(Ava Chen's POV)
He was still sitting on the floor when I came back.
I had to run up to my room, heart pounding the whole time. Not because I was afraid—no, never of him. But because seeing my dad covered in blood felt like someone had yanked the floor out from under me.
And I needed a second.
Just a second to be Ava Chen, the girl who couldn't even watch horror movies without crying. The girl who once sprained her ankle falling off a beanbag. The girl who didn't belong in a house where the head of the family came home bleeding and said, "It's handled."
But I didn't want him to see that part of me break.
So I grabbed the box.
And came back down.
He hadn't moved. Still on the floor, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands like the weight of the whole world was finally pressing down. His shirt was stained with deep red, his knuckles raw.
I sat next to him without a word.
And I opened the pink unicorn-shaped first-aid box I kept for very serious situations.
Like this.
He looked up when I peeled the lid off. A ghost of amusement flickered in his tired eyes.
"Ava…"
"Nope," I cut him off, already pulling out wipes and bandaids. "Don't 'Ava' me. You're bleeding."
He actually laughed. A quiet, broken little sound that made my heart squeeze.
"Those are Hello Kitty."
"They're the only kind I have," I said cheerfully, even as I gently dabbed a wipe over the cut on his lip. "And they're non-negotiable."
"You're going to put Hello Kitty on me?" His voice was low, amused, a little incredulous.
"Yup." I stuck out my tongue and pressed one on the cut above his eyebrow. "You should be honored. Kitty is sacred."
He chuckled. But then his hand closed gently over mine. "You don't have to do this, you know."
"Yes, I do," I whispered, looking into his eyes. "Because if I don't take care of you, who will?"
That shut him up real fast.
I kept working.
Carefully cleaning the blood. Taping little pink bows to each knuckle. Pressing a glittery bandaid over the gash on his shoulder when he finally let me pull off his shirt.
"Dada," I said softly, smoothing one final bandaid onto his palm, "I don't care what you did. Or why you did it. I just want you to come home. To me. Always."
His throat worked. He reached up and cupped my face, thumb brushing over the flour still smudged across my cheek.
"I always will, sweetheart."
And then he whispered something no one else ever got to hear from him:
"I love you, Ava."
"I know," I smiled, eyes wet, heart full. "I love you more."
He didn't argue.
Just pulled me into his lap, buried his face in my hair, and held me like he needed me to breathe.
And maybe he did.
Because sometimes, even mafia kings need their baby girls and glittery bandaids to survive the night.