"F-Father?"
A single word trembled from her lips, barely louder than a whisper.
"Oh? Now you remember you have a father?"
Dracula's voice was calm, almost eerily composed, but it carried the weight of cold indifference.
He sat on the couch, one leg draped over the other with a leisurely elegance that contradicted the simmering tension in the room. His eyes, sharp and impossibly crimson, locked onto his daughter—the same daughter who had vanished like a coward after the war ended, without a word, without a trace.
Ophis fell to her knees as if her bones had collapsed under the pressure. Her body bowed forward, forehead nearly kissing the cold floor as she trembled uncontrollably.
"P-Please... forgive me, Father!"
She pleaded, her voice cracking, her breath short and uneven.
But Dracula's gaze didn't soften. It sharpened.
He didn't move, didn't blink. His stare alone was enough to drain the warmth from the room. Forgiveness?
