Music thumped through the speakers—pop with a faint R&B pulse that seemed to ride the walls of the noisy house.

Juno, brown-skinned and still damp from the steam, leaned over the sink and hummed along as he brushed his teeth. The bathroom door trembled with sudden pounds.

“Juno! Aren’t you done yet?!” a young feminine voice shouted from behind the door. “You’ve been in there like an hour!”

Juno spat into the sink and kept brushing. “Uh-huh. And I’m staying here for an hour more. Now go away—I can’t hear the song.”

Outside the bathroom, stomps echoed down the hall. “Mum! Juno’s hogging the bathroom again!”

Her footsteps retreated, but her voice faded only halfway. “Juno! You have five minutes!”

His mother’s voice cut through the music with practiced clarity. Even the blast of the TV downstairs couldn’t drown it out.

“Brat,” Juno muttered, rinsed, and reached for the hair cream tucked behind the closet mirror. He wiped his mouth with the edge of the towel, then stepped out of the bathroom.

Downstairs, the TV roared at full volume. News anchors shouted over a ticker bar that flashed like a warning light. In the kitchen, his mother moved with quick efficiency, breakfast sizzling on the stove. His sister stood by the table with a phone pressed to her ear, ignoring everyone like it was an art form.

And on the couch directly in front of the TV sat Juno's father—dressed in his police uniform, motionless, watching the screen as if it might suddenly change its mind.

“Breaking news on the series of terrifying events that occurred in Wilter Street and Kaizawa, a few days ago,” the reporter said, voice tight. “We’ve received reports from the Metropolitan Security Directorate that the attacks may have been an organized strike—targeting the son of the current head of the Murakami family, Nina Murakami.”

Juno’s father didn’t blink. His hands were folded around himself, arms drawn in close, Juno wrapped his hands gently over his shoulders "morning dad," Juno said warmly, fully dressed in his school uniform.

"Morning," his father replied, placing a calm palm on Juno’s arm.

Juno glanced at the screen, a picture of Konin and his mother was being displayed, “Hey… I know that kid.”

“Yeah,” his father said, and his eyes stayed glued to the image on the TV. “I bet you do. He goes to your school.”

Juno’s voice dropped. "Oh—shit, that's the white-room kid."

"Hey! Language!" Juno's mum snapped from the kitchen, still stirring, still cooking, still managing to sound like a judge.

“Oh. Mum—let me help,” Arielle said, finally stepping away from her phone long enough to reach for the plates.

“Thanks, Arielle,” Juno’s mother replied, eyes flicking toward the men in the living room. “At least someone cares to help me.

Juno and his father exchanged a quick look that carried too much meaning for breakfast to ignore, they both stood straight and joined the girls in the kitchen.