"What are you doing here?" Dranred's voice was cold as he stepped into the living room.
The sight didn't surprise him — the black cars in his driveway, the men in dark suits, and his grandfather sitting calmly on his sofa like he still owned the place.
"Is that how you greet your grandfather?" the old man said with a half-smile. "It's been years, Dranred. If I hadn't come here myself, you—"
"I severed our ties a long time ago," Dranred cut in sharply. "So I'll ask again — what are you doing here?"
"Show some respect," barked the Senator's assistant, stepping forward and grabbing Dranred by the arm.
Dranred froze. His gaze dropped to the hand gripping him, then lifted slowly to the man's face.
"Take your filthy hand off me," he said quietly, his tone like steel. He pulled his arm free and turned to his grandfather. "You know the way out."
The Senator stood, his composure cracking. "So this is what success has done to you? You think you're above your own blood now?"
"I'm not acting superior," Dranred said, his eyes steady. "I just don't want ties with a man who can order innocent lives destroyed to protect his reputation. You want reconciliation? Then face the crimes you committed."
The old man's jaw tightened. "You despise me for something that was never proven — all because you lost a friend. You can deny our blood all you want, but the world still knows who you are. The nation's brightest basketball star — grandson of a senator. That's a fact you can't erase."
"You're free to leave," Dranred said simply, turning toward the stairs. He didn't look back.
As he disappeared up the staircase, Peter entered through the door, stopping short when he saw the Senator and his guards.
"S–Senator…" he stammered, wide-eyed.
The old man didn't respond. He simply straightened his coat and walked past, his entourage following in silence.
Peter watched them leave, unease settling in his chest. Everyone in the country knew about the senator's connection to the star athlete — but few knew the truth behind it. And this was the first time he'd ever seen them in the same room… and walk away like strangers.
The heavy car door shut with a dull thud. Inside the tinted black sedan, silence pressed against the Senator's ears like a weight. His guards sat stiffly in the front seat, saying nothing. Only the low hum of the engine filled the air as the car pulled away from the house.
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The anger that had flared moments ago had cooled into something colder — wounded pride.
"Still the same stubborn boy," he muttered, his reflection staring back at him in the dark window. "He inherited that from his father… along with the foolish sense of righteousness."
For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes followed the city lights flashing by outside. To the public, he was the model of integrity — a senator beloved by the masses, the grandfather of the nation's basketball hero. But inside, his name carried shadows no light could reach.
Dranred's words echoed in his mind: 'Face the crimes you committed.'
He clenched his jaw. "He knows nothing," he whispered under his breath. "He doesn't understand the cost of protecting this family. The sacrifices I made to keep him where he is."
The assistant sitting beside him finally spoke, carefully. "Sir… should we keep monitoring him?" The Senator glanced at him — just long enough to make the man lower his head.
"Keep your eyes on him," the Senator said. "And anyone who tries to dig into the past. If he keeps talking about that incident…" He paused, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Make sure it never reaches the press."
"Yes, sir."
The old man leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. For a brief second, his expression softened — almost regretful. "You'll understand someday, Dranred," he whispered to himself. "Everything I did… I did for you."
The car disappeared into the night, its red taillights fading like a dying ember — a symbol of the man's power and guilt, slowly burning away in the darkness.
Rosette sat quietly in the garden, the late afternoon breeze brushing against her face. She was lost in the sound of birds when she heard a car stop outside the gate. A few seconds later, the soft thud of a door, footsteps — and then, the doorbell.
James was at practice, and Estelle was still on duty at the hospital. Her brow furrowed in mild confusion.
Then she heard the voice.
"Rosette, it's me."
Her heart skipped. "Red?" she asked, recognizing the familiar tone.
"Yeah," Dranred replied.
"W-wait a second." She reached for her cane beside the chair and traced her way toward the gate, her steps careful but sure. When her hand found the latch, she turned it and opened the gate.
Dranred smiled softly when he saw her. "Good thing you're home."
"What are you doing here? Are you looking for Estelle or James? They're not—"
"No," he interrupted gently. "I came to see you."
"Me?" she asked, surprised.
He nodded, though she couldn't see it. "Yeah. I… wanted to talk to you about something." He hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. "What would you say if I told you I want to help you get your sight back?"
Rosette froze. "You… want to help me? Why?"
Dranred smiled faintly, trying to sound light. "Because I'm your brother's friend. And to me, you've always been like a little sister. Maybe it's selfish, but I want you to see me play basketball someday — the way you used to cheer for me when I played baseball."
It was the truth, but only half of it. The rest — the guilt, the unspoken need to atone for his grandfather's sins — weighed like a stone in his chest.
"Are you… pitying me?" she asked softly.
He fell silent. The question hit deeper than she knew. Was it pity? Or guilt? He didn't even know anymore.
Rosette smiled, her tone gentle, almost forgiving. "You're a good guy, Red. I really like that you still think of me as your little sister."
Her words should have comforted him.
But instead, they broke his heart a little more.
"You don't have to pity me," Rosette said softly, her chin lifting in quiet defiance. "Just because I'm blind doesn't mean I'm helpless. You've seen what I can do. I love working with the kids at the hospital — the music therapy sessions make me feel useful. Even if—"
"I'm not pitying you," Dranred cut in, his tone firm but gentle. "I care about you, Rosette. I just… want you to have more. There's so much you can still do. Not just music therapy." He paused, then smiled faintly. "And maybe I'm being selfish, but I want you to see me play — just once. Like you used to watch me back when I played baseball."
Rosette didn't answer at first. The truth was, she had always dreamed of seeing him again — to witness his movements, the energy that drew the cheers of thousands. She'd memorized those moments from stories and sounds, but never with her own eyes.
"But… James and Estelle aren't here," she said hesitantly.
"I'll talk to them," Dranred replied. "Don't worry about that. Come on — I've set an appointment with an eye specialist."
"Now?"
"Of course."
Before she could protest, he gently took her hand. His touch was careful, guiding her toward the gate. Rosette's breath caught at the sudden warmth of his palm.
"Is it okay to leave the house like this?" she asked as he helped her into the car.
"I've got it covered," he said, glancing at Peter, who stood nearby, looking less than thrilled.
"Watch the house for me, yeah?" Dranred said, tapping his friend's shoulder before hurrying to the driver's side.
"You owe me big time, man!" Peter called after him.
"Yeah, I know," Dranred replied with a grin as he got in.
Rosette tilted her head toward the sound of another voice earlier. "You're not alone?"
Dranred hesitated. "He's a friend. I'll introduce you next time."
As he started the engine, he noticed her fumbling for the seatbelt. Without thinking, he leaned over to fasten it for her. Their faces were suddenly inches apart. Startled, Rosette leaned back against the seat, her heart pounding. She could feel his breath, the warmth of his closeness, and a strange flutter she didn't understand.
"Seatbelt," Dranred murmured, fastening it in place before quickly sitting back.
"T-thank you," Rosette whispered, clutching the strap like it was an anchor.
"Let's go," he said quietly, pulling out onto the road.
Peter stood in the driveway, watching the car disappear down the street. His expression darkened slightly.
"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," he muttered. "And that you won't get hurt in the end."
He glanced at the house, his jaw tightening. "And I'm not a guard dog," he grumbled, clenching his fist before turning away.