"You shut your mouth." The professor snapped as he stared into a gaze so cold and unforgiving. He stood before a boy he no longer remembered, a boy entirely different than the one he knew from years ago—no longer the curious, naïve and thoughtful lad. Hershel knew he was looking at someone broken, twisted, fueled by a familiar kind of fire.

His heart—encased in ice that burnt and pierced through, like the words he could never have imagined to hear from his only son, or what has become of him. "Unbelievable."

"Then YOU tell me, how could you do this, how could you lie to me? The nerve you have, Alfendi. I waited for so long. I was alone, worried, restless. All this time you were just here? And for what purpose, to be a selfish man, uncaring towards his father?" Where have you been? Why would you do this to me? There were no other words his heart allowed, only those of bitterness and scorn. "You tell me, what the hell was going on in your mind?"

Alfendi shook his head. "No, Hershel. Tell me what was going on in your mind. Why you still can't get a hold of yourself even after everything. Why you're still living in fear, letting your guilt eat you up."

Perhaps he was a boy who had always been there, but did not reveal himself until his entire world turned against him. His entire world—his father, Hershel Layton. And no one else. "Get a hold of yourself, Hershel. She's been gone for twelve years now. Can't you just accept that fact and stop blaming everyone around you? I'm not even sure what to tell you anymore."

The professor's voice suddenly trembled. "Don't . . . don't you put her into this."

"I thought maybe getting away from you would give you peace. I was doing you a favour, looking after myself because you couldn't anymore. I was not going to let you ruin my life just because you wanted to carry a burden that was never yours to begin with."

"All I asked of you was to stay there, with me. We've lost your mother . . . I couldn't bear to lose you too."

"I have always been there. Ask Luke, ask Flora. I've always been around to help you, got a lot of things out of my way just for you. I waited two years before getting into university. But then . . ."

Hershel was in the verge of tears, he could feel them choking him, restraining his words. He breathed and felt the roughness in his tongue.

Alfendi felt his chest heave. ". . . You weren't there when I needed you. So I did what was right, learned to depend on myself, because I had no one else. Not even you."

-x-

Silence conquered the room. Silence in which memories of the past twelve years were all compressed. Today was the pinnacle of what little connection there had been between them, and he let it slip right through his fingers.

He stood before a broken man, a man broken as he was. He pondered upon the things his father might have felt, tried to understand them. He always did. And oddly, he never really did mind. That was what he wanted, and what he tried to do; to understand him. It was in his nature to read people, no matter how complex they might be. But, of all people, he cannot seem to crack him.

Oh, it's our blood, huh? We've always been difficult to comprehend. I mean, look at you. His subconscious made sure to keep this thought lingering for him. You don't even understand yourself.

So … what do you do.. when even you don't get what's going on in that messed up head of yours?

He gathered his courage, if it even was. He knew what he had was the fraud kind of courage, designed to fool those who encountered it, to make them shatter to their very core. The only downside was that in the process of displaying it, in its guise of nonchalance, he himself would also find himself shattered.

He clenched his fists, unfazed by the sight of the broken man—at least, externally. He turned around, and heard his father grunt from behind. He was probably whispering threats. But to Alfendi, something else was whispering. Someone inside of him, repeating the words:

"I did what was right, learned to depend on myself, because I had no one else. Not even you."

And with that, he left his father's –no, Professor Hershel Layton's—study, and went off to wander the ashen streets of London. The air felt sharp as it entered his lungs, for once again there was the feeling of stone cold hands tightly wrapped around his neck.

-x-

A/N: Suffering from a terrible block. I can't continue my other PL fic "Lullaby of the Broken" for now; it's in the process of heavy rewriting. So for now here's a word vomit of a conversation I imagined between Layton and his son, Inspector Alfendi. A little backstory; Claire's dead in this universe. And she's the mother, because it makes sense to me that she is Alfendi's biological mother XD … because reasons.

Also. Not saying Prof Layton is a bad father. He's awesome.