This isn't a finale, but it's what I have written so far. I'm going to need time to put together any new sections for this story. I wrote the first draft to this a long time ago, longer than I would like to admit. What you're seeing is a revamped draft.

Anything else for this story will have to be built from the ground up. So it'll take a little while. So, for now, thank you very much for giving this one a shot. I had fun working from a different perspective, even though my usual basis of "torture the Kaibas so they love each other even more" still shines through.

I'm . . . predictable that way, I suppose.

I hope that I may be forgiven.

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The rest of the day went by peacefully.

Mokuba reveled in the fact that he wouldn't have to return to school for two months. Seto went about his usual practices as if nothing at all were amiss. He was able to keep his brother from noticing anything in particular, except perhaps the fact that spending so much time without proper rest was beginning to wear on him.

Not that that was uncommon.

Seto made sure to take the letter from his pocket and slip it into a small safe in his office. He hoped against hope that he would never have to take it out. He couldn't delude himself for long, however. If Yugi was right in assuming that Ryou Bakura was the danger here, then eventually Seto would have to tell Mokuba about it. That letter could very well prove to be a vital piece of evidence.

Seto felt a sudden, blinding anger at Ryou for daring to let Mokuba think they might be friends, only to pull a stunt like this. But Seto knew that this wasn't fair as soon as he thought it. Ryou was ill, under the sway of a disorder that was no more his fault than his hair color. For all Seto knew, it was only because of Mokuba's friendship that he'd managed to hold out this long without . . . without . . . what? Shifting? Devolving? Becoming?

Seto wasn't sure what to call it; but whatever it was, he didn't like it.

The elder Kaiba made sure not to stay in any one place, doing any one thing, for too long. He cleaned, checked with the house staff—particularly the security team—he tested a scenario for one of his newer personal projects. Seto knew that, if he let himself go idle at any point, exhaustion would finally take control. Never mind the dark, foreign thoughts that kept weeding their way into him whenever he thought about the impossible events from the morning.

Seto even sifted through his dueling deck for the first time in months.

Night eventually fell, and Seto realized that he no longer had a choice in the matter: he had to sleep. He showered, dressed in a set of dark blue pajamas and a midnight-black robe, and sat on the edge of his bed for nearly twenty minutes before coming to a decision. He stood, walked through the hallway, down the stairs to the ground floor, and eventually found his brother in the game room, playing a racing simulator—Mokuba often specified this term, racing simulator, whenever he talked about this particular genre—and listening to music. It sounded like the same band he'd had playing in the bathroom.

Seto checked his watch. 11:30 PM.

"Karasu," Seto murmured under his breath. Then he said, slightly louder: "Stereo, volume, fifteen percent."

Mokuba turned to look over his shoulder as the music turned itself down. He grinned. "You did that Bluetooth thing again, didn't you?" Seto smirked, but didn't answer. "That's so cool. You need to figure out a way to let me control everything in the house without going to the dentist. I don't want a filling."

Seto shrugged. "Simply a matter of convenience. You could use a conventional microphone like a peasant if you want." Mokuba stuck out his tongue. "For now, though, it's getting late. Come on, kiddo. Turn this off. I know, I know. It's vacation. But you're not turning nocturnal."

Mokuba pouted.

"PlayStation 3—off; television—off; stereo—off," Seto said with quiet finality.

The three devices did as commanded.

"Show—off," Mokuba muttered.

"Let's go, kid. You'll have plenty of time to play tomorrow."

"Fine."

"Light—off," Seto said, as they left the room. He shut the door behind him. "Karasu," he said a second time, deactivating the tiny device nestled in the back of his mouth. The two brothers climbed the stairs to the second floor, Seto leading. Mokuba made to enter his bedroom. He'd already opened the door and was slipping inside when Seto called his name.

The boy turned. "Huh?"

". . . Come with me," Seto said. "Please."

Mokuba tilted his head, confused.

"Hectic weekend, capped off by a bad night," Seto said, heaving a sigh. "I've had a headache for the past three hours." He held up a hand. "I know. I know. I should have slept last night. You don't need to remind me, Sensei. But . . . I would appreciate it. If you were . . . close by."

Something pounded behind Seto's eyes, and he wondered if it was his own brain telling him how patently, ridiculously pathetic he sounded.

Mokuba opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to say that their rooms were only separated by about thirty feet of carpet, but he stopped. There must have been something on Seto's face that Mokuba could read, because he smiled and gave a nod. "'Kay," he said. He went into his room, and came back out dressed for bed in light grey sweatpants and a t-shirt two sizes too big for him. He followed Seto.

Mokuba clambered into his brother's bed as Seto made his final check of the night. He went into his office, checked the safe, glared at the crumpled envelope and its haunted junk mail.

Seto slipped under the covers beside his brother. He lay on one side, left arm folded under his head with his hand beneath the pillow. Mokuba huddled in close, and Seto lay his free arm over the boy's shoulders. "Good night, Mokuba."

"G'night, Niisama," Mokuba said. "I love you."

Seto kissed his brother's forehead. "I love you, too."

They slept.

Even though it was only inches from his head, Mokuba had no idea that, beneath the pillow they were sharing, Seto kept a good-luck talisman of his own, far more macabre than the tiny bronze likeness of Auset—wife of Asar—that lay against Mokuba's heart.

Clutched in Seto's left hand was the cold, heavy handle of a Sig Sauer pistol.

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"Karasu" is the Japanese term for a crow/raven. It also happens to contain the first syllable of each of my three names, as they would be rendered in Japanese—ka, ra, and su. Not the right order, but . . . details.

I'm kind of a nerd about this stuff. Maybe you figured that out already?