After winter arrives, the weather becomes cold and it often snows, so they no longer go out for picnics, and even gatherings have decreased. Ivy and Jasper are both busy people, with many activities besides their studies. They participate in community volunteer activities to experience life outside of campus, and of course, this is also to enhance their applications to good schools.

  After the semester ends, they welcome the Christmas and New Year holidays. The streets begin to fill with festive atmosphere, the Christmas tree in the city center square lights up, accompanied by musical performances and markets, attracting a steady stream of tourists.

  The yachts at sea are also decorated with Christmas themes, and the illuminated boats cruising at night add a charming color to the harbor scenery.

  People gather with family and friends during Christmas, exchanging gifts or engaging in social activities. If it snows, children will build snowmen, have snowball fights, or go ice skating outside.

  Christmas Day is Kieran Vale's birthday, but he does not attend any Christmas parties or celebrate his birthday. It should be a special day for him, yet he has no expectations.

  He once had happy times. When he was first adopted by Doyle, Doyle was a well-paid dockworker who spent money generously. During Christmas, they would go out to eat at a restaurant and then stroll through the market. His father would give him Christmas and birthday gifts, just like other parents.

  But all of this came to a sudden halt one day, as if misfortune had suddenly descended, taking away everything he once had.

  The irony of the Grim Reaper's agent and the savior being born on the same day is truly immense. Kieran's lips curled into a contemptuous smile; there was indeed nothing to look forward to. From the moment he was born, he was destined to be like a rat in a gutter, surviving in a miserable way, someone everyone avoided as if he were a plague.

  Since the holiday began, he has spent all his time in the game except for sleeping and eating.

  But this year he wants to do something different.

  On the dining table sits a freshly bought turkey, and this is his first time making turkey dishes by himself. He opens the turkey's belly, removes the innards, and washes it thoroughly inside and out with water.

  The melted butter emits an enticing aroma as he mixes in herbs, salt, and black pepper, then rubs the seasoned butter all over the turkey.

  Next, he stuffs the prepared filling—onions, garlic, celery, and bread crumbs—into the turkey's belly.

  He places the turkey in the oven, watching the juices drip into the roasting pan, and waits for Doyle to return.

  Doyle has been absent lately, off somewhere having fun, but Kieran actually prefers him not being home, as it greatly reduces his mental stress.

  The whole house is filled with the aroma of roasting turkey, yet Doyle seems oblivious. As soon as he walks in the door, he heads straight for Kieran, like a creditor coming to collect a debt.

  "Kid, hand over the money," Doyle says, tugging at his collar.

  He really is here to collect a debt; that thought crosses Kieran's mind. "I haven't received my salary for this month yet..." Kieran replies dismissively, having already given him the living expenses, which he calculated would be enough to cover their costs.

  “You think I would believe your nonsense!?” Doyle's eyes were filled with rage. “You’ve hidden the money, haven’t you? Hand it over, or else…”

  Kieran stared at him coldly, curious about what other threats his father could come up with. As the meal ticket of the family, he believed Doyle wouldn’t dare to actually do anything to him.

  After a standoff for a while, Doyle indeed let him go, shoving him hard before turning and rushing into his own room.

  Kieran breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention back to the turkey in the oven, its shiny, plump skin making his mouth water.

  In the next moment, he saw Doyle come out of the room, holding a shotgun.

  “I’ll say it again, hand over the money.” Doyle said coldly, aiming the shotgun at him.

  Kieran Vale was stunned, his gaze towards his father somewhat vacant. It was hard for him to describe the feelings swirling inside him, a mix of all sorts of dark emotions.

  But he was indeed terrified.

  Even with his unusual powers, he was still flesh and blood, unable to withstand that shot. He obediently handed over all the money he had on him, “This is all I have…” He looked at his father with pleading eyes, silently praying that he would be satisfied with this. Doyle didn’t know about the organization’s account; he had always thought Kieran was earning cash from his job.

  This was all planned. Kieran didn’t have his own account, and the money the organization paid him was not transferred to him. “Working under the table” was done with the tacit agreement of both parties.

  In order to gain Doyle's trust at the beginning, the organization arranged a "employer" for him, and Doyle still believes that Kieran is just working at some restaurant.

  Doyle let him go after getting the money. He put away the shotgun and stuffed the cash into his pocket.

  “You better be honest, or I’ll find out you’re still hiding money,” Doyle said menacingly, then slammed the door and left.

  The oven made a noise; his turkey was done, but he had no appetite at all.

  He spent a lonely Christmas Eve. He didn’t even want to play games, shivering under the covers, his mind filled with the images from earlier.

  His father wanted to kill him.

  Just realizing this possibility brought him to the brink of collapse.

  He couldn’t continue living under the same roof as him; otherwise… Kieran held his head, his eyes bloodshot, knowing that one day he would kill his father.

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  His mind was silent; what had just happened hadn’t alerted the organization. Although he was sure he had sent out plenty of signals of fear, as long as he didn’t break any rules, the organization usually wouldn’t intervene.

  In a situation like that, even if he had killed Doyle on the spot, it wouldn’t have violated any rules.

  As a top agent within the organization, his reaction was simply unacceptable. In such a dangerous situation, he had done nothing, paralyzed by his body’s instinctive response. Later, he analyzed Doyle’s actions carefully; they were mostly threats and bluster, not a genuine attempt on his life. However, this was also because he had some understanding of his father; if it had been someone else pointing a gun at him, he would have crushed that person’s heart long ago.

  One of the important rules of the organization is not to let emotions dominate one's judgment.

  For someone like him, this judgment is crucial, far more important than using his own abilities.

  During his training with the organization, he was repeatedly instilled with this concept. This is also an important condition for being employed by the organization through training.

  In critical situations, very few people can make the right judgment, which is humanity's greatest weakness.

  The highest rule of the organization is to use abilities only within the scope of the mission, unless there is a life-threatening situation. Other regulations are almost all formulated around this principle.

  Using abilities recklessly may bring temporary satisfaction, but it can lead to endless troubles. Those with special abilities understand the importance of keeping a low profile; they blend into the crowd and avoid drawing attention. Those who flaunt their abilities, even in public, are often the fakes.

  Humans find it difficult to accept those who are different from themselves, and the existence of those with special abilities is beyond their understanding. Casually displaying their powers will only cause unrest and panic. Even if they use their abilities to save the world, humans will not be grateful; instead, they will launch witch hunts, using various reasons to eliminate them.

  Moreover, the reason they do not use their abilities casually is that "every action leaves a trace." Once abilities are used, traces of magic will be left in the surroundings. Although these traces are not perceived by ordinary people, they can be sensed by others with special abilities.

  If Kieran had activated his abilities in the earlier situation and killed Doyle, even if he were not pursued by the organization due to self-defense, it could attract the attention of "his kind." The organization absolutely does not want its members to be targeted by hostile forces, so acting cautiously is the most important thing for them, rather than the strength of their abilities.

  Fortunately, apart from Doyle, no one else can currently pose a threat to him, and threats from the human world can also be easily dealt with by the organization, so there is no need to use his abilities.

  *

  Kieran heard his phone ringing in a daze and realized that he had accidentally fallen asleep. The time was 11:47 PM. He pressed the call button, and the voice on the other end was low and urgent: "Are you a relative of Doyle Hargrove?"

  “Yes, I am his son.”

  “This is the Ninth Precinct. We regret to inform you that your father has been shot and killed. Please come to assist with the identification of the body.”

  Kieran took several seconds to believe that this was not a nightmare, but a bloody reality. “...I’ll be there right away.”

  For Kieran, this was not just a notification; it felt like a heavy blow. He knew his father loved to drink and often got into trouble—fighting, accumulating debts, gambling, and being violent towards him. Until the moment he left home, he had thought about ending his father’s life himself one day, but he never imagined his father would end his life in this way.

  The cold wind of Christmas Eve swept through the streets of Caelora, the neon lights flickering, illuminating the snow-covered sidewalks. On a night that was supposed to be about reunion and warmth, Kieran Vale found himself in the cold waiting room of the police station, staring at the battered clock on the wall, the time just past midnight.

  The detective led him down the hallway and into the morgue, where the air was filled with a mix of disinfectant and death. He felt a bit dizzy but continued to stare at the body covered with a white sheet.

  “Are you ready?” the detective asked.

  He nodded.

  In the moment the white sheet was lifted, he saw a familiar yet pale face. There was a distinct bullet hole in the forehead, and the blood had long since dried. The face that once roared in his memory and had taken him fishing by the sea was now devoid of life.

  “He was causing trouble in a small bar called ‘Lucky Star’ in the South District. Witnesses said he got into a conflict with someone, and then that person pulled out a gun... and fired a shot.”

  “Who is the witness?” Kieran's voice trembled.

  “We are still investigating. The bar's surveillance camera was broken, but we have a few witnesses who mentioned a man in a black leather jacket, a white male with a beard, possibly a drug dealer or maybe his creditor.”

  Kieran didn't respond; he just stood there as if time had stopped.

  When he returned home, it was already past three in the morning. Snow was still falling outside as he sat on the sofa, staring at the shotgun left by his father.

  But at that moment, all the anger and resentment receded like the tide, leaving only emptiness. He truly felt alone, unmoored, like a small boat adrift in a vast ocean, facing unknown storms.

  The next day, he went to the bar scene. Lucky Star was a small bar with a dim neon sign, the entrance posted with a closure notice, still bearing the police tape from the night before.

  He knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, a middle-aged female staff member peeked out. “We’re not open today—who are you?”

  “I’m the son of Doyle Hargrove,” he said softly.

  The woman paused for a moment, her wariness slightly easing. “You... sigh. Your dad used to come here often. He... drank a bit too much last night, first he was cursing, then he got into a fight with someone.”

  “Do you recognize that person?”

  “I don't recognize him, but I saw that when they were talking, that person was very emotional and kept mentioning 'you owe a debt you shouldn't owe.' I think he might be someone from an underground gambling den.”

  “Have you seen what he looks like?”

  “In his thirties, tall, wearing a black leather jacket... Sorry, I’m not sure either; he walked away quickly.”

  Kieran thanked him and left, but the man in the black leather jacket lingered in his mind. He knew his father had once fallen into the underground gambling scene and had accumulated a mountain of debt. The police investigation was slow, and with the holiday staffing shortages, this case would soon be shelved.

  Those creditors might come looking for him again. This terrible father was still bringing him trouble; he might have to move to a place where his father's enemies wouldn't find him.

  He had a miserable birthday, his father's lifeless face constantly resurfacing in his mind, haunting him. He couldn't eat anything, retching and experiencing severe stomach pains.

  *

  The funeral was held on a gloomy day in early January.

  The snow had not stopped, covering the entire cemetery like a silent white shroud. Winters in Caelora were always so heavy, the sky dark and the clouds seemed ready to crush everything. Kieran Vale stood beside the coffin, deeply buried in the cold ground, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black wool coat, his fingertips already numb from the cold, yet he felt no pain.

  There were not many attendees.

  Besides himself, only three people came: a former coworker of his father's—a tall, thin, gray-bearded old man who coughed incessantly while speaking; a bar waitress, wearing an out-of-place red down jacket, her eyes flickering as if uncertain about it all; and the funeral director handling the cremation paperwork, who stood silently to the side, like part of the gravestone.

  Kieran stood in the snow, listening to the priest's monotonous eulogy: “May the Lord receive the soul of Doyle Hargrove... grant him rest... find peace in the Lord's embrace...”

  He lowered his head, the wind rushing into his neck,

  He couldn't help but clench his fists, his throat felt like it was blocked by a piece of ice. He didn't know whether to cry or to be angry at this moment. He had hated this man before—he hated his drinking, his selfishness. But now all that anger had transformed into a vague sense of loss, like a heavy iron block sinking to the bottom of a lake, silent yet weighty.

  He remembered what his father looked like when he was young, remembered how he had taught him to tie fishing lines when he was five, remembered a winter when his father had held him while watching fireworks, saying, "As long as you are alive, you can always come back again."

  But those memories felt too distant, as if they belonged to someone else's life.

  At the burial, he watched as the mechanical arm slowly lowered the coffin into the ground, snowflakes falling onto the wooden boards, as if the city was offering this covering as a final tribute to this failed man. He hadn't prepared any eulogy, nor did he have family standing beside him, just him alone, in this vast and indifferent cemetery, like a solitary island.

  On the day the funeral ended, he didn't go home. He sat in a church downtown all night, watching the faint candle on the altar. The surroundings were empty, only the candle's flame swayed in the wind, as if it could extinguish at any moment.

  He had never been a religious person, but that night, for the first time, he wondered if humans truly had souls. Where did those who had died go?