out into the open air, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow breaths.

Behind him, the Queen followed silently, her steps delicate and purposeful. The others, including Angela, watched as she disappeared after Arata, their eyes filled with unspoken questions but none daring to follow.

Arata didn’t turn around when he heard her approach, his fingers flexing slightly against the cold metal of the railing. “Why did you come here?” he asked, his voice still distant, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “You should be healing Butter.” There was a coldness in his tone, a barrier between him and the world, as though he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

The Queen, standing just a few feet behind him, watched him carefully. Her expression softened as she moved closer. “I came to heal you, idiot,” she said with a soft chuckle, her fingers glowing faintly as she reached out to touch the bleeding wound on his arm. She was gentle, her fingers brushing against his skin with the lightest of touches, warmth spreading through the torn flesh as her healing magic began to work.

Arata tensed at the contact, his eyes narrowing as he instinctively pulled his arm away slightly, but her hand stayed firm, not letting go. “You…” he muttered, his voice faltering. He turned his head away, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Sheena was a good person,” the Queen continued, her voice soft but filled with a quiet sadness. She focused on his wound, her brow furrowed in concentration as her magic worked its way into the torn flesh. “She cared about her kid more than anything. I don’t know which one of you is Jamie, but he promised he’d marry me.” Her lips curled into a wistful smile as she said this, her eyes flickering with a brief glimmer of something like nostalgia.

Arata’s brows furrowed, and he turned to glance at her, confusion clouding his expression. “What?” His voice was flat, lacking any real understanding of why she was sharing this now.

The Queen finished healing him and stepped back slightly, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. Her smile remained, but there was something softer in her eyes, something vulnerable. “Can I tell you a secret, Arata?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper now, as though the weight of her words carried a deep personal truth.

Arata blinked, still confused by the shift in her tone. “Sure…” he said hesitantly, his gaze finally meeting hers, though his guard was still firmly up.

“I don’t care about Jamie anymore because it seems I’m falling for the dumb wolf named Arata,” she confessed, her smile widening slightly, though it held a certain sadness beneath the surface. Her eyes sparkled with the emotion she was trying to hide, but her voice stayed steady, almost playful.

Arata froze, his entire body stiffening at her words. His eyes widened in shock, and for a brief moment, his usual cold composure cracked. He turned his head sharply, looking at her with disbelief, his lips parting slightly as though he was about to say something, but no words came out. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat felt tight, the weight of her confession hitting him harder than he expected.

“I… I can’t reciprocate your love… Queen…” he finally managed to say, his voice strained, his eyes flicking away from her again, as though unable to face the depth of her feelings. His hands tightened around the railing once more, his fingers pressing into the metal, but his expression remained guarded, distant.

The Queen gave a small, disappointed smile, her eyes softening as she took a step back. “It’s alright,” she said quietly, her voice laced with acceptance. She lifted her chin slightly, trying to maintain her usual air of confidence despite the sting of his rejection. “I… am fine just being by your side.” She smiled again, but this time it was smaller, more fragile, as if her heart was breaking, but she was too proud to show it.

Arata turned his head slightly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. A sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a mixture of guilt and something unspoken lingering in his gaze. “Since you’re fine with that, I’ll tell you what I told Jennifer,” he said quietly, his voice almost too soft to hear over the wind.

The Queen tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “What did you tell Bat?” she asked, her playful tone returning, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

Arata’s expression darkened slightly, the small smile fading from his lips as his eyes narrowed. He turned to face her fully, his body tense, every muscle rigid as though preparing for something heavy. “I’m going to eliminate Travis Loverheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a cold, almost sinister whisper.

The Queen’s eyes widened in shock, her breath catching in her throat as her smile disappeared entirely. She took a step back, her hand instinctively moving to her chest as though trying to steady her racing heart. “What… do you mean by that?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, barely masking the fear that was beginning to creep in.

Arata’s lips curled into a menacing, almost monstrous smile, the expression twisting his usually stoic features into something darker, more dangerous. His eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating light, the aura around him shifting as if a switch had been flipped. “Let me rephrase it properly,” he said, his voice low, dripping with venom. “I’m going to kill Travis Loverheart.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, the cold breeze from the balcony doing little to dispel the suffocating tension. Arata’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a predatory edge, and for the first time, the Queen saw something in him that terrified her. He wasn’t just angry—he was dangerous.