"You're late!"
Miku spun around, her hair snapping with disciplined precision. It was a sharp, ink-black bob, but it was the magenta ombre bleeding into the tips of her long sidelocks that caught the light.
To anyone else, it was a trendy salon job. To Luke, seeing those vibrant tips dance against her collarbones felt like a countdown. The color matched her eyes perfectly—a stain of the familiar power he ran from.
Luke didn't answer immediately. He stood at the edge of the street, the evening light catching faintly against the gold trim of the oversized coat draped over his shoulders. It swallowed his frame, hiding more than just the damage beneath it.
Miku tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together. "Onii-chan?"
He blinked, slow—like the motion had to travel through something before it reached him. "…sorry," he said at last, his voice quieter than usual. "I got held up."
Miku folded her arms, the irritation still there, but thinner now. "Held up? You said that last time too."
Luke's gaze drifted past her, unfocused for a moment as the sounds of the street—students talking, footsteps, distant laughter—blurred into something distant and hollow. "…Did I?"
That made her pause.
The annoyance didn't disappear, but it shifted. She stepped a little closer, her eyes scanning him more carefully now. "Yeah… you did."
A small breeze passed between them, lifting the magenta strands at the edge of her hair. Luke's eyes followed the motion too precisely, like he was tracking it instead of just seeing it.
Miku noticed.
"…You're acting weird," she said, quieter this time.
Luke gave a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm just tired."
She didn't answer right away. She just looked at him—really looked this time, and whatever she saw made her arms loosen slightly at her sides.
"…Your arm," she said after a moment. "What happened?"
Luke's hand shifted subtly beneath the coat, a small, almost involuntary movement. "…Nothing," he replied.
The answer came too quickly.
Miku's gaze lingered on him, the silence stretching just a little too long for something that was supposed to be normal.
For the first time since he arrived—she didn't push back.
"Alright, let's go home, Okaa-san is… worried." Miku said, her voice barely audible.
Luke looked at her. He noticed the worry in her voice.
"Is she okay?" Luke asked, his eyes still meeting Miku's.
Miku didn't answer—not that she couldn't, because a yes or no wouldn't be enough. Not to her—but to him.
She quickly took his right hand, and that was enough to make him flinch.
Luke felt the warmth of her touch, the only "human" thing that kept him sane. "Miku…," he whispered, but Miku's smile stopped him.
The grip of Miku's hand was gentle but firm. She knew prying was pointless but getting her onii-chan home was more important now.
"Come on, let's go… it's getting dark," Miku said simply, still holding his hand.
"Yeah, let's go," Luke managed.
Miku kept walking, her grip steady in his hand.
Luke's step slowed—just for a fraction.
'She's watching,' he thought. His gaze shifted slightly, not enough to draw attention.
He didn't turn.
"We better hurry," he said quietly, more to himself than her.
The street lights of Seishu glowed over the gate of the Kazama residence, but to Luke—it felt less relieving.
Miku slid the wooden door open, walking in as she removed her shoes.
Luke stopped at the door.
Miku made her way inside, but Luke paused by the genkan, his gaze fixed on Miku. He took a deep breath, and finally stepped inside.
The cold of the Morningstar estate didn't exist in this house—only the smell of laundry and tamagoyaki.
Luke stood at the entrance of the kitchen, the overcoat feeling like lead. He watched as Sora set the table, plating the tamagoyaki gently, but swift—like a woman who tried to keep problems outside the door.
"You're late," Sora said quietly. She didn't turn, but her shoulders were stiff. "You look like someone who just ran from Japan to Italy."
Luke stiffened, closing his fist hard enough to draw blood.
The one word that made his heart hammer, "Italy", and from his mother no less.
"Just a long day," he lied. He quickly made his way upstairs, his ankles shaking at each step. The gold trim of the overcoat caught the light as he walked away.
Sora watched him disappear, but her eyes were still on the coat Luke was wearing. It wasn't from the Vatican, but she didn't linger on it for long.
The table was fully set now—a traditional Japanese dinner. Sora removed her apron and put it away—finally she sat down, exhausted not from cooking—but from Luke's white lies.
Luke shut the door, and with a low click—it was locked. He quickly took the coat off, throwing it in the darkest corners of his closet. His shirt was a ruin, especially the left side dyed in red.
It was the Sextus Trigger's backlash toward his devil side.
He took the shirt off, his teeth grinding as he peeled the left sleeve, like a bandage on a flesh wound. The veins on his forearm bulged, with a faint violet flowing in them.
"Damn, worse than I thought," Luke mused as his eyes scanned the damage in his left arm. The sigil faded, but the heat from his demonic pillar remained. 'But… I can't sit here for long, they're waiting."
Luke took off the rest of his uniform, quickly switching into a grey tracksuit which he took from his closet drawer. Without delay, he headed toward the door.
As soon as he reached the landing, Miku's laughter echoed through the walls. It was enough to keep him still.
But Luke didn't stop this time, in this house he wasn't the Vassal or the Ghost—just Luke Kazama.
"Alright, I didn't eat today so let's get to it," Luke chimed as he walked in the kitchen, choosing to ease the tension—focusing on his family.
Luke pulled a chair, its legs sliding over the floor as if it were a silencer. He sat down, setting his right hand on the table while the left stayed on his lap.
"Eat." Sora commanded, her voice soft but firm.
He swiftly picked up the chopsticks of the table, next to the golden-brown tamagoyaki and a bowl of rice.
The first bite was quiet. The familiar, sweet-and-savory taste of the egg melted on his tongue, a stark contrast to the chill of the Morningstar estate. For a second, the weight in his chest loosened into the simple comfort of a home-cooked meal.
For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the soft clink of plates and the steady rhythm of eating.
Miku broke the silence first, slumping slightly in her chair as she picked at a piece of fish.
"Okaa-san, the anime episode today was so frustrating! The main character totally messed up, making his crush wait, and still not confessing!?"
Sora gave a light smile, "maybe he's just scared of giving himself false hope," she said softly, taking a quick glance at Luke who was focused on eating. "He probably has something holding him back, don't you think Miku?"
"Hmm, you're probably right Okaa-san. But still, confess already, it's not like he's asking for the end of the world."
Sora didn't look up from her own bowl, but the stiff line of her shoulders finally relaxed. "Sometimes people try too hard to suppress themselves, but it's the effort that counts right?"
"Alright fine, maybe I did overreact a little," Miku huffed, poking at her rice.
"A little?" Luke chimed, his voice sounding like his usual self. "You made it sound like he committed a war crime. So a little is just sugarcoating it."
Miku pointed a chopstick at him defensively. "Don't take his side, Onii-chan. You're just as bad when you're trying to hide things."
Sora reached across the table, using her own chopsticks to place another piece of tamagoyaki directly into Luke's bowl, cutting off the brewing argument before it could start.
"Just eat," Sora said. Her voice had lost the sharp edge from last time, returning to the quiet, grounding tone of a mother who simply wanted her family fed. "Both of you argue too much for people who haven't even finished eating."
"Yes, Ma'am," Luke and Miku said in unison.
As Miku launched into another passionate rant about her school life and the upcoming pop quiz, Luke settled back into his chair. He kept his left hand resting quietly in his lap, the dull ache in his veins still there, but muted now—buried beneath the low hum of television chatter, his sister's laughter, and the comfort of being home.
For tonight, the world could wait.