Kiet's and Milo's Bedroom,

Milo’s gaze lingered on Kiet, filled with a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he would finally tell the truth.

“Kiet…” Milo called softly, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

Kiet turned to look at him, his expression unreadable, but instead of answering, he averted his gaze. "There’s no other truth, Milo,” he said, his tone flat and distant. “You’re here just because of your mother’s desperation. That’s it.”

Milo stared at him, his chest tightening. “You’re lying,” he said firmly, his voice carrying a rare strength.

Kiet’s jaw tightened as he turned back to face Milo, his voice calm but unconvincing. “I am not,” he said, yet the hesitation in his tone was unmistakable. The hand Milo was holding slipped from his grasp as Kiet pulled away. “I need to change. You should go back to sleep.”

His chest ached, not from anger but from the familiar sting of disappointment. He had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that tonight might be different, that Kiet would finally reveal something, even if it just a little.

But instead, the walls Kiet had built around himself seemed higher than ever. The glimmer of hope Milo had held onto—fragile and fleeting—shattered like fragile glass. But, he couldn’t let it end there. He couldn’t give up—not yet.

As Kiet walked just a few steps away, Milo spoke, his voice steady but cutting. “I heard everything that day.”

Kiet froze mid-step, his back stiffening before he slowly turned to look at Milo. “What are you talking about—”

Milo cut him off, “The day my family arrived here,” he said, his words sharp as knives, “I overheard the conversation between you and my father.”

Kiet’s face darkened, his normally stoic expression faltering for just a moment. Milo pushed himself off the bed, stepping closer. “You both were talking about my memory loss, weren’t you?”

The air between them thickened, and Kiet’s silence said more than words ever could. The secret he had tried to bury, to lock away, now felt exposed, unearthed by Milo’s relentless determination.

Milo scoffed bitterly, his voice rising with each word. “Until now, I thought I was here because of my mother’s desperation. That you attacked our house over a stupid video I recorded. But it seems… everything was a lie.”

“Milo—” Kiet started, his voice low and measured, but Milo cut him off again, his words trembling with anger.

“You wanted to kill my dad that day, didn’t you?” Milo accused, his voice cracking with the weight of the revelation.

Kiet opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His silence said more than he ever could.

Milo took another step closer, his eyes blazing with anger and pain. “You know how I feel right now?” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Betrayed. I feel like… like my own husband and father are keeping me in the dark. Do you even realize how much that hurts, Kiet?”

Kiet’s chest tightened as he looked at Milo. He could see the hurt etched across his face. Guilt flickered in his eyes as he stepped closer, his voice softening. “Milo… you’re misunderstanding things. No one is keeping you in the dark. Please… trust me.”

Milo laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and filled with disbelief. It wasn’t the laughter of someone amused—it was the laughter of someone whose trust had been chipped away, piece by piece. “Trust you?” he echoed, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation.

Milo’s gaze bore into him, eyes shining with a mixture of frustration and determination. “Then I’ll ask you again, Kiet,” he began, his voice sharp but breaking at the edges. “What are you hiding from me? Did I really lose some of my memory? And if I did, what was the reason?”

He took a step closer, his voice rising slightly. “Why did you want to kill my dad? What is the connection between your father and mine? What happened eight years ago, Kiet?”

Each question hit Kiet like a blow, but his expression remained stoic. He didn’t meet Milo’s eyes—those eyes that were seeking answers, demanding truths. Instead, he turned his head away, his gaze falling somewhere distant, somewhere safe from Milo’s piercing gaze.

Milo’s heart sank further, the silence between them deafening. “Kiet,” he pressed, his voice shaking slightly but resolute, “look at me. Tell me the truth.”

Kiet exhaled slowly, his shoulders visibly tense. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady “Some truths are better kept hidden, Milo,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, carrying the weight of finality.

Kiet stepped closer, his large hands reaching out to take Milo’s trembling ones. His gaze softened slightly, but his resolve remained unshaken. “Why do you need to know what happened in the past, Milo?” Kiet asked, his voice low but coaxing. “Let the past be the past. Let’s focus on the present. Please.”

Milo searched Kiet’s face, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions—confusion, hurt, and an undeniable determination. “But I deserve to know the truth,” he replied softly, his voice wavering but steady enough to carry the weight of his conviction.

Kiet’s expression hardened slightly, his grip on Milo’s hands tightening just a fraction. His voice dropped lower, taking on a firmer edge. “Milo, enough.”

Before Milo could protest, Kiet placed both hands on his cheeks, his touch unexpectedly tender despite the tension between them. His touch was warm, grounding, but the authority in his gaze left no room for argument. 

“Now, be a good boy and go back to sleep,” Kiet said, his tone softening, but the unyielding edge remained.

Milo’s lips parted as if to protest, but the words died in his throat. He knew that pressing further would get him nowhere.

Milo’s heart sank, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but Kiet didn’t give him the chance to respond. He straightened, releasing Milo’s face, and without another word, turned and walked toward the bathroom.

Milo stood frozen, staring at the door as it clicked shut behind Kiet. The sound of running water from the bathroom filled the silence, but it did nothing to soothe the storm that was raging inside him. His frustration bubbled up, a mixture of hurt and betrayal twisting in his gut.

He clenched his fists tighter, nails digging into his palms as his voice, barely above a whisper, escaped between his teeth. "If you don’t tell me the truth... then I’ll find it by myself."

His breath was shallow, every word laced with a quiet, simmering fury. He sank onto the bed, his back against the cool sheets, his mind racing as he recalled Sarut’s words.

I can help you regain those erased memories.

Milo's heart skipped a beat as the memory echoed in his mind. He had to meet Sarut. He had to hear it from him—whatever the truth was, whatever Kiet had buried beneath layers of silence. Milo could feel it now more than ever; the need to know, the need to stop feeling like a puppet with invisible strings tugging at him.

“I have to meet him...” Milo mumbled to himself, determination settling in his chest.

The sound of the water running, the hum of the room, seemed to fade away as Milo’s thoughts locked onto that single goal.

He would find the truth.

And nothing, not even Kiet, would stop him.