The colourless—the darkened world.

"You were gone. For nearly two years?" Elk's voice is gruff, laid bare across the smooth wooden table—unvarnished, like the lack of effort in its upkeep.

His eyes whirl with disbelief, absorbing the ghost before him. Rhett's once-sharp features are bruised by fatigue. Dark circles cloud his reddened, slitted siren eyes.

His brows draw into a stern, sunken line. His longer hair falls in weedy disarray over his nape.

There's an unbearable weight in his silence. Whatever has hollowed him out has also aged him.

Elk wonders what bleak force has shaped this daunting aura clinging to the man once known as Agent Czar.

He sees the pain hidden behind lashes thick as curtains, masked with frost. Elk has known him long—and almost pities the boy who was forced to grow into this solemn, distant man.

"What do you want?" Rhett asks, his voice hoarse and grim.

Elk sighs. The weight of his years sinks into the breath. "We need you back, Czar."

Rhett scoffs. "Should've thought of my influence before replacing me with a drunk."

Elk opens his mouth, but no retort escapes. There's not a flicker of emotion in Rhett's ice-laced gaze. Elk turns instead to Agent Knight, slumped far across the table.

A half-emptied beer glass tips in his hand. His mouth hangs open. One arm sprawls across the surface as he snores, snorting through the liquor haze.

Elk winces. "Hopeless," he mutters, dragging calloused fingers down his furrowed face.

Agent Hunter stays silent, though the revelation stuns him: Rhett now has a child. A faint amusement stirs in his eyes as he watches the baby, sleeping soft and steady against his father's chest.

The boy's cheek is pressed to Rhett's shirt, round and rosy. Even that glimpse is enough—he looks just like Rhett.

"Knight's been through a lot," Elk offers, "but he's still good at his job."

Rhett doesn't respond.

Elk tries again. "You're still the leader, Czar. So—do we have you back?"

"No." Rhett's answer is sharp. Final. "A team can't have two leaders."

"Of course not. Knight will take another role. You'll lead."

"Doesn't matter." Rhett's voice is quiet. Bitter. "I left that title behind a long time ago."

Elk frowns. "Why? Is it because of a woman?" His eyes flicker to the child in Rhett's arms. "I thought you knew better than to throw it all away for a harlot—"

The slam of Rhett's palm cuts him off.

"Not another word." His voice is low, lethal.

The air tightens.

Fire and frost clash behind their locked eyes. Elk looks away.

Before more tension can spark, a soft rustle shifts Rhett's attention.

The baby stirs. Lashes flutter.

His tiny lips part.

"Dada," the honeyed voice calls.

Rhett's eyes soften.

And it does clash against the brewing pressure shrouding the table.

He lifts the child gently, cradling him close. "I'm here," he whispers, brushing his hand through dark curls—soft and smooth, just like her hair.

His face strains. His heart hammers.

A sudden dizziness clouds his gaze as memories crash in—fractured, shimmering... Dredged up by fear and agony.

His throat tightens.

This feeling inerrable, weighing and elusive for words.

Rhean lays his head on his chest, small fingers clutching his hoodie. It's as if he whispers, It's going to be alright.

Rhett holds him tighter. Just for a while. Just enough to soothe the wreckage inside.

Elk and Hunter watch in stunned silence. It's a side of Czar they've never seen. He did not remain the reckless boy, the arrogant teen.

In his place sits a man broken, but whole in one sacred thing: fatherhood.

Elk downs a full glass of water, three gulps straight.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, setting the empty glass down. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Leave."

"Czar, just—"

"I said leave." The command drops like iron.

Elk exhales. Slowly. Then tries again.

"You're a father now." His voice is gentler.

"You should know what those parents feel—when their children are taken, abused, sold for whatever vile pleasures feed this world's hunger."

Rhett drops his gaze. A muscle ticks in his jaw. "I can't. I'm not qualified."

"You're more than capable," Elk says.

A rueful smile carves up the corner of Rhett's lips. His heart hollow.

"I couldn't even protect my wife." He looks up, eyes dark.

"Am I not a coward enough to risk the lives of those children when I had already failed to save my own family?" he croaks out.

Elk stares at him. "What happened to your wife?"

Hunter's expression tightens with concern.

Rhett grits his teeth.

His words remain choked in his throat.

He tries again—but it's too heavy to say.

His body trembles from the pressure.

He can't even part his lips. The shards in his heart are dreadfully grueling.

An overwhelming conflict of tremor and remorse boil inside his ribs.

His feet harrows the ground.

The cold gallows of blood running in his veins revolt and numbs him.

So cold... It burns him.

"Is she gone?"

"She's alive," Rhett growls. As if the mere thought kills him.

As if the truth is more painful than death.

He lowers his voice. "She has to be."

"Then is she unwell?"

Silence. Rhett's breathing stutters.

"She was abused," he says, barely above a whisper. The tears sting—but he holds them back.

He lets the unshed tears burn him harsher, better—like always.

So that he sinks deeper into the unbreathable shadows of the abyss.

Because he deserves it.

"She was taken from me. I can't find her. No matter how hard I try." His body shudders as he speaks them out loud.

Because now everything feels real.

This night terror is real.

Months have passed.

And he still fail to decipher this abrupt collapse of his world.

The rules in the crumpled up paper toys with him. And it crushes their names within.

He had clung to denial, to hope, to blurred mornings and sleepless nights.

Nothing feels real without her.

She's here—

She's not—

He can't tell anymore.

Everything confuses him.

But now, as the searing pain of the soul morphs into letters escaping his lips, the colourless world—darkens further.

And he's barelled into this merciless, into this grossness of his existence.

A stiff, torturous air looms around them.

Elk pales, regretting even more of what he's called his Rhett's wife before.

"Was it Raka?" Hunter asks quietly.

Rhett's hand clenches, veins rising like cords beneath his skin.

Elk's head snaps to Hunter. "Raka?" His voice cracks. "How did it come to this?" He whips back to Hunter. "Did you know? And didn't tell me?"

"It's personal," Rhett says.

Elk sighs.

Then, at last, the old owner arrives with their food.

She places the dishes down slowly, muttering apologies, grumbling about drunkards and aching joints, how no one wants to work anymore.

Her words catch the exploration of little Rhean, now fully awake.

He peeks at her with wide almond eyes.

"Oh, my heart melts looking at the beautiful babe," she coos, pinching his rosy cheek.

Baby Rhean studies her, then turns back, burrowing into his father's chest, short, chubby fingers tightly clutching his hoodie.

She frowns faintly.

Rhean doesn't really like strangers.

Elk clears his throat to ease her discomfort. She looks at him and asks if they need anything more.

"We're good, thank you," he says.

She nods, drifting off into the crowd of drunken patrons.

"How old is he?" Elk asks, watching the boy.

"A year," Rhett says, wiping away a small trail of drool from the baby's chin.

Elk nods again. The table sinks into quiet. None of them reach for the food.

Elk leans forward. "Czar, let's strike a deal."

Rhett's eyes lift slowly.

"I'll help you find your wife. I'll do everything in my power to bring her back."

A pause.

"But you have to come back to us."