A week passed in silence.
August 3rd, 2026
Rio Castellan carried himself through his duties like a machine, his cold expression unchanged, his movements precise, his mind buried beneath layers of discipline. Yet no matter how well he performed, there was a weight in his chest, a heaviness that lingered after the last letter from Isabela. It stayed with him in his quarters, in the field, even in his sleep, haunting him in the form of restless nights and empty mornings.
And now, on a gray morning, he was summoned.
The request came down from above: the General herself wanted to see him. Not in her office, but in the gym barracks. It was strange, unusual even, but Rio followed orders without question.
He walked across the polished floors of the military compound, his boots echoing against steel walls, until he reached the entrance of the gym.
Inside the gym barracks.
Morning
Inside, the clanging of weights and the low hum of ventilation filled the air. The space was almost empty, save for one figure at the center: General Alexandra Evanoff.
Rio stopped, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. Even now, after years of service, there was something arresting about her presence. She was in her early fifties, a living testament to decades of campaigns, battles, and sacrifice.
Despite the passing of time, her body was a masterpiece of discipline, powerful muscles carved like stone, no softness, no weakness, only the raw form of a warrior.
Her face bore faint lines of age, not detracting from her beauty but adding to it, like etchings of honor on a timeless statue. Her hair, mostly black, shimmered with streaks of silver at the bangs, tied neatly at the back. And across her left oceanic eye, an eyepatch, a scar of a battle survived, a reminder to all who dared underestimate her.
She was lying flat on a bench, a barbell above her chest, her arms pumping steadily. Sweat glistened on her forehead, her breaths sharp, controlled. Rio noticed the barbell was loaded heavy, too heavy for most men her age. Yet she pressed it with rhythm, with power.
"…fifty," she muttered under her breath, lowering the weight, then pressing it upward again.
Rio stepped forward. His voice was crisp, formal, carrying the tone of a soldier addressing command.
"General," he announced, bringing his hand to his temple in salute. "Major Castellan reporting as ordered."
Alexandra didn't pause immediately. She completed her repetition, lowered the barbell onto the rack, and let it settle with a metallic thud. Only then did she sit up, her breaths loud but controlled. She reached for her water bottle, took a slow, elegant sip, and exhaled a long breath that seemed to fill the whole room.
Her single eye flicked toward Rio.
"You called for me?" he asked.
She nodded, wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel draped nearby. Then, without preamble, she reached to her side, picked up an envelope, and extended it toward him.
"Here."
Rio stepped closer, taking the envelope carefully. "What is this?"
"Another letter," Alexandra replied, her voice calm but firm. "The runner couldn't find you. He brought it to me instead."
Rio stared at the envelope in his hands. His chest tightened, his brows knitting.
"Major Castellan," Alexandra added, her tone sharper now, "I didn't order you to hide from your men. That is not the conduct of an officer."
Rio looked up, meeting her gaze, then exhaled slowly. "…I was somewhere else, General. It won't happen again."
"As you should." she said simply, though her eye lingered on him with a note of disappointment.
Rio lowered his gaze to the envelope, breaking the seal with steady fingers. The weight in his stomach grew heavier as he unfolded the paper inside. His eyes scanned the words once. Then again. His heart slowed.
The letter was short. Too short.
It announced his father's death. Janus Castellan. Buried already. The words were plain, factual, stripped of emotion. The signature at the bottom was faint but familiar, one of Janus's close friends, someone Rio vaguely remembered from childhood.
Rio's hands trembled ever so slightly as he folded the letter again. He sat heavily onto a nearby bench, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
Alexandra's eye sharpened. She stepped forward, her voice softer now. "Bad news?"
"…Yes, General," Rio muttered, his voice low. "My father is dead."
The air grew still between them.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The faint hum of the ventilation filled the silence, the only sound in the vast gym.
Finally, Alexandra rose from her bench, wiping her hands on her towel. She walked toward him with the calm stride of a woman who had seen loss more times than she cared to count.
She stopped beside him, her figure towering, and spoke in a tone that was both stern and maternal.
"I know it is a bad time, Major," she said, "but I also know what you did five years ago. You sent your men into Cremont City without authorization. You broke protocol. You risked your career for answers."
Rio didn't lift his head. His lips parted, and a weary sigh slipped through.
"I know," he said flatly.
"It was an offense," she continued. "One that should have been punished."
Her words hung heavy, yet her tone softened as she went on.
"…But I understand why you did it. It was about family. And for that reason, I let it go."
Rio slowly lifted his gaze, his storm-gray eyes meeting her single eye.
"Family," he muttered, almost bitterly.
Alexandra sat beside him, setting her towel on her lap. For a moment, she said nothing, only breathing steadily, as if weighing her next words.
"You never turn your back on family," she said finally, her voice firm, reflective. "Not in battle. Not in life."
Rio's lips twitched, almost forming a smile, though it was bitter, hollow.
"…But what if they turned their backs on you a long time ago?" he asked quietly.
The words carried years of pain, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Alexandra didn't flinch. She looked at him steadily, then reached out, placing a strong, calloused hand on his back. The touch was firm, grounding, almost maternal.
"Then you stand taller," she said. "You carry the name. You carry the strength. Because even when they abandon you, even when they betray you, you are still you. And no one can take that from you."
Rio exhaled slowly, his shoulders trembling ever so slightly under her hand.
"…I don't know if I can believe that, General," he admitted.
Her hand gave a reassuring pat. "You don't have to believe it yet. You just have to live it."
The silence stretched, but it was no longer heavy. It was quieter, more peaceful, as though her words had carved out a space for him to breathe.
Finally, Alexandra rose from the bench. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable, but her voice warm.
"Take time to mourn, Major," she said. "Go back to the city. Grieve your father. Honor him in whatever way you can."
She extended her hand, strong and steady. Rio looked at it for a moment before taking it. Her grip was firm, yet gentle, like a mother holding her son's hand.
"I'll give you a leave of absence," she added. "Don't waste it."
Rio nodded silently, the weight of grief still heavy in his chest, but something about her presence eased the burden.
As she turned to leave, her voice echoed across the gym.
"Remember, Castellan. Blood binds us. Even when it wounds us."
Then she walked away, her stride powerful, her figure glowing faintly in the dim gym light.
Rio sat alone, the letter still folded in his hand. His father was gone. His family fractured beyond repair.
And yet, for the first time in years, he felt something stir deep within him. Not hope. Not forgiveness.
But resolve.
August 5th, 2026
Two days later..
Rio Castellan returned to Cremont City.
The plane landed with a hollow roar, and when the cabin doors opened, a thick, gray air greeted him. The sky was overcast, heavy with clouds that seemed to weigh down on the city like a curse. He stepped out of the terminal, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his posture sharp and disciplined, every step betraying the years of military training that had shaped him.
Yet his storm-gray eyes lingered on the horizon.
This was Cremont. The city of his childhood, the place where his family once laughed in the narrow confines of a crumbling apartment. But now, it looked nothing like the city he remembered.
Dark. Gloomy. Depressive. Unwelcoming.
The streets carried a strange silence. Buildings leaned against each other as if too tired to stand. Signs of decay marred once-busy neighborhoods. The air smelled faintly of rain, rust, and smoke, and even the people who passed seemed to move without life, heads lowered, faces pale, their eyes hollow.
It was as though the city itself had lost its soul.
Rio adjusted the strap of his duffel and hailed a cab waiting near the terminal. He climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the address. No words were exchanged after that.
The drive was short, cutting through streets that once carried his childhood footsteps. He looked out the window at every familiar place turned foreign, cafés long closed, markets boarded up, the once-bustling corners now shadows of themselves.
Soon, the car pulled up before a church.
The building stood old and weary, its white paint peeling, the stone steps cracked with age. The stained-glass windows were dulled by dust, their colors muted. Bells rang softly, announcing the service inside, though their chime sounded tired, almost reluctant.
Rio stepped out, his boots echoing against the stone path as he approached the doors.
The moment he entered, a stillness greeted him.
The church felt hollow. Not because it was empty, there were people inside, scattered across the pews, but because it carried the weight of absence. The space felt wide, echoing, its silence only broken by the soft sound of prayers and muffled sobs.
His gaze drifted toward the front.
There, resting in a simple wooden coffin, was his father.
Janus Castellan.
The man who had once given him that melancholy smile as he left for the military six years ago. The man who had endured betrayal and solitude. Now he lay in silence, dressed in plain clothes, his body still, his face pale but peaceful.
No golden casket. No flowers piled high. No grand crowd of mourners.
Just a few.
Rio's storm-gray eyes scanned the pews. He counted no more than a dozen people scattered here and there. A couple of old neighbors, perhaps, their faces worn with pity. A distant relative he vaguely recognized. A childhood acquaintance who shifted uncomfortably, unsure if they belonged.
And that was all.
For a man who once carried the Castellan name with quiet dignity, who once held a family under his roof, this was the funeral he received, quiet, cold, nearly forgotten.
Rio felt his chest tighten. He walked forward, each step deliberate, his eyes never leaving the coffin.
When he reached it, he paused. His hand hovered over the wood, trembling faintly before settling upon it. The surface was cold beneath his fingers.
"…Father," he whispered, his voice low, almost breaking.
Memories flickered through his mind, the sound of Janus's voice when he told him goodbye, the lines of fatigue etched into his face, the way he had stood in the shadows of their old apartment that night, looking defeated, broken.
He should have done more. He should have seen through it. He should have stayed.
But instead, his father had been left alone.
Rio exhaled slowly, straightening his back, forcing the soldier's discipline to return to him. His storm-gray eyes grew sharp once again, though they burned with a quiet fury.
This is what she left him with. This is what they all left him with.
Behind him, the priest's voice began the solemn rites, echoing through the empty church like a whisper against stone walls.
Rio barely heard it. His focus remained on his father.
"Rest now," he muttered under his breath. "You won't be forgotten. Not by me."
He turned slightly, scanning the pews again. The emptiness was haunting. His mother wasn't here. Neither were his sisters. Not a single sign of Isabela, Alessandra, Marcella, or Selene.
The absence was louder than any words could be.
Rio clenched his fists at his sides. His jaw tightened, the scar across his brow seeming to deepen under the strain of his expression.
The church service droned on. People shifted in their seats, some dabbing their eyes, others staring blankly ahead. The smell of old incense hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
But to Rio, it felt less like a funeral, more like a cruel reminder. His father had died abandoned, forgotten by the family he had loved most.
And now Rio stood here, the only Castellan in Janus's funeral.