The apartment felt unnervingly still when River returned. Ina sat curled up on the couch, knees pulled tightly to her chest, while Jane stared blankly at a cup of untouched tea. The television flickered soundlessly in the background, its muted chatter swallowed by the heavy quiet that filled the room. Rui had left earlier, saying she had work to attend to.

When the door clicked open, both Ina and Jane flinched.

"You're back," Ina said, standing quickly. Her voice was soft, but her eyes searched his face for something.

River nodded, slipping off his coat. "Sorry. It took longer than I thought."

"What did they want?" Jane asked quietly.

"Just a few follow-up questions. Nothing serious," he replied, his tone even. He might've been discussing a client meeting, not a murder inquiry.

Ina folded her arms tightly across her chest. "Why did they call you so suddenly when you have already given your statement?"

River didn't look at her as he took a seat at the table. "It's their job, Ina. They're doing what they must. And anyway, they just wanted to clarify some things from my previous statement."

Ina looked at him as he poured a glass of water and gulped it down. 

She hesitated, then said, "You should get a lawyer. Just in case."

He replied slowly and deliberately, looking her in the eye. "I don't need one."

Jane flinched slightly at the quiet firmness in his voice. "They're just being thorough," she tried, though her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. "I might've said something that confused them. I shouldn't have mentioned it so carelessly when I wasn't sure. About the timing—"

River's expression softened as he shifted his gaze towards her. "Jane, you didn't do anything wrong. They look for patterns and confirm things when they have doubts. Don't overthink."

But even as he said it, his hand stayed braced against the glass — not clenched, but too steady, as if he were holding something in place.

Ina moved closer. "You're pale."

"I'm fine." He straightened, tugging at his cufflink, a small motion of precision that made her chest tighten. "Just tired." 

He stood up and walked towards the window with a heavy sigh, staring out at the line of buildings that glowed faintly under the setting sun. 

Behind him, Jane whispered, "They think he did it, don't they?"

Ina didn't answer. She watched him in silence, eyes tracing his face as if searching for something she no longer knew how to name. He didn't look back. In the glass, his reflection stood distant—shoulders drawn tight, expression composed, calm as ever. He had always been that way, steady through everything. But today, that calm felt different. She couldn't tell if it made her feel safer...or afraid.

— — 

River finally loosened his tie and sank into the couch, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the silence settle around him as he replayed the day's events. The detectives' questions echoed in his mind, sharp and deliberate. It was obvious now. They weren't just asking anymore; they were looking straight at him.

— —

Just before retiring for the night, Jane had sat next to him, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Ina had already left, leaving them alone in the living room. She looked hesitant, as if she couldn't form the words.

"Is there something you want to say, Jane?" he asked gently, noticing her hesitance.

"...River," she looked down. "I'm sorry. It's probably because of me—"

"This is not your fault," he cut her off firmly. "Either way, they would have called me; it just happened sooner than later."

"Yeah, but still—" 

"It's late, Jane. You should get some rest," he said evenly, his voice carrying a softness that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Jane sat there for a while longer. After a long moment of hesitation, she slowly started again, "You should probably talk to your father." She immediately waved her hands and continued.

"Please don't think I'm overstepping, but I just thought you could just talk to him about this situation. I didn't mean anything by that, I trust you, I—"

River laid a hand on her shoulder. "I get what you mean. Thank you for the suggestion."

Jane looked at him. The gentle, reassuring smile on his face and the calm steadiness in his touch. She exhaled a long, weary sigh, then gave a small nod. After one last glance at him, she turned and went back to the bedroom.

— —

He sat in silence long after Jane had gone to bed. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the room. 

Jane was right, he should call his father. It wasn't that the thought hadn't crossed his mind; it had, many times.

He knew he should call. He also knew what that meant. 

Because dialing his father wasn't just asking for help; it was admitting that the situation was slipping out of his control, that maybe, for once, calm wasn't enough. Maybe it was pride that held him back. Still, a small, reasonable part of him knew what needed to be done.

He stared at his phone for a long while before finally picking it up. The number was saved, but it always felt like calling a stranger.

Their relationship had always been... professional, at best. His father, a well-known lawyer, rarely had time for family. Fame demanded attention, and family often came second. River had lost his mother young, so her memory was little more than a blur. His father had made sure he never lacked comfort, only presence. And when River refused to follow the same path, the quiet distance between them turned into something permanent.

The line rang for a few seconds before a rough, familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

"River?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It's me."

A brief pause. "I saw the news."

Of course, he had. His father saw everything.

"I'm fine," River said, too quickly.

"You wouldn't be calling if you were," came the measured reply. "Tell me what's going on."

River leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Nothing unusual. The detectives called me in again. Routine follow-up."

"If they're asking you back, it means they've found something that doesn't fit," his father said. "They're narrowing focus."

"You think they're looking at me?"

After a small pause, his father replied, "I think you're not being careful enough."

River's jaw tightened. "I've done nothing wrong."

"That's rarely what matters," his father said, his tone steady, almost bored. "You should retain counsel."

"I don't need a lawyer."

A small, humorless sound came through the receiver, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. "You sound like me."

River's fingers stilled. A brief pause.

"Tell me, are you calling for advice or for reassurance?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," his father said. "You wouldn't listen to either."

There was a long silence. The hum of the line seemed to stretch between them, a quiet proof of all the years they'd spent not talking.

Finally, his father said, "Call me if it becomes serious."

River closed his eyes. "You always say that."

"And you never do."

The line clicked dead.

He set the phone down, its weight lingering in his palm. Then he exhaled slowly, not out of relief, but restraint. The kind that keeps a dam from breaking.

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁