What is home? A space bound by blood, where tempers flare without warning? Where a bond exists just for the sake of its concept? Or is it built from distant people who carry each other's best interests at heart, thought, spirit, or in ways harder to name?
We no longer belong solely to the old definition of family. Blood still reigns, stirring something primal and unbreakable in the soul, but the modern family reaches beyond inheritance. Connections are stretched wider. Relationships are chosen rather than inherited. And it has become a peace built not on sameness, but on shared intent, pressing us toward a wider, harder-earned peace.
"If everyone is family, wars are reduced to squabbles, and inequality becomes a reason to stand together." That was Amina's vision.
And though some wounds run deep enough to tear families apart, such fractures are never truly empty. They retain a gravity of their own, carrying the potential to heal as they linger closer to a greater peace—to the ancient, binding power of blood.
"Turning your mother's idea of family into blood law?" Liam joked to Klaire, tossing a playful jab at his wife.
Klaire spent her early years propping up her imbecile of a father. But later, when she joined the community school—before she was inevitably cast out—the connections she forged offered proof that her mother's vision wasn't naïve after all.
Please don't get her wrong; The school was awful, packed with nothing but bitter experiences, but it was still her attempt at a second family… still a reason to keep going.
There is an age and time when children can still be taught to bond, rather than becoming cold or cruel. Maybe that was the world's simplest answer to peace. Unfortunately, no one ever built schools for aging minds or dull adults drowning in unnecessary hate. Or, as Amina would have joked, a Certification in Common Sense.
Children are soft cushions, shaped by every mind, thought, and example. Parents are the first to mold them, followed by siblings, love interests, teachers, peers, and mentors. Love, for all its virtues, often arrives late and lingers on the edge, cautious and rare; Hate, for reasons both absurd and plentiful, finds purchase with unsettling ease.
Apparently, pretending to care was easier than actually caring. Easier than the unglamorous, exhausting work of decency. Easier… even when the cost of choosing otherwise was a nine-year-old's life.
The streets taught Klaire how to survive by moving on, even when forgiveness never came and forgetting was impossible.
And now—now she had something almost dangerous: a second beginning. A chance to start from nothing and shape minds before the world twisted them. To be a friend. A teacher. A mentor—
A family, if necessary.
Someone, for someone who had no one.
Children are fragile, Tsuna thought whenever Klaire crossed her mind. Maybe everyone should be forced to walk in her shoes for a day. Pass a mandatory certification in common sense without shortcuts or excuses. Tsuna's eyes slid toward Metelda, imagining that most wouldn't survive the lesson.
"And the lucky ones would leave humbled." The thought crossed the line into sound.
"Done?" Metelda asked, face unreadable. "Inside."
She took Tsuna by the arm and pulled her away, abandoning a motionless Klaire behind.
Triple–S did not loom the way evil places were supposed to.
It welcomed.
Ivory spires rose like folded wings, their surfaces polished to a ceremonial glow, catching the sun and returning it softened—gentler, kinder, as though light itself had been disciplined here. Every arch was perfectly measured, every step worn smooth by generations of careful feet. The air smelled faintly of incense and rain, a fragrance meant to soothe, meant to assure visitors that nothing harmful could thrive within these walls.
And yet, nothing felt alive.
The bells embedded high within the towers rang on the hour—not loudly, not urgently—but with a tone so pure it silenced thought. Students moved in graceful streams across the marble grounds, their uniforms pristine, their expressions serene, as if practiced rather than earned. Smiles appeared often, but laughter was rare, as if joy were permitted only in approved quantities.
The gardens were flawless. Flowers bloomed in perfect symmetry, never wilting, never overgrowing their assigned spaces. Even the trees curved politely away from pathways, as though they understood the importance of order. It was beautiful in the way a shrine is beautiful; untouched, unquestioned, and watched.
Above it all, the central seal of Triple–S glowed faintly, etched into stone and belief alike. A promise, they said. Protection. Purpose. Salvation. The kind of symbol that assured parents their children were safe—
And reminded students they were never alone.
Klaire stood at the threshold, her body rigid, her mind unraveling.
The school felt like a sanctuary built on confession, where sins were forgiven before they were named, and futures decided long before they were lived. A place so holy it did not need locks… because nothing inside was meant to leave unchanged.
Heaven, she realized, was not always loud or blinding.
Sometimes it was quiet.
Sometimes it smiled.
And sometimes, it asked for everything—
And called it guidance.
Klaire's first hour at Triple-S slipped away as she stood rigid before the school's imposing entrance, trapped between memories she couldn't outrun and a future she wasn't ready to face, and dangerously absent from the present moment.
Luxury cars screamed by, little more than roofless engines and ego, their owners yelling at Klaire to move as if she were an obstacle, not a person. Students collided with her, offered apologies, then noticed she wasn't reacting and revoked their courtesy with thrown food—only to realize she was, in fact, human, and circled back to apologizing before fleeing the embarrassment.
The bell rang, signaling the start of the first period, but Klaire stayed frozen, still staring at an entrance grand enough to pass for heaven's own.
Terror Junior had been watching Klaire from his classroom since the first bell, the lecture dissolving into a long internal pep talk. Courage failed him, but jealousy didn't.
It pushed him into a full sprint, past the hot guys in his class, straight to Klaire. The grin he gave them afterward was glorious — until he stood alone in front of her, and words stubbornly refused to follow.
Junior turned on his heel, draining the last spark of energy and courage from his body. The short laps overheated his brain, wiping his thoughts clean; a trick Metelda had taught him, turning his weakness into an advantage.
"Suck on that!" he crowed, dancing like an idiot. "No one can outrun me, but—" He turned and froze. Klaire was watching.
"—Me?!"
"You'd definitely win," Klaire chortled.
Junior turned beet-red, one hand raking through his hair while the other fumbled inside his jacket. "Here!" He dropped to his knees without warning, startling Klaire as a bundle of papers spilled into view.
Klaire stepped back on instinct—paused—then lunged forward, panic fully engaged to clamp Junior's mouth shut before whatever spectacularly stupid thing he had planned could escape.
"Will you come to this school—"
She slipped, and pure reflex kicked in as her wide hand curled into a fist and connected with Junior's jaw.
Bystanders watched in stunned silence as Klaire punched Junior, snatched the papers still floating in the air, smacked them against her own head like they were at fault, then tackled Junior to the ground in what could generously be described as a hug.
"Context first, idiot," Klaire said, headbutting him for emphasis.
She pulled back just enough to grab his collar, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Always."
"Okay!" Junior lifted his hands in reflex, then hesitated and lowered them, briefly considering that they might interfere with the possibility of another kiss.
Classrooms overlooking the main gate froze mid-lesson, teachers and students united in open disbelief. Teachers mentally queued up security footage, while students craned for the heartthrobs of Triple-S—none of them quite trusting their own eyes.
"I came to give you the latest gossip—what people saw, what they're saying," Junior said. "Didn't know you were infiltrating the school yourself. That's… actually smart. I hoped this might cheer you up."
"Thanks." Klaire pulled him into a firmer hug.
Hands down. Always, Junior promised himself.
"For everything," she said softly, easing back so he could breathe. "Metelda and I already talked. I'm enrolling—temporarily, obviously…" The explanation kept spilling out.
"—You okay?" Junior interrupted, and Klaire answered with a firm nod.
"Oh. Good." He blinked, frowned, and slowly arched an eyebrow at Klaire. "I've never seen Metelda talk out here. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen her outside our house at all."
"Probably for the best," Klaire muttered, giving Junior's shoulder a nervous tap. "She's scarier under the sun."
Klaire and Junior entered the school hand in hand, sending the gawkers into overdrive. By all visible logic, the dorkiest boy on campus had landed the hottest girl alive. The girls admired her even more for her age, the authority it implied, and the usual perks that followed. The boys, on the other hand, were far more focused on the following perks.
"Mine!" The school's newest parasite, Mark, staked his claim with the confidence of someone who'd broken their previous bully with ease.
Super Junior didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The word landed heavier coming from the guy everyone wanted to be, and no one wanted to cross. "Mine."
"Theirs…!"
The rest surrendered in unison, bodies peeling back like a tide retreating from a shark. At one end, they couldn't compete. At the other, they preferred their heads un-dunked, their dignity un-flushed.
"Okay!" Pinky flopped back into her seat, all limbs and indifference. Majority rule was a survival rule. And discretion was her current priority—atleast according to the note Lux etched into her core.
"She's alive." The shadow by the service corridor whispered into a modulated phone, voice stripped of identity.
"How!?" Bossy snapped from the other end, the word buzzing with disbelief.
"Exactly," Zack murmured, borrowing the shadow figure's sight while standing miles away. "I'm looping the two layers for instant transmission," he relayed to his team.
"Someone's cautious," Bazuka chuckled, casually hauling a fifty-liter water can across the cafeteria.
"Something's off." Lila dropped flat to the tiles, muscles screaming after hours of tailing the new, unnervingly imposing lunch lady.
"Is she—looking at us?" Solgrave frowned, panic sharpening his focus. Reality rippled. Another layer slid over the first, transparent and trembling. "That shouldn't be possible."
"This place is becoming a hot zone," the Sisters warned in unison. "We need to leave."
They seized Solgrave and dragged both him and his superimposed reality out of existence. The layered reality tore away like wet paper, yanked out of alignment before it could settle.
Kalire shuddered.
Klaire shuddered, and Junior reacted at once; his jacket was already around her shoulders, zipped up like it could seal the world out.
Practice builds fast reflexes. Junior offered a quiet thanks to Metelda, along with a second for all those hours spent practicing with a coat hanger—and felt, for once, prepared.
"Don't tell me just remembering it gives you chills," he said, masking the awkwardness.
"…Guess so," she said, managing a thin smile despite the creeping sense of dread.
———<>||<>——— End of Chapter Fifty-Eight. ———<>||<>———