The afternoon sun drags lazily across the city, painting the school walls gold. Cars line up, fighting for space on the street, impatient horns mixing with children's voices pouring out through the iron gates. For most, it's just another end of school day. For Dante, it's the beginning of something that will change everything.

Leaning against his car, he watches with the predatory calm of someone who knows how to wait. His eyes scan each face that emerges from the gate — small crowds of laughter, colorful backpacks, hurried steps. Until he sees him. A boy with unruly hair, steps too steady for his age, eyes sharp, almost adult. There's a spark of cunning in him that makes Dante hold his breath for a moment. As if fate itself has decided to carve into him not only traces of you, but something of himself as well.

The boy stops a few meters away, waiting, as if calculating his next move. And then their eyes meet. Dante takes a step forward.

"Eric, isn't it?..." he begins, but the boy backs away, gripping the strap of his backpack tight against his shoulder.

The boy narrows his eyes, studying him. He says nothing. Smart. Wary. Just as you should have taught him.

"Don't talk to strangers, huh?" Dante murmurs, a tired half-smile tugging at his lips. "That's good. Your mom taught you well."

The boy remains silent, gaze fixed, as if trying to decipher him. Dante draws a slow breath, slides a hand into his coat pocket, and pulls out a timeworn photograph.

It's him and you, in a rare moment of peace from the past. You're laughing, arms entwined, young and in love. Proof that he isn't just some intruder.

Dante crouches down, bringing himself to the boy's height, and carefully holds out the photo.

"You see this woman here?" his voice comes out low, almost reverent. "I've known your mom for a very long time. She trusted me... before you were born."

The boy slowly reaches out, takes the photo, and examines it. His expression shifts, though it doesn't soften entirely. There's still suspicion, but now a spark of curiosity too.

"You know my mom, so... who are you?" he asks at last, his tone wavering between challenge and innocence.

Dante's heart thuds harder, as if the question were a blade pressed to his throat. He can't tell him. Not yet. The weight of that truth has to wait.

"An old friend of hers" he replies, steady, though the undertone of pain slips through unhidden. "That's all."

The boy frowns, tucking the photo into his backpack pocket as if it were a secret treasure. He glances once more at him, still undecided whether to trust or not, then says:

"My mom doesn't like surprises."

Dante gives a crooked smile, tinged with both pride and regret.

"I know."

The boy is still clutching his backpack, sneaking glances at the photo now safely hidden away, when the screech of a car braking hard tears through the street. Both turn at once.

It's you.

You rush out of the car, almost running, your eyes darting from your son to Dante, as if your very breath has been cut short midway. Dante's heart pounds — not from fear, but from the raw intensity of your look. Recognition. Fear. Rage. All at once.

Eric instinctively runs closer to you, seeking protection. But before crossing those last few steps, he throws one final suspicious glance at Dante, as though waiting for answers that never came.

Dante, on the other hand, lifts his chin with insolent calm, his eyes locked on yours. There's no remorse on his face. Quite the opposite: a crooked, shameless smile curves his lips, as if the whole scene were a play he himself had scripted.

"Easy, easy..." he says in a near-mocking tone, raising his hands like a man accused of nothing. "I was just showing the boy some old memories."

Eric clings to your leg, pulling the photo from his pocket and holding it up for you to see.

"He said he knows you... that he's a friend."

Dante feels the stab in his chest but doesn't let it show. Instead, he holds your gaze, as though daring you to deny it, as if every second were a power struggle between you.

"See?" he goes on, unhurried, his voice laced with subtle irony. "He's sharp. And you always said that's what you wanted in a son."

Eric glances between you, confused, sensing there's more in your exchange than he can grasp.

Dante steps back, hands sliding into his pockets, posture relaxed, almost insolent.

"Relax..." he murmurs, with a half-smile that burns more than any threat. "I just wanted to see if you still remembered me. And it looks like... you remember very well."