Snow was falling outside the window, covering the world with a white blanket. Rogue sat in front of the mirror, mechanically brushing her hair and watching the dance of snowflakes. It's strange how sometimes the most important decisions come not after long deliberation, but in one brief moment of clarity.

She looked at the wall calendar—December twenty-first. Every year this day was filled with bitter memories and regrets. But today everything felt different. Maybe it was the snow—so rare in these parts. Maybe it was the sense of peace she had been experiencing these past weeks. Or maybe the time had simply come.

A white streak flashed in her reflection—an eternal reminder of the past. She used to hate it, tried to color it, hide it. Now it was just a part of her, like the scars on a warrior's heart—marks of the journey traveled.

Behind her came the sound of an opening door. The mirror reflected Naruto, emerging from the shower with a towel over his shoulders. Droplets of water ran down his skin, leaving wet trails.

"Hey, Anna-chan, you've been sitting here motionless for an hour," said Naruto, approaching closer. "You haven't even scolded me for the wet footprints on the floor."

Rogue caught his gaze in the reflection. Something tightened in her chest at the care that showed in his eyes, despite his playful tone.

"Today is a special day," she replied quietly, setting aside the brush.

Naruto sat on the edge of the bed, his face becoming serious:

"Your father's birthday?"

"You know..." she paused, collecting her thoughts. "All these weeks I've been trying to imagine how it would be. What I would say to him if... when he wakes up."

Rogue stood and walked to the window, looking at the falling snow. The winter morning light gave her skin an almost transparent quality.

"And today, looking at this snow..." she pressed her palm against the cold glass. "I suddenly realized that it's not about what I'll say. It's about giving him a chance. A chance to decide for himself."

"Are you sure?" There was no doubt in Uzumaki's voice, only concern. "Don't rush if you're not ready..."

Rogue turned to him, and Naruto noticed the moist gleam in her eyes.

"No, I..." she took a deep breath. "I want to try. Today. While I still have the courage."

Rogue stood by the window, looking at the snow-covered city below. Naruto watched as she slowly fastened the buttons on her black coat, her fingers trembling slightly. She was physically ready, but emotionally... This decision hadn't come easily to her.

"Are you sure you want to do this today?" asked Naruto, moving closer. His voice was gentle, without a trace of doubt or judgment.

Rogue turned, and he noticed determination flash in her eyes:

"Yes. Otherwise I might change my mind. And we need to see the Professor; he has connections at that hospital."

A few minutes later, Rogue was dressed, and they both left, heading to the Professor's office. When they arrived, they heard the sound of chairs being moved behind the wall—a class was ending. A few minutes later the door opened, and students began pouring out.

When the last footsteps faded in the corridor, Rogue took a deep breath and knocked. Though it wasn't really necessary—Charles undoubtedly already knew they were there.

"Come in," came a calm voice.

Charles sat behind a massive desk with student papers neatly arranged on top.

He listened attentively to Rogue's faltering explanation of their intentions and couldn't suppress a surprised gasp. His gaze moved from Rogue to Naruto and back again.

The Professor remembered well the day he first invited Rogue into this office after she left the Brotherhood. Back then, she was lost, crushed under the weight of guilt and pain. For hours they talked—or rather, Rogue mostly spoke while he listened, creating a cocoon of mental calm around them, allowing her for the first time in years to open up and release all the pain that had accumulated over the years.

How far she had come since then. Charles couldn't suppress a slight smile as he looked at the couple. Who would have thought that this unusual young man from another world would help Rogue take the next step toward healing? Of course, the upcoming meeting with her father was a risky venture—his condition after so many years in a coma was unpredictable. But something told Charles that everything would be alright.

"I'll contact Moira," he said finally. "We have a good relationship with that hospital," the Professor continued, wheeling his chair to the window. "She personally oversees the department where your father is. I think she can arrange a private meeting today."

Rogue nervously fidgeted with the edge of her glove:

"Do you really think this is... reasonable?"

Charles turned his wheelchair, looking at her with warmth:

"Anna, you're not that frightened girl who came to me many years ago. You've grown, become a brave person."

"I just..." she faltered, searching for words. "I'm afraid it might hurt him."

"Yo," Naruto gently squeezed her shoulder. "Everything will be fine, believe me."

Charles nodded:

"I think it would be better if you go after lunch—her rounds should be finished by then."

Rogue took a deep breath and nodded:

"All right. Thank you, Professor."

"Don't thank me," Charles replied softly. "Go, prepare yourself. I'll let you know as soon as I arrange the time."

Rogue and Naruto silently headed toward the school exit. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridors—most students had already gone to their rooms or gathered in the common areas.

The cold December air enveloped them as soon as they stepped outside. Snow was still falling, covering the school grounds with a white blanket. At that moment, Rogue felt a familiar presence touch her mind.

"Anna," the Professor's calm voice sounded in her head. "I've spoken with her. She's arranged everything. Nurse Ellen Evans will meet you at the room. You can leave right now."

"Thank you, Professor," Rogue said quietly aloud. Anna quickly explained the Professor's message to Naruto and confidently pulled up the hood of her long coat, glancing at the sky.

"Let's fly."

In a moment, they were rising above the snow-covered treetops. Rogue felt her hair streaming in the wind, mixing dark strands with white ones. Below them floated the familiar surroundings of the school—tennis courts, now covered with protective coverings, snow-dusted running tracks, the old fountain with frozen water.

Flying over snow-covered New York was like a dream. Snowflakes danced around them in an intricate pattern, and below stretched the city, blanketed in white. Rogue held Naruto's hand tightly, from which emanated a soft golden glow of chakra. This warmth was her anchor, preventing her from drowning in anxious thoughts.

They flew in silence. Rogue mentally thanked Naruto for this silence—right now, any words seemed superfluous. The wind tousled her hair, mixing the dark strands with the white one, while memories swirled in her head. That fateful sixteenth birthday when her life split into "before" and "after." Her mother's scream. Her brother's lifeless body. Her father, falling to the floor...

She squeezed Naruto's hand so tightly that he gently stroked her wrist with his thumb, silently reminding her—she was no longer alone.

The hospital appeared before them suddenly—a huge building of glass and concrete, gleaming with countless windows. They landed in a small park nearby to avoid drawing attention. Rogue adjusted her scarf, hiding her face. After so many years on the run, the habit of staying inconspicuous was ingrained.

The hall greeted them with warmth and the smell of antiseptic. Rogue involuntarily grimaced—she hated hospitals. Too much time she had spent here, visiting her father before the family finally fell apart. Naruto put his hand on her shoulder, and she gratefully leaned into him.

They walked down a long hospital corridor where the sharp smell of antiseptic mingled with the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. Her father's room was at the end of the wing for coma patients. A woman in a white coat was already waiting for them at door number 307. When they approached, she turned, and her gaze, after sliding over Rogue, stopped on Naruto. Surprise flashed in the nurse's brown eyes, quickly replaced by recognition.

"My God! It's you!" Her voice, though muted by the hospital quiet, trembled with excitement.

Rogue instinctively stepped forward, shielding Naruto. Years of living on the run had taught her to expect the worst, but something in this woman's face—tired but kind—suggested there was nothing to fear.

"You saved my Jake," the nurse pressed her hand to her chest, trying to hold back approaching tears. "From that terrible prison..."

Naruto blinked in confusion, clearly not expecting such a meeting. The woman took a small step forward, her eyes glistening in the cold light of the hospital lamps.

"Where are my manners," she tried to compose herself. "I'm Ellen Evans. Jake... he called me right after being freed. Told me about you, about how you got them all out of there."

Her hands, clasped in front of her, trembled slightly. Ellen bit her lip, as if holding back questions bursting to get out, but maternal concern prevailed:

"Tell me, there, at the school..." she lowered her voice to a whisper, nervously glancing around. "Are they feeding him well? Does he have warm clothes? He says on the phone that everything's fine, but..." her voice faltered, and in her eyes appeared that special longing that can only be seen in a mother separated from her child. "I want to see him so badly, but Jake insists it's safer this way—for him and for me..."

Rogue was the first to recover. She carefully looked around and said quietly:

"Don't worry, we've taken care of everyone we rescued."

"Sorry for this scene," the nurse's voice became professionally restrained, though her eyes still glistened. "Dr. MacTaggert warned me about your visit, but..." Ellen hesitated, shifting her gaze between them. "May I ask what exactly you're planning to do?"

Rogue, who had been silently observing the conversation until now, stepped forward. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of her glove:

"He can help..." the words came out abruptly, as if she still couldn't believe their reality. The white streak fell across her face, and Rogue impatiently tucked it behind her ear.

Ellen shifted her troubled gaze from Rogue to Naruto, her face expressing a mixture of professional caution and maternal understanding. Over her years working at the hospital, she had seen enough desperate relatives clinging to any hope.

Rogue took a step closer to the nurse and, after casting a quick glance around the empty corridor, spoke almost in a whisper:

"He has a special power," her voice trembled as she looked at Naruto. In her green eyes flashed that very hope she had long forbidden herself to feel. "He can heal my father."

Ellen held her breath. Her gaze stopped on Naruto, and something in her face changed—as if she remembered all the stories her son had told her about his rescue.

"God..." the nurse automatically pressed her hand to her lips, realizing the magnitude of the situation. Her professional skepticism battled with what she already knew about the unusual abilities of people like him. "Do you really think it's possible? After so many years in a coma?"

Rogue nervously straightened the sleeve of her jacket, her gloved fingers trembling slightly:

"I don't know," she answered with the honesty that only comes after years of fighting one's own demons. "But I have to try. I have to give him this chance... I have to give us both this chance."

Ellen looked at her for several seconds, then nodded decisively:

"Come on. I'll take you through a route that won't attract attention."

She led them through a service corridor, bypassing the main walkways. Suddenly Ellen stopped, as if remembering something important:

"Oh, I should warn you... Your father already has a visitor today. Your mother comes at this time every month."

Rogue froze in place. Naruto felt how her body tensed under his hand.

"What?" her voice faltered. "She's here?"

Ellen nodded sympathetically:

"Yes, she arrived an hour ago. Usually sits with him for about two hours."

A heavy silence fell. Naruto squeezed Rogue's shoulder more firmly:

"We can come another day if you..."

"No," Rogue shook her head resolutely. "I need to do this. Now."

The elevator took them to the seventh floor. The long-term care ward corridor was empty—visiting hours hadn't yet begun. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, broken only by the steady beeping of medical equipment.

Rogue stopped in front of door number 712. Her hand, extended toward the handle, was shaking. She remembered the last time she came here. Her mother had been there then. They had talked, and Rogue had thought about how much she had changed, how much she had aged over the years.

Rogue froze at the threshold of the room. Her fingers, intertwined with Naruto's, trembled almost imperceptibly. Time seemed to stop when her eyes met her mother's.

Priscilla sat in the same chair by the window as several weeks ago. The gray light of the winter morning outlined her silhouette, making the woman look like a faded photograph. She slowly raised her head, and her gaze immediately fell on the joined hands of her daughter and the unfamiliar young man.

For a moment, something flashed in Priscilla's eyes—a mixture of surprise, hope, and fear. Rogue knew that look. She had seen it every time her mother looked at her in those last days before leaving. The look of someone who desperately wants to believe in a miracle but is too afraid of disappointment.

"Marie..." her mother's voice faltered. She slowly rose, not taking her eyes off their intertwined hands. "Can you... can you touch people? Are you healed?"

Something tightened in Rogue's chest. "Healed." Even after so many years, her mother saw her ability as an illness, something to be cured of. She felt Naruto's fingers squeeze her hand a little tighter—silent support, a wordless reminder that she was no longer alone.

"No, Mom," Rogue shook her head. Her voice was quiet but firm. "I'm not healed. My..." she hesitated for a moment, "my curse is still with me."

Naruto barely noticeably flinched at the word "curse." Rogue felt it in the way his fingers tensed for a fraction of a second. She knew he hated when she called her power a curse. But now, before her mother, old habits took over.

"But how..." Priscilla confusedly shifted her gaze from their hands to her daughter's face.

"He's special," Rogue turned to Naruto, and her voice softened. "His power... it protects him from mine."

Priscilla slowly sank back into the chair. Her shoulders drooped as if all the air had suddenly gone out of them. The hope in her eyes faded, replaced by something resembling resignation.

"I understand," she said after a long pause. Her gaze slid over Naruto, studying him with that mixture of curiosity and wariness so familiar to Rogue.

Rogue closed the door; the nurse nodded and whispered that she would make sure no one entered. Then the girl turned to her mother and said:

"Mom, I came here because..." she looked at Naruto, "he can help Dad... wake up."

The silence that fell in the room was deafening. Priscilla slowly raised her eyes to her daughter, and in them was weariness. Not surprise, not hope—just the endless fatigue of someone who had long ago resigned themselves to the inevitable.

"Wake up..." she finally echoed, and in this one phrase was all the bitterness of the past years. She ran her hand through her gray strands—a gesture so familiar to Rogue from childhood. When her mother was nervous, she always did that.

"You know, Marie..." Priscilla spoke quietly, as if thinking aloud. "The first few months, I woke up every morning thinking that today... maybe today he would open his eyes." She shook her head weakly. "Then months turned into years. And I stopped waiting."

Rogue slowly shook her head, taking a step toward her mother:

"You don't understand, Mom. This... this is different." She bit her lip for a moment, choosing her words. "Naruto has a special power. A healing power."

Then she turned to Uzumaki:

"Show her... please."

Naruto nodded. A golden glow began to slowly envelop his hand, filling the room with warm, living light. Priscilla involuntarily leaned forward in her chair, her eyes widening.

"You probably saw him on the news," Rogue said quietly, watching her mother's reaction. "That glowing mutant they talked about online and on TV."

Priscilla stared at the golden glow surrounding the young man, and something stirred in her soul. Memories of the last twelve years washed over her like a wave—memories of a life that had turned into endless waiting.

After moving to New York, she had tried to start over. Rented a small apartment near the hospital, got a job at a library. Quiet, peaceful work where she could hide from reality among the bookshelves. Her colleagues were kind to her but kept their distance—as if sensing the weight of her personal tragedy.

Days blended into weeks, weeks into months. She came to the hospital every morning before work, sat in the same chair by the window, took her husband's lifeless hand in hers. Sometimes she read newspapers aloud to him, told him about the weather, about new books in the library—anything to fill the silence.

In the evenings, she returned to an empty apartment. There were no photographs on the walls—too painful to see the happy faces of the past. Only one stood on the bedside table: their last family photo, taken a month before the tragedy. Owen smiled at the camera, his arm around her shoulders. Jimmy, their little Jimmy, making a funny face. And Marie... Marie looked so young, so carefree. Before that day when everything changed. Before that moment when fear and anger made Priscilla drive her own daughter from home.

There had been attempts to start dating. Colleagues from the library tried to set her up with someone. But every date ended the same way—with a polite "thank you" and the realization that she wasn't ready. Maybe it was fear. Fear of creating a family again, of having children—children who might turn out to be mutants. Or simply that her heart still belonged to the man who hadn't opened his eyes for twelve years.

She had learned to live in this suspended state between hope and resignation. Stopped planning for the future, stopped dreaming. The only things keeping her afloat were work and these daily visits to the hospital.

Lately, strange videos had appeared online. People talked about a glowing figure appearing in different corners of the world. Priscilla had seen these recordings briefly, not paying them much attention. Just another sensation in a world full of mutants.

And now this light was filling the hospital room. Priscilla looked at the young man holding her daughter's hand—the daughter she herself had pushed away in her moment of greatest need. Something was breaking inside her. The wall she had built all these years had cracked.

Her gaze darted to her husband's motionless body. How many times had she imagined this moment? How many times had she awakened in the middle of the night from dreams where Owen opened his eyes, smiled at her, told her he loved her? And now, when a real chance appeared, she felt paralyzed by fear.

"Are... are you sure this will work?" In Priscilla's voice, fear and hope mingled.

Naruto nodded firmly. His blue eyes radiated confidence and calm.

Priscilla slowly rose from the chair. Her movements were uncertain, as if she had forgotten how to walk. She took several steps back, making room by her husband's bed. In this moment, the woman seemed especially fragile, as if a gust of wind could shatter her into a thousand pieces.

Rogue and Naruto silently approached the bed. The girl shifted her gaze from her father's motionless face to her mother's frozen figure. In this moment, more acutely than ever, she felt the weight of the past years, the entire burden of guilt and pain they had carried.

"Kurama," Naruto called mentally.

"I see, kid," the bijuu responded. "His body... it's like a dried-up well. Muscles atrophied, ligaments weakened, internal organs barely functioning. But the main problem is in his mind."

Naruto immersed himself deeper in meditation, allowing the sage's power to flow through him. The world around him changed—now he saw not just the physical shell, but a complex interweaving of energy flows. Owen's body resembled an abandoned garden—once full of life, now withered by time.

"Start with Yang chakra," Kurama advised. "We need to restore the physical shell before we can reach his consciousness."

The golden glow intensified, acquiring a deeper, richer shade. Naruto directed the flow of Yang chakra through the exhausted body, like watering parched earth with life-giving moisture. Under his palms, atrophied muscles began to slowly regenerate, thinned vessels strengthened, the weak heart gathered strength.

Naruto knew that after healing, Rogue's father, like Scott, would become a possessor of chakra. It was the only way not just to bring him back to life, but to give him a chance to touch his daughter.

"Now for the hardest part," said Kurama. "His mind... it's somewhere very deep."

Naruto activated the Yin element, allowing it to intertwine with the Yang chakra already flowing through Owen's body. The golden glow acquired a lilac tint, creating a whimsical play of light and shadow in the room.

He felt his consciousness sinking deeper, penetrating through layers of time and oblivion. Owen's mind was like a labyrinth of mirrors, where each reflection was a fragment of memory, a frozen moment of the past.

"Careful," warned Kurama. "His consciousness is fragile. Too abrupt an awakening could harm him."

Naruto moved slowly through this labyrinth of memories. He saw young Owen holding newborn Marie in his arms. Saw his first argument with his wife and their subsequent reconciliation. Saw family dinners, school meetings, Sunday walks in the park. And everywhere, in every memory, there was love—deep, all-consuming love for his family.

And then came darkness. The moment when his daughter's power first manifested, when the world around him plunged into darkness. Here the memories broke off, turning into an endless void.

"We need to create a bridge," said Kurama. "Between that moment and the present. Twelve years is too big a gap for the human mind."

Naruto concentrated, allowing the Yin element to form this bridge of pure energy. It was like building a rainbow across an abyss—each color representing a certain period of time, each shade carrying a particle of reality.

"That's it, kid," Kurama approved. "Slowly. Let his consciousness choose its own way back."

The power of Yin-Yang now flowed continuously, restoring not only the body but also the connection between mind and reality. Naruto felt his own chakra depleting, but didn't stop the process. He knew that stopping now would mean losing everything they had achieved.

In the physical world, Owen's body began to change. His skin acquired a healthy tint, muscles filled with strength, breathing became deeper and more even. But the main changes were happening inside, where the Yin-Yang power was weaving a new fabric of reality, connecting the torn threads of consciousness.

"Something's happening," Kurama suddenly said. "His mind... it's responding."

In the labyrinth of memories, something new began to form—not a reflection of the past, but a glimpse of the present. Weak, barely noticeable, like the first ray of sun after a long night, but undoubtedly alive.

Naruto felt his entire body covered in sweat from the strain. Maintaining the balance between Yin and Yang was becoming increasingly difficult, but he knew—they were almost at the goal.

"A little more," encouraged Kurama. "I'll give you more chakra. Just hold this balance."

The golden glow slowly faded. Naruto lowered his hands, feeling the last streams of chakra leaving his body. Beads of sweat ran down his face, his t-shirt soaked through—the healing technique had consumed almost all his strength.

"That's it," he said quietly, taking a step back. "I... I did it."

Rogue and Priscilla, who had been frozen against the wall until this moment, slowly approached the bed. What they saw made them hold their breath.

Typically, patients after many years in a coma present a heartbreaking sight. Their bodies, lying motionless for years despite all the efforts of medical staff, inevitably deteriorate. The skin becomes pale and thin, like parchment through which veins show. Muscles atrophy, turning a person into a living skeleton. Joints lose mobility, and bones become brittle. Bedsores, despite regular care, leave indelible marks on the body. Hair thins and grays, skin becomes wrinkled, and facial features sharpen, giving the person an emaciated appearance.

But the man lying before them was strikingly different from this sad picture.

Owen D'Ancanto looked as if he had simply fallen into a deep sleep after a hard day. His skin had acquired a healthy pinkish hue, the sickly paleness and yellowish tint gone. His hollow cheeks had filled out, his sharp cheekbones softened. The deep wrinkles that had etched his face during the years of coma had smoothed, as if someone had erased them. His gray hair, which just an hour ago had lifelessly spread across the pillow, had darkened, returning to its natural chestnut color with light touches of gray at the temples.

Priscilla touched his cheek with a trembling hand. For twelve years, she had come here every month, taking his lifeless, cold hand in hers. Now her fingers felt warm, living skin.

"Oh my God..." she whispered, her voice a mixture of amazement, fear, and hope. "He looks like... like he did then."

"Like he did then"—Rogue knew what her mother meant. Like on that last day before the tragedy, when they all had breakfast together in the kitchen. Dad was joking, trying to cheer up grumpy Jimmy, while Mom made pancakes, occasionally playfully swatting her husband with a towel when he tried to steal a ready treat. An ordinary morning for an ordinary family. None of them suspected that in a few hours their world would collapse.

The atrophied muscles had restored—now beneath the hospital gown, the strong, healthy body of a forty-five-year-old man could be discerned. Even his posture had changed—he no longer looked like a broken doll unnaturally splayed on a hospital bed.

"This is... incredible," came a voice from the door. Ellen stood there, clutching a clipboard with medical charts to her chest. Her professional composure had cracked—there were tears in her eyes. "In twenty years of work, I've never... All the indicators... They're normal. Better than normal!"

She came closer, automatically checking the readings on the devices.

"Heart rate stable, blood pressure normal, breathing even..." she shook her head. "If I hadn't seen his condition an hour ago, I'd say this man is just sleeping. A healthy, sound sleep."

Rogue felt Naruto's fingers squeeze her hand a little tighter. She knew he was tired too; this healing technique had required enormous amounts of chakra. But right now, looking at her father's transformed face, she couldn't think about anything else.

Suddenly, Owen's fingers twitched. It was a barely noticeable movement, but it made everyone freeze. Ellen immediately switched to professional mode:

"Alright, I need everyone to leave the room," her voice became firm and confident. "Waking up after such a long coma is a very delicate process. Mr. D'Ancanto needs time to gradually regain consciousness. And when that happens," she looked at Rogue and Priscilla, "he should receive information in measured doses to avoid shock."

Rogue nodded, feeling her throat tighten. She understood the nurse's logic, but to leave now, when her father was so close to waking up... As if reading her thoughts, Naruto gently pulled her toward the door:

"Come on, Anna-chan. Let's let them do their job."

Priscilla also reluctantly headed for the exit. At the door, she turned, casting one last glance at her husband. Now he looked so peaceful, so... alive. For the first time in twelve years, she allowed herself to believe—truly believe—that a miracle was possible.

Ellen escorted them to a small waiting room at the end of the corridor.

"I'll keep you updated," she promised. "The awakening process may take some time. Hours, possibly days..."

"Days?" Priscilla repeated with alarm in her voice.

"It's normal," the nurse explained gently. "The brain needs time to readjust, to relearn how to process signals from the body. Besides..." she hesitated, "we need to be very careful about telling him how much time has passed. Twelve years is... it's a lot."

Rogue sank onto the couch, feeling her knees trembling. Naruto sat beside her, still holding her hand. His presence had a calming effect, like an anchor in a stormy sea of emotions.

Priscilla remained standing by the window, watching the falling snow. Her shoulders were tense, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the chain around her neck—an old habit that Rogue remembered from childhood.

"I'll call you as soon as there are any changes," said Ellen and left, leaving them alone with their thoughts and hopes.

Silence fell in the room, broken only by the steady hum of the coffee machine in the corner. Each of them understood—they were on the threshold of something new, something that could either heal old wounds or reopen them with renewed force. And they could only wait with bated breath to see which path fate would choose.

In Owen D'Ancanto's life, there was no place for coincidences. Every decision, every step—everything followed a clear plan, established in his youth. This is what his father, Joseph D'Ancanto, who ran an auto repair shop in the suburbs of New Orleans, had taught him. "If you want to achieve something—make a plan and follow it," he told his son, and Owen remembered this lesson for life.

His father's workshop occupied the first floor of a two-story house on Cherry Street. Upstairs lived the family—Joseph himself, his wife Maria, and little Owen. The smell of machine oil would rise up the stairs, mixing with the aromas of home baking. His mother taught at an elementary school, and often her students would come to study right at their home. Owen grew up amid the constant hum of children's voices and the rumble of engines.

By twelve, he was already helping his father in the workshop. He started small—handing tools, wiping parts, taking out trash. By fifteen, he had mastered basic engine diagnostics. At sixteen, he was independently performing minor repairs. His father paid him like a regular worker: "If you want to learn to value money—start earning it."

From his mother, Owen inherited a love for the exact sciences. She ran a mathematics club, and her son would often sit in the corner of the classroom, solving problems meant for high school students. His natural intelligence and perseverance made him the school's best student in physics and mathematics. Teachers predicted an academic career for him, but Owen firmly decided to continue the family business.

After school, he enrolled in the technical college of New Orleans. Parallel to his studies, he worked in his father's shop and moonlighted as a tutor. He saved money for his own business—dreaming of opening a chain of auto repair shops throughout the state. The plan was mapped out five years ahead, down to specific districts for renting premises.

In his third year of college, fate adjusted his plans. Priscilla Roberts—a medical student who needed help with physics—signed up for his tutoring. She was twenty minutes late for the first lesson, scattered her notes right on the threshold of his dormitory room, and looked so confused that Owen, for the first time in his life, deviated from his schedule.

After several lessons, he decided to invite Priscilla on a date. He approached the organization with his characteristic meticulousness—spent a week studying the city's restaurants, comparing menus and reviews. He prepared a step-by-step plan for the evening, scheduled by the minute: 7:00 PM—meeting at the fountain near campus, 7:15 PM—dinner at "Marco's" (table reserved by the window), 8:30 PM—walk along the embankment, 9:00 PM—screening of a French melodrama at the "Royal" cinema. He even prepared conversation topics—wrote down interesting facts from medical history on a card to support the conversation.

On the appointed evening, Owen arrived at the meeting place fifteen minutes before the scheduled time. He nervously adjusted his tie, checked if his suit was wrinkled, repeatedly took out the evening plan folded into a perfect square from his inner pocket. Priscilla was eight minutes late—she ran around the corner breathless, in a simple summer dress, with disheveled hair.

"Sorry, a patient at the hospital held me up," she smiled, fixing a stray strand of hair. "Oh, how formally you're dressed!"

Owen began explaining about the restaurant and dress code, but Priscilla was already distracted by the sounds of music coming from a neighboring street. A small jazz band was playing there—saxophone, double bass, and drums.

"I love this melody!" she exclaimed and, grabbing Owen's hand, dragged him toward the musicians. "Shall we dance?"

"But we have a reservation at the restaurant in seven minutes," he tried to object, feeling his carefully crafted plan crumbling before his eyes.

"Forget the reservation," Priscilla laughed, already beginning to move to the rhythm of the music. "When will we get another chance to dance to live jazz right in the middle of the street?"

Her enthusiasm proved contagious. Watching Priscilla twirl, forgetting about everything in the world, Owen felt himself smiling. And when she grabbed his hands again, drawing him into the dance, he unexpectedly gave in. For the first time in his life, he simply let go of control and allowed the moment to carry him.

They missed both the restaurant and the movie. Instead, they spent the whole evening wandering around the city, listening to street musicians. They dined on hot dogs from a small food truck on the corner. Priscilla talked about her patients at the hospital, and Owen, for the first time, spoke about his dream—not about plans or calculations, but precisely about the dream of opening his own workshop.

As he was walking her home, he took out his perfectly folded evening plan from his pocket. The paper had been crumpled from dancing. Priscilla took the sheet, unfolded it with a smile, and after reading it, tucked it into her purse.

"For memory," she explained. "Of how the most organized guy in college allowed himself to be different."

Priscilla turned out to be his complete opposite—spontaneous, emotional, living in the moment. She could dash off to the beach in the middle of the night because "I wanted to see the sunrise," or skip an important lecture for a charity event at an animal shelter. Her unpredictability both frightened and attracted Owen.

They married in their final year, ignoring their parents' lamentations about needing to establish themselves first. They spent their honeymoon on the road—traveling across the country in an old Ford that Owen had personally restored for this trip. They stayed in motels, ate at roadside diners, washed their clothes in self-service laundromats. It was the most reckless and happiest time of his life.

After graduation, they moved to Caldwell, Mississippi. The choice of this town was no accident—Owen had studied statistics and found that it had the optimal ratio of cars per capita to the number of auto repair shops. Priscilla got a job as a nurse at the local hospital, and he rented a small space for a workshop.

The first year was tough. There were few clients—no one wanted to trust their car to a newcomer. Owen worked fourteen hours a day, taking on any repair regardless of complexity. In the evenings, he worked extra shifts at a gas station to pay the rent. Priscilla took additional shifts at the hospital. They economized on everything except tools—on this issue, Owen was adamant.

His reputation came after an incident with the mayor's Cadillac. No workshop in town could determine the cause of a strange knocking in the engine. Owen spent three sleepless nights disassembling and reassembling the motor until he found a microscopic crack in one of the valves. After this, business picked up.

By the time Anna-Marie was born, Owen's workshop was considered the best in the county. He had expanded the premises, hired two assistants, installed modern diagnostic equipment. They bought a house in the suburbs—a Victorian mansion with a spacious garage and garden. Priscilla decorated it in vintage style, and Owen equipped a workshop in the garage.

Fatherhood changed him. For the first time in his life, Owen encountered something that couldn't be planned or calculated. Anna-Marie grew up strong-willed—taking after her mother. She could spend hours tinkering with her father in the garage, attentively listening to his explanations about engine structure, and the next day declare that she wanted to be a ballerina.

Owen encouraged all her interests, even if they seemed pointless to him. The ballet studio was replaced by guitar lessons, then came a period of fascination with photography, then painting. The only thing that remained constant was Saturday sessions in the garage. This became their special ritual, a time when they could talk about everything under the sun.

When Priscilla announced her second pregnancy, Owen was just expanding his network of auto repair shops. He opened three new workshops in neighboring towns, hired staff, implemented unified service standards. The business demanded more and more time, but he didn't allow work to interfere with family life. Every evening, regardless of circumstances, he spent with his family.

Jimmy was born during a difficult period—one of Owen's managers had pulled off a major scam with spare parts, nearly sending the business down the drain. He had to sell two workshops to pay off debts. Owen then spent weeks away at work, trying to save what remained. Priscilla coped with the newborn and ten-year-old Anna-Marie practically alone.

This crisis taught Owen a lot. He realized that the pursuit of success could cost the most precious thing—time with family. After this, he changed his approach to business management—delegated more authority but strengthened financial control. Gradually, things improved, and he began to expand again, but more cautiously.

Anna-Marie took touching care of her younger brother. She took him to the park, helped with homework, protected him from bullies at school. Owen rejoiced in their closeness—for him, family bonds were always more important than any achievements. Every Sunday, they gathered at the big table—discussed the past week, made plans, shared dreams.

The only thing Owen regretted was that he rarely told his children about his feelings. He was used to expressing love through actions: a repaired bicycle, a new set of tools, a sudden trip to the sea. Perhaps if he had been more open, he would have noticed the changes in his daughter's behavior on the eve of her sixteenth birthday.

That morning, Owen got up before dawn—he wanted to finish working on a gift for Anna-Marie. For three months, he had been restoring a classic 1965 Mustang—found it in a junkyard, completely disassembled it, replaced rusted parts, repainted it in his daughter's favorite color. All that remained was to install a modern audio system—a small concession to modern times in a classic car.

The celebration began after lunch. The house filled with guests—Anna-Marie's classmates, neighbors, relatives. Priscilla bustled in the kitchen, Jimmy ran around with other children, Owen kept an eye on everything. All was going according to the plan he and his wife had discussed for several weeks.

And then Anna-Marie's scream came from the kitchen. Owen rushed toward the sound, not suspecting that his next memories would be connected to a hospital room many years later.

His consciousness, like a shattered mirror, broke into thousands of fragments, each reflecting snippets of the last seconds—Priscilla's pale face, his daughter's frightened eyes, his own steps toward the living room... And then everything disappeared, swallowed by the bottomless quagmire of darkness.

Time ceased to exist. He fell through layers of blackness, deeper and deeper, until cold became the only thing left of reality. Thoughts froze, memories were covered with the frost of oblivion. Somewhere on the edge of fading consciousness, images flickered—Marie's smile, Jimmy's laughter, the warmth of Priscilla's hands... But the darkness greedily devoured them one by one.

And then something changed. In the infinite ocean of cold appeared a tiny spark of warmth—distant, barely noticeable, but alive. It grew brighter with each moment, growing through the thickness of darkness with golden threads of light. The warmth approached, enveloped him like a cocoon, penetrated under the skin, warming the frozen blood. When this light finally touched him, Owen felt something gently pulling him upward, away from the embrace of darkness.

The first thing that broke through the veil of nothingness was a smell. Sharp, unpleasantly familiar—it smelled like the hospital wing where Priscilla worked.

Antiseptic.

Consciousness slowly emerged from the darkness, like a fish from the depths, capturing more and more details of the surrounding world. To the smell was added sound—the measured beeping of some device, muffled voices behind the door, the rustle of fabric.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy. He tried to open his eyes, but only managed to slightly part them, letting in a narrow strip of light. It was enough to understand—he was in a hospital. White ceiling, fluorescent lamps, an IV drip to the side. His brain lazily noted details, not yet trying to connect them into a cohesive picture.

His body obeyed surprisingly well. No weakness or stiffness—just a slight numbness, as if he'd slept on his arm. Owen wiggled his fingers slightly, then carefully bent his arm at the elbow. The movements came out smooth, natural. In his muscles, he felt an unusual lightness and warmth, as if after a good warm-up.

He took a deep breath. The air easily filled his lungs; nothing hurt anywhere. Only in his chest spread a strange warmth, pulsating in time with his heartbeat. It was an unusual sensation—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. As if a river of liquid light flowed inside, warming every cell of his body.

Memory returned in fragments, like shards of a broken mirror. Morning. Breakfast. Marie and Jimmy. Screams. Something happened to Jimmy. He rushed to the children and... darkness. Beyond that was a void, a bottomless black pit in which all memories disappeared.

Owen tried to open his eyes again, this time successfully. Light hit his retinas, making him squint. It took several seconds for his vision to focus. The room was small, standard. The blinds on the window let in strips of daylight. A cardiac monitoring system quietly beeped by the bed.

He slowly turned his head, looking around. The movement was surprisingly easy—no pain or discomfort in his neck. His gaze fell on his own hands, lying on top of the hospital blanket.

He slowly stood up and sat on the edge of the hospital bed. His bare feet touched the cool floor, and he involuntarily shivered.

Something was wrong. Fragments of memories swirled in his head—a festive cake on the table, Jimmy's laughter, Marie's scream... Anxiety grew with each second. Why was he in the hospital? What happened to the children? The last thing Owen remembered was rushing to the kitchen after hearing his daughter's scream.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the opening door. A nurse entered the room—a blonde middle-aged woman in a blue uniform. Seeing him sitting on the bed, she froze at the threshold, her eyes wide.

"Mr. D'Ancanto!" her voice faltered. "You're... you're awake!"

She hurried to the bed, taking out a small flashlight as she walked.

"How do you feel?" asked the nurse, directing the beam of light into his eyes and carefully observing the reaction of his pupils.

"Fine," replied Owen, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. "Even good. Just..." he hesitated, trying to formulate a question. "What happened? I remember the children... Jimmy fell, and then..."

He fell silent, again trying to break through the fog in his memory. The nurse froze, her hand with the flashlight suspended in the air. A strange expression flashed across her face—a mixture of sympathy and anxiety.

"Jimmy," Owen began again, feeling his heart beat faster. "Is he here, in the hospital? How is he? And Marie? What about my daughter?"

Ellen carefully put the flashlight back in her pocket and sat on the edge of the bed. Her face took on that special expression that medical professionals have when they're preparing to communicate something difficult.

"Mr. D'Ancanto," she began gently, "let's first make sure that you're alright. I'll call Dr. MacTaggert; she's on duty today. And then we'll calmly talk about everything, okay?"

She spoke in an even, soothing tone, but something in her eyes—perhaps a flicker of compassion or carefully concealed concern—made him internally tense.

"Ellen," Owen read the name on her badge, "please. They're my children. I need to know."

The nurse closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. When she looked at him again, her gaze showed professional determination.

"I think such a conversation is better conducted in the presence of a doctor," Ellen said firmly, rising. "I'll call Dr. MacTaggert right away. And you, please, stay in bed. Promise?"

Without waiting for an answer, she walked quickly toward the door. At the very threshold, she turned:

"I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

The nurse's footsteps faded in the corridor, leaving behind an oppressive silence. Owen stared at the closed door, feeling anxiety building inside. This unnatural caution in Ellen's voice, her evasive answers, and especially the way she avoided talking about the children—everything added up to a picture that made him feel cold inside.

"Something happened to Jimmy," pulsed in his head. "Something so terrible that they're afraid to tell me."

He ran through his last memories again: the festive cake, Jimmy's laughter, Marie's scream in the kitchen... Something happened, something so serious that the nurse doesn't dare to tell him the truth. And now she's gone for a doctor who will come with the same careful expression and start from afar, leading up to something terrible.

Owen lowered his gaze to his hands—they were no longer trembling. His whole body was filled with a strange, inexplicable vigor, like a caffeine rush multiplied by ten. He felt strong enough not just to walk—but to run.

"To hell with their caution," flashed through his mind. "These are my children, and I have the right to know."

In the closet by the bed, he found folded clothes. He slowly stood up, expecting dizziness or weakness, but nothing of the sort followed. His movements were precise, confident, as if he hadn't been lying in a hospital bed at all.

As he pulled on pants and a shirt, Owen listened to the sounds in the corridor. Somewhere in the distance, nurses were talking, some device was beeping, and the wheels of a gurney were squeaking. Ordinary hospital sounds, in which he sensed something ominous.

The door yielded without a single creak. Owen stepped into the corridor, toward the truth, however terrifying it might be.

The hospital corridor seemed endless. Rogue sat on a plastic chair, holding Naruto's hand. Her fingers, unusually bare, intertwined with his—a simple gesture that meant the world to her. Her mother sat across the corridor, and the girl could feel her gaze on her skin.

Thoughts about the upcoming meeting with her father swirled in her head. How to explain what happened? How to tell him about Jimmy? And most importantly—how to say that it was she, his beloved daughter, who destroyed their family with a single touch?

"He'll probably hate me," thought Rogue, unconsciously squeezing Naruto's hand a little tighter. "Maybe even more than I hate myself."

Naruto turned his head slightly, looking closely at Rogue. He knew this expression on her face well, when she descended into a spiral of self-loathing. He wanted to hug her, to protect her from her own thoughts, but he understood—now was not the time.

"So, you're together?" her mother's voice pulled Rogue from her thoughts.

A simple question, behind which so much was hidden. Twelve years of silence. Twelve years when her mother didn't want to know what was happening in her daughter's life.

"Yes," answered Rogue, looking her directly in the eyes for the first time in a long while.

Naruto remained silent, though everything was boiling inside him. He remembered Rogue's story about the day her mother threw her out of the house. About how a sixteen-year-old girl ended up on the street, losing everything in an instant—family, home, future. He remembered how her voice trembled when she spoke about it.

Priscilla D'Ancanto lowered her gaze to their intertwined hands. It was strange to see her daughter without gloves, without that eternal barrier between her and the world. She often thought about the day when everything changed. About her words, about how she slammed the door in front of her own child.

At the time, it seemed Priscilla couldn't have acted differently. Jimmy was dead, Owen in a coma, and she... she simply broke. The world collapsed in seconds, and at the epicenter of this chaos stood her daughter—a mutant whose touch brought death.

For years, Priscilla convinced herself she had done the right thing. That she was protecting herself, that she couldn't have done otherwise. But the truth was that she was simply afraid. Afraid of the power that lurked in her child. Afraid of the responsibility. Afraid of a future in which nothing would ever be the same.

Now, looking at her grown daughter, Priscilla saw a woman about whose life she knew nothing. A woman who had learned to live with her gift, found her path, found love. And all this—without her, without maternal support and love.

She had often imagined this meeting. In her fantasies, she found the right words, asked for forgiveness, explained her actions. But reality proved more complex. Here, in the hospital corridor, all prepared words seemed empty and meaningless.

And now her daughter sat opposite, holding the hand of a young man who somehow, miraculously, could touch her. And in this simple gesture was more love and acceptance than in everything that she, the mother, had been able to give her child.

Rogue was silent, staring at the space between them—as empty and cold as these twelve years. She had rebuilt her life, learned to be strong, found a new family among outcasts like herself. But somewhere deep inside still lived that frightened girl who didn't understand why her mother had grown to hate her.

Naruto felt the tension hanging in the air. He wanted to say something, somehow ease the atmosphere, but he understood—this wasn't his battle. All he could do was to be there, giving Rogue support and stability.

Priscilla opened her mouth, about to say something, but she was interrupted by an alarmed female voice echoing down the corridor:

"Mr. D'Ancanto! Return to your room! You shouldn't be up!"

"No, I need to know what happened," came a firm male voice that made Rogue catch her breath.

That voice. God, that voice! She remembered it like this—strong, confident, alive. The way it was before that day. Before she destroyed everything.

At the end of the corridor, just a few meters from them, stood her father—in a hospital shirt and worn jeans. Rogue felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. It was impossible. Unreal. Before her stood not a man emaciated by years in a coma, but the very father she remembered—stately, full of strength, without a single sign that he had spent the last twelve years motionless on a hospital bed.

Her fingers convulsively tightened on Naruto's hand, but she didn't even notice. The whole world narrowed to this impossible scene that contradicted all laws of nature—her father the same as before, as if someone had paused time twelve years ago and just now started it again.

Priscilla beside her made a strange sound—part sob, part strangled cry. Her face became whiter than the hospital walls, her eyes widened so much that they seemed about to pop out of their sockets. She looked at her husband as if she'd seen a ghost, and in a sense, she had—the man she had buried in her heart many years ago suddenly appeared before her, not having aged a day.

Owen turned his head and noticed them. His gaze slid over Priscilla's face, not noticing the deep wrinkles that had appeared over the years, nor the premature gray in her hair, nor the fatigue that had permanently settled in her eyes. He saw only his wife, as he remembered her the last time.

Rogue instinctively stepped back, almost pressing herself against Naruto. Her knees were buckling, her mouth had gone dry, and her heart seemed to have forgotten how to beat. For twelve years she had imagined this meeting, played possible scenarios in her head, prepared words. But reality proved so much more terrifying than any fantasy that all her prepared phrases crumbled to dust.

Owen walked quickly toward Priscilla. His movements were as confident and strong as before—not a trace of the years of paralysis.

"Darling," his hands fell on her shoulders, and this simple gesture seemed so unnatural, so impossible, that Rogue felt dizzy. "What happened to Jimmy? Why won't anyone tell me about him?"

Priscilla looked at her husband as if she couldn't believe her eyes. Her lips moved silently, trying to say something, but not a sound escaped them. In her gaze was absolute shock—that degree of shock when the mind simply refuses to accept what is happening.

And then her eyes rolled back, and Priscilla began to collapse to the floor, fainting. Owen caught her before she fell, and this gesture—so familiar, so natural—was the final straw. Rogue felt tears rolling down her cheeks, but didn't even try to wipe them away.

Owen carefully lowered his wife onto the nearest chair, supporting her by the shoulders. His movements were confident, precise—not a trace of years of paralysis. Priscilla, pale as a sheet, moved weakly, coming to her senses.

"Dad?" a quiet, trembling voice sounded behind him.

Owen slowly turned around. A few steps away stood a young woman, almost hiding behind a tall blond man. Her face was streaked with tears, and in her wide-open eyes was such fear that his heart ached.

"Who are you?" he asked, peering at the unfamiliar features.

Something vaguely familiar flashed in her appearance—maybe in the line of her chin or in the way she bit her lip, holding back sobs. The girl squeezed her eyes shut, new tears rolling down her cheeks. Her fingers convulsively clutched the young man's hand, as if seeking support.

"This is Rogue... Anna-Marie," the blond young man said quietly, holding the crying girl closer. "Your daughter."

Owen felt the ground disappearing beneath his feet. He looked at this adult woman, trying to find in her the features of his little Marie, his sixteen-year-old daughter. How was this possible? When had she grown up so much?

"Mr. D'Ancanto!" came a concerned female voice.

A red-haired woman in a white coat was approaching them with quick steps. The name "Dr. M. MacTaggert" gleamed on her badge. Her face expressed professional concern, but in her eyes was genuine sympathy.

"You need to return to your room," she said gently but firmly. "Your condition requires careful examination. I understand you have many questions, but right now it's extremely important to make sure you're alright."

Owen shifted his gaze from his daughter to the doctor and back. A whirlwind of questions spun in his head, but something in Dr. MacTaggert's tone suggested—now was not the time for them.

"We can conduct the examination in the presence of your family," the doctor added, noticing his hesitation. "They'll stay nearby while we run the necessary tests."

The girl was still hiding behind her companion, but now something new appeared in her gaze—desperate hope, mixed with fear. Owen felt his heart tighten. Whatever had happened, however much time had passed, this was his daughter. His little Marie.

"Alright," he nodded to the doctor, not taking his eyes off his daughter. "But they'll come with us?"

"Of course," MacTaggert smiled. "The nurse will take care of Mrs. D'Ancanto, and Miss Rogue and her... friend can be present during the examination, if you don't mind."

Rogue took a convulsive breath, squeezing the blond young man's hand tighter. Owen couldn't tear his gaze from her face, trying to make sense of what was happening. This adult woman could not possibly be his little Marie. His daughter was only sixteen, she was still a teenager... But those eyes, that look—so familiar and yet so strange.

"This is some kind of mistake," pulsed in his head as he followed the doctor. "Something's not right here."

But deep inside, he was beginning to understand—something irreparable had happened, something that had changed his entire life. And the answers to these questions frightened him more than the unknown.

The room greeted them with sterile whiteness and the quiet beeping of medical equipment. Dr. MacTaggert gestured for Owen to sit on the bed, while Rogue and Naruto remained by the wall—close enough to hear the conversation, but not interfering with the examination.

"Let's conduct a standard examination," MacTaggert said softly, taking a flashlight from her coat pocket. "This won't take long."

Her movements were calm and confident as she directed the beam of light into Owen's eyes, checking his pupil response. Rogue, pressed against Naruto, couldn't take her eyes off her father. He looked so... alive. So much like before. As if those endless years when she came to the hospital and sat for hours beside his motionless body had never existed.

"Pupil response normal," the doctor murmured, making a note in the chart. "Now let's check reflexes."

She took out a neurological hammer and lightly tapped his knee tendon. His leg jerked—clearly, confidently, without the slightest sign of atrophy.

"Amazing," whispered MacTaggert, clearly astonished by the result. "Muscle tone excellent."

Naruto smiled slightly. He knew it was due to his chakra—it hadn't just healed Owen, but restored his body to the condition it was in at the moment of injury.

"Good," the doctor sat on a chair opposite the bed. "Now I need to ask you a few standard questions. Do you mind?"

Owen shook his head, his gaze repeatedly returning to Rogue, as if trying to find traces of his daughter in this adult woman.

"What's today's date?" asked MacTaggert, holding her pen ready.

"August sixteenth," Owen answered without hesitation. "Marie's birthday."

Rogue flinched. Naruto squeezed her hand tighter, feeling her tremble.

"And the year?"

"Two thousand thirteen, of course," a slight uncertainty appeared in Owen's voice. Something in the doctor's facial expression made him wary.

MacTaggert slowly put down her pen. Her gaze momentarily darted to the wall calendar—large, clearly visible from all points in the room. Owen followed her gaze, and his face froze.

2024

He blinked. Then again. The numbers didn't change.

"This... this is some kind of mistake," his voice faltered. "Today is August sixteenth, two thousand thirteen. Marie's birthday. She's turning sixteen."

"Dad..." Rogue's voice broke. She took a step forward but stopped when Owen turned sharply toward her.

"No," he shook his head. "No, that's impossible. My daughter is sixteen. She's a teenager. She..."

His gaze darted around the room, catching details—the modern monitor on the wall, an unfamiliar IV model, the strange design of the medical equipment. Everything looked alien, wrong, too... new.

"Mr. D'Ancanto," MacTaggert's voice was gentle but firm. "Look at your medical chart."

She handed him a folder. Owen mechanically took it, and his gaze fell on the dates. Date of admission—August 16, 2013. Today's date—December 21, 2024.

The folder slipped from his weakened fingers.

"Twelve years?" he whispered. "I was... twelve years?"

"You were in a coma," MacTaggert quietly confirmed. "After the incident..."

"Jimmy," Owen suddenly said. His face paled. "Where's Jimmy? What happened to my son?"

Rogue made a strangled sound, more like a sob. Naruto felt her tense up, ready to bolt.

"He..." MacTaggert began, but Owen was no longer listening. His gaze was fixed on his daughter, and understanding slowly dawned in it.

"Marie?" his voice sounded different, as if he finally truly saw her. "What happened that day?"

Rogue closed her eyes, tears flowing from beneath her eyelids. Naruto stepped forward, shielding her, but she gently pushed him aside.

"It was me, Dad," Rogue whispered, looking her father in the eyes. "My mutation manifested that day. I... I killed Jimmy. And almost killed you."

A dead silence fell in the room, broken only by the beeping of medical equipment. Owen looked at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. In his gaze mixed shock, disbelief, and something else—either fear or understanding.

"Forgive me," Rogue's voice trembled. "Please, forgive me, Dad."

The silence struck her ears. Owen froze, staring at one point. His hand slowly rose to his lips—a gesture familiar from childhood, when he needed to contain emotions. His gaze slid around the room—from his adult daughter to the hospital bed where he had spent twelve years, to the calendar on the wall. Emptiness appeared in his eyes.

His shoulders drooped, as if the weight of the years lived suddenly fell on them. His skin paled, taking on an ashen hue. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes—as quiet as his daughter's.

"Leave me, please," his voice sounded even, almost mechanical. "I need to be alone."

Rogue flinched. She recognized this intonation—this was how her father spoke when something didn't go according to plan, when he needed time to think things through. Her fingers squeezed Naruto's hand. Her father's first words in twelve years—a request to leave. A lump formed in her throat.

She backed toward the door on wooden legs. Tears flowed down her cheeks silently—like in childhood, when Rogue learned restraint from her father. Naruto carefully supported her by the elbow, guiding her to the exit.

At the door, Rogue turned around. Her father stood with his head bowed. Naruto gently led her into the corridor.

As soon as the door closed, a quiet, almost inaudible whisper came from the room:

"Jimmy..." one word, containing an ocean of pain.

It was followed by the sound of a body sinking onto the bed. Rogue pressed herself against the wall, her legs wouldn't hold her. Through the thin hospital door, his uneven breathing barely penetrated—the only sign of the storm raging inside.

At that moment, Priscilla appeared from around the corner, still pale after her fainting spell. She froze, looking at her daughter.

"He wants to be alone," Rogue's voice sounded as even as her father's had a minute ago.

Her mother slowly nodded and heavily sank onto a plastic chair near the room. In the silence of the corridor, only quiet, methodical tapping could be heard—Owen beating his fingers on the edge of the bed in the same rhythm that once helped him calm down in moments of severe stress.

Rogue let Naruto lead her away. In her ears still rang her father's last whisper, calling for his dead son, and tears rolled down her cheeks—now not only from grief, but also from the understanding that she would never be able to atone for her guilt.

Rogue stood in front of the motel door, clutching a paper bag. The whiskey bottle knocked dully against the plastic packaging of contraceptive pills—right after buying the alcohol she had stopped at the pharmacy. She knew what she wanted tonight. When had sex become her favorite painkiller? The neon sign bathed the parking lot in a reddish light, casting bizarre shadows on the asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, cars hummed on the highway, but here, in the parking lot of a third-rate motel, time seemed to have stopped.

Her hands trembled. Rogue tried to insert the key into the lock, but the metal only helplessly scraped against the lock's surface. Again and again. With each failed attempt, her breathing became more erratic. On the third try, the bag slipped from her shaking fingers—Naruto caught it just before it hit the floor.

She leaned her forehead against the door, squeezing her eyes shut. Before her eyes stood her father's gaze—confused, uncomprehending. Strange. Nausea rose in her throat.

The key finally yielded. Rogue pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness of the room, not turning on the light. The stale air, permeated with old tobacco smoke and cheap air freshener, hit her nostrils. She took a few uncertain steps and stopped in the middle of the room, hugging herself.

"Fuck..." she breathed, barely audible. Her voice treacherously trembled.

Mascara had smeared down her cheeks in black trails. Rogue hadn't even noticed when she started crying. She sank down on the edge of the bed, still hugging her shoulders, as if trying to hold something inside. Something huge and painful that was breaking out, threatening to tear her apart.

The springs creaked—Naruto sat down beside her. Rogue flinched when he touched her shoulder. Twelve years of habitually recoiling from any touch couldn't disappear overnight. But his hand remained in place—warm, comforting.

A sob escaped against her will. Then a second. A third. And then the dam broke—Rogue doubled over, shaking with silent sobs. Naruto simply held her while she drowned in a whirlpool of pain and guilt that had been accumulating for twelve long years.

The Southern accent, which she had so carefully hidden all these years, broke through in every broken breath, taking her back to the day when little Anna-Marie ceased to exist forever. She was there again—in her childhood bedroom, where posters of favorite bands hung on the walls, and family photos stood on the dresser. Where her younger brother smiled at her for the last time. Where one touch destroyed everything.

The whiskey in the bag gurgled enticingly when Naruto set it on the bedside table. Rogue stood up abruptly, nearly losing her balance. The leather jacket flew to the floor—the same jacket that had served as her armor for so many years. The gloves followed. Her fingers trembled, getting tangled in the laces of her boots. To hell with it. Everything to hell.

Jeans fell around her ankles. She practically tore off her turtleneck, not caring that the fabric ripped at the seams. Each item of clothing removed was like shackles being cast off—all this damn clothing she had hidden in for twelve years. Protected herself. Protected others.

Left in just her underwear and tank top, Rogue wrapped her arms around herself. The cool air of the room touched her bare skin, and this simple sensation brought tears to her throat again. She was shaking—either from the cold or from the emotions bursting to get out.

Alcohol won't solve problems—she had learned this lesson in the first few months after the incident. But now she needed something to dull this tearing pain in her chest. Something to help her survive this night.

Rogue stood in the middle of the room, hugging her shoulders. The cool air raised goosebumps on her exposed skin, while a hurricane of unspoken words and suppressed sobs still raged in her chest.

She felt movement behind her—Naruto rose from the bed. His steps were almost inaudible on the worn carpet. The warmth of his body enveloped her a moment before strong arms wrapped around her waist. Rogue instinctively leaned back, sinking into his embrace, allowing the warmth to seep through the thin fabric of her tank top.

Something broke inside—the last wall she had so desperately tried to maintain. Rogue tilted her head back onto his shoulder, exhaling brokenly. Naruto's breath tickled her neck, and his arms held her tightly, as if protecting her from the whole world.

The corner of her lips twitched in a weak semblance of a smile—the first in this endlessly long day. Without breaking the embrace, Rogue reached for the bedside table, feeling for the bottle. The cork yielded with a quiet click. The whiskey burned her throat, and she grimaced—a Southern girl from a decent family had never liked strong alcohol. But right now it was exactly what she needed.

Rogue extended the bottle over her shoulder:

"Here, lover. Care to drink with me?"

There were still tears in her voice, but now something else mixed in—perhaps a hint of that daring smirk she always used as a shield. Only now it wasn't protection. Rather, an invitation to share this moment of vulnerability with her.

Rogue sat on the floor, her back against the bed. One leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. The alcohol slowly spread through her body, dulling the sharp edges of reality, but it couldn't silence the pulsating pain inside. Each sip of whiskey seemed to blur the boundary between past and present, between the frightened girl she had been and the woman she had become.

Naruto pulled the worn armchair close and sat opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees. There was something reliable, grounding in his presence, not allowing her to slide completely into the whirlpool of bitter memories. The whiskey bottle had emptied by a third, but Rogue could still feel her fingers trembling.

"You know what's the strangest thing about this motel?" she tilted her head back, looking up at him. Her voice sounded hoarse, as if Rogue had been screaming for hours. In a way, she had—only all the screams remained inside. "It's exactly the same as the one where I spent my first night after..." she faltered, unable to say the words "after I killed my brother." "After."

Her gaze slid over the walls of the room, catching details—the same silly pictures, the same carpet with worn-out patches, the same yellowed curtains.

"I mean, so much time has passed," she traced her finger along the worn carpet, following the intricate pattern, "but these motels seem stuck in time. Like cans with preserved sadness."

The words came out disjointed, confused. Rogue herself didn't know why she was talking about this. Perhaps because it was easier to discuss the shabby interior than how her father didn't recognize her. How he looked through her, trying to find in her face the features of that sixteen-year-old girl he remembered. How his voice faltered when he asked about Jimmy.

Rogue brought the bottle to her lips, taking too large a swig. The whiskey burned her throat, and she winced. Alcohol had always seemed too crude a comfort to her, but now this crudeness was almost welcome—anything to not feel this tearing emptiness inside.

"God, what am I saying..." Rogue tried to smirk, but it came out crooked, unnatural. The Southern accent, which she had so carefully suppressed for years, broke through stronger with each sip of whiskey, bringing her back to the time when she was just Anna-Marie from a good family in Mississippi.

Naruto took the bottle from Rogue, and his fingers lingered momentarily on her hand—a simple touch that until recently had seemed impossible. One that should have killed him, as it killed Jimmy. But Naruto was here, alive and warm, the only person able to touch her without fear. The only one who saw her for real—not a superheroine, not a fugitive, not her brother's killer, but simply a woman who was tired of running from herself.

"Nah, it was the same thing with ramen shops in Konoha. Each one looked like time had stopped there thirty years ago."

"Ramen..." Rogue took a sip, licked her lips. "Is that the noodle thing you're always praising?"

"Yo!" Naruto slid lower in the chair so their faces were at the same level. "Ramen isn't just a 'noodle thing'! It's..." he hesitated, searching for words. "It's like a hug in a bowl."

Rogue choked on her whiskey, coughing:

"A hug in a bowl?" she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up at him. "Seriously? You sometimes say such nonsense..."

"No, I don't!" he reached for the bottle. "You just don't know how to make it properly here. Now, old man Teuchi..."

"Oh God," she threw her head back against the bed, rolling her eyes. "Don't start again about this uncle of yours. I already know all these stories about 'the best ramen in the world' by heart."

She stretched, working out her neck. Her tank top rode up, exposing a strip of skin on her stomach. Naruto took a large swig.

"You know what's really funny?" Rogue pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "I don't even remember the taste of normal home-cooked food. The kind my mom made. I remember the smell. I remember how she moved around the kitchen. But the taste..." she snapped her fingers, "it's like it's been cut off."

"Maybe that's for the best," Naruto handed her the bottle, leaning forward. The chair creaked again. "Some things are better remembered... well, not completely."

"You talk like a damn philosopher," Rogue took a sip, not taking her eyes off him. "Speaking of philosophy. Tell me, smart guy," she nodded at the wall, "why do motels always have these creepy fruit pictures? Have you ever seen anyone actually arrange fruit like that? Like that, in a pyramid?"

"Maybe it's some kind of secret sign?" Naruto slid down even lower, almost slipping off the chair. "Like if you arrange the fruit exactly that way, the third eye will open?"

"Idiot," she kicked the leg of the chair with her bare foot, but her lips twitched in a smile.

The whiskey enveloped her consciousness in a pleasant haze, dulling the pain and heightening other senses. Rogue suddenly acutely felt the coolness of the room on her bare skin, the contrast between the cold floor and her heated body. The alcohol seemed to blur the boundaries between grief and desire, between past and present.

Her gaze slid over Naruto—tousled blond hair, the firm line of his jaw, broad shoulders under his t-shirt. Memories washed over her in a wave of heat: his hands on her hips, hot breath on her neck, the way he filled her completely. The first man who could touch her.

Moisture gathered between her legs, and Rogue unconsciously squeezed her thighs together, feeling the pulsing in her lower belly. Desire hit suddenly and powerfully—perhaps because of the alcohol, or perhaps because of this sharp contrast between the pain of loss and the thirst for life.

Her tank top clung to her heated skin, and the lace of her underwear suddenly felt too rough. Every nerve seemed heightened, every accidental movement sending waves of goosebumps across her skin. She caught Naruto's gaze and saw in his eyes a reflection of her own desire—dark, deep, mixed with a tenderness that took her breath away.

Rogue slowly ran her foot up his leg, not taking her eyes off his face. In the dim light of the room, her eyes seemed almost black, and the white streak in her hair gleamed silver in the dull light.

"Maybe you should get rid of these damn clothes already?" her voice was husky either from the whiskey or from desire. She froze, not changing her position, only her fingers gripped her knees tighter.

Naruto put the bottle on the floor and in one smooth motion pulled the t-shirt over his head. In the uncertain light, reflections from the neon sign played on his skin, highlighting the relief of his muscles. He picked up the whiskey again, took a swig, and returned to the chair, leaning back.

Rogue involuntarily licked her lips, examining his body. Every scar was familiar to her, every line of muscle studied by her touch. She remembered the story behind each of these scars—Naruto had told her about them during long nights after intimacy.

"You know what's the most attractive thing about your shadow clone technique?" Rogue ran her tongue over her lips, looking at him from beneath half-lowered eyelashes. Her foot slid over his member through the fabric of his shorts. "The fact that you feel everything they feel when they disappear."

Naruto choked on the whiskey, coughing. The bottle wobbled in his hand, and several drops fell onto his bare torso.

"Damn..." he watched as her gaze hungrily followed the drops running down his torso. "And here I thought, naive me, that the best thing was help on missions."

"Oh, sweetheart," Rogue leaned forward, bracing her palms on the floor between her spread legs. The strap of her tank top slipped off her shoulder. "You're so... proper. Always thinking about missions."

"And you're thinking about something else?" he chuckled hoarsely, not taking his eyes off her lips.

"Mmm..." she bit her lower lip. "You don't even know how many times I've thought about it. About how it would be..." she paused, "when there's more than one of you."

Her eyes darkened with desire, and a blush appeared on her cheeks—either from the whiskey or from her own frankness.

"Fuck, Anna-chan..." Naruto cursed in another language for the first time, leaning forward in the chair. His pants had grown tight, and she could feel it with her foot.

"What is it?" Rogue innocently batted her eyelashes, but a predatory smile played on her lips. "I'm just sharing my thoughts. Isn't that what couples do? Share... intimate things?"

"You know perfectly well what you're doing," Naruto exhaled when her foot slid higher, under the elastic of his shorts.

"Tell me," Rogue purred. "What exactly am I doing?"

"Teasing me..."

"Nothing of the sort," she leaned closer. "Just telling you how often I've imagined one of your clones taking me from behind while I suck you off. Or how I lie between two... three... you, and you all..."

Her voice became low, almost purring, and her toes on his leg tightened, massaging his member through the fabric. The whiskey in the bottle sloshed when Naruto abruptly set it on the floor. Red sparks flashed in his eyes—the bijuu's chakra responding to his arousal.

"Damn tease," Naruto growled, and his voice held bestial notes.

"Mmm," Rogue tilted her head back, exposing her neck, knowing perfectly well how this affects his animal nature. "And what will you do? Punish me?"

"Your tongue is too sharp today..."

"Then make it do something better than talk," she suggestively licked her lips.

Naruto slowly formed a hand sign. Two pops—and on either side of Rogue, clones materialized, sitting down on the floor by the bed. She raised her head, surveying them with an alcohol-hazed gaze. Three absolutely identical torsos, three pairs of blue eyes with dancing red sparks. The whiskey buzzed pleasantly in her head, making reality slightly blur at the edges.

Her pupils dilated when Rogue felt warm breath from three directions at once.

"Fuck..." she exhaled, unable to contain a shiver of anticipation.

The first clone leaned toward her from the left, burying his fingers in her chestnut hair. His lips covered her mouth—demanding, hungry. Rogue moaned, tasting whiskey on his tongue. The second clone approached from the right, running his nose along her neck before gently biting her earlobe.

"Is this what you wanted?" the real Naruto asked hoarsely from the chair, watching as Rogue melted in the clones' hands.

She couldn't answer—her mouth was occupied with a passionate kiss. Rogue only moaned deeply when the first clone pulled away, immediately giving way to the second. He kissed differently—slower, more sensually, but no less passionately. Rogue trembled, feeling the first clone descending with kisses down her neck to her collarbone.

Each touch sent electrical discharges through her body. For twelve years she had been deprived of the ability to feel someone else's skin on hers—and now these sensations overwhelmed her with triple force. Blood pounded in her temples, mixing with the effect of alcohol, making reality a bit more blurred and desires sharper.

"Holy shit..." Rogue exhaled when the second clone broke away from her lips. "You... you all..." she couldn't find words, feeling the hands of both clones sliding over her body, exploring every curve through the thin fabric of her tank top.

Alcohol and arousal clouded her mind, but Rogue didn't want to resist this intoxication. After the hospital, she wanted one thing—to feel pleasure. To forget about guilt, about pain, about the past—and dissolve in the touch of the person she could trust completely.

Rogue raised her hazy gaze to the original. Naruto was just taking another sip of whiskey, and amber drops glistened on his lips in the neon light.

"Look what you've done."

Rogue slowly pushed aside the lace fabric, exposing her wet, juice-flowing flesh. Naruto sharply inhaled, his pupils dilating, almost completely swallowing the blue iris. The whiskey hit the floor with a dull thud.

"You're completely soaked..." Naruto exhaled, devouring her with his eyes.

Rogue bit her lip, watching his reaction from beneath half-lowered eyelashes. Her chest heaved heavily, nipples provocatively showing through the thin fabric of her tank top. The alcohol clouded her mind, but only intensified her desire, making each sensation sharper.

"What did you expect?" Rogue purred with a wanton smile. "After everything you do to me..." her gaze darted to the clones, "...everything you all do to me."

Naruto dropped to his knees in front of her, lying on his stomach. His hot breath touched the inside of her thigh, making Rogue shudder with anticipation. His tongue ran over her wet folds, and she moaned loudly, arching toward his mouth.

"Oh God..." Rogue exhaled, burying her fingers in his blond hair.

Naruto hungrily licked her flowing center, sometimes slowly running his tongue along the entire length, sometimes concentrating on the pulsating bud. Rogue writhed under his skilled tongue, moaning louder and louder. The clones continued to caress her breasts through the thin fabric of her tank top, biting the skin on her neck, adding sharp sensations.

"Fuck... yes... like that..." her Southern accent broke through stronger when she began moving her hips to meet his mouth.

Naruto's tongue worked wonders—he teased her clit with quick movements, then plunged deep inside. Rogue felt a tight spiral of pleasure coiling in her lower belly. Each movement of his tongue, each kiss from the clones, each touch of their hands brought her closer to the edge.

One of the clones pulled her tank top up, exposing her heated body. The second continued to cover her neck and shoulders with kisses, leaving bright marks on her pale skin. Rogue arched under Naruto's skilled tongue, her moans becoming louder and more desperate.

Alcohol and arousal completely clouded her mind. She clutched at his blond hair, forcefully pressing his head against her. Her body shuddered from the growing pleasure, muscles tensed to the limit.

"Coming..." her voice broke into a rasp.

The orgasm hit in a powerful wave. Rogue moaned, arching into a bow. The alcohol made itself known—she felt herself losing control of her body. A hot stream gushed from her, but Naruto didn't pull away, only pressed his mouth harder, swallowing everything completely. His tongue continued to work, making her convulse from powerful, almost painful pleasure.

When the last spasms subsided, Rogue collapsed exhaustedly onto her back. Her body glistened with sweat, her chest heaved heavily. She looked at Naruto with a hazy gaze—desire burned in his eyes, and something else that made her heart skip a beat.

Rogue slowly came to herself, breathing heavily. Her body still shook from the pleasure experienced, muscles twitched from residual spasms. The whiskey in her blood made the sensations sharper, brighter, as if someone had turned the sensitivity knob to maximum. In the dim light of the neon sign, she saw Naruto slowly rising, running his tongue over his wet lips. Drops ran down his chin, and he carelessly wiped them with the back of his hand.

Rogue lowered her hazy gaze. Naruto's member clearly showed through the thin fabric of his shorts, a wet spot of pre-ejaculate spreading across the light fabric. At the sight, another sweet spasm pulled in her lower belly.

The clones continued exploring her body. One traced intricate patterns with his tongue between her breasts, descending lower to her stomach, the second covered her neck with kisses, alternating them with light bites. Each touch sent electric shocks of pleasure throughout her body.

Rogue felt a new wave of desire building inside. Twelve years of abstinence, twelve years without the ability to feel someone else's touch—and now her body seemed to be trying to make up for lost time. She was insatiable, each orgasm only fueling the desire to experience more.

Her gaze stopped again on Naruto's aroused member. A predatory gleam appeared in her eyes—Rogue licked her dry lips, watching as his cock twitched under her close attention. Her hand slid along the inside of his thigh, barely touching the skin with her fingertips.

Naruto sharply inhaled through clenched teeth. His eyes were almost black from dilated pupils, red sparks danced in his irises—Kurama's chakra responding to his arousal.

With one smooth, almost feline movement, Rogue turned around, getting on all fours. She arched her back, casting a hazy glance over her shoulder.

Naruto got rid of his shorts with one sharp movement. His member pulsed with arousal, the large head glistening with pre-come in the neon light. He positioned himself behind her, running his cock along her wet folds. Rogue moaned, pushing her hips to meet him.

The first clone knelt in front of her, his aroused member right in front of her face. The second continued to caress her breasts, sometimes gently massaging them, sometimes sensitively squeezing her nipples, sending sharp sparks of pleasure directly to her clit.

"Yes..." Rogue moaned when the original entered her with one powerful thrust.

Her lips, wet from the whiskey, wrapped around the clone's member, allowing it to penetrate deep into her throat. Naruto growled—sensations from both bodies overlapped, multiplying the pleasure several times. His movements became harder, faster, each thrust making Rogue moan around the clone's cock.

She dissolved in the sensations, losing the thread of reality. With each thrust from behind, a new wave of pleasure washed over her, and the movement of the cock in her mouth resonated with a sweet pulsation in her lower belly. Fuck, it feels so good... Just not thinking about anything... The second clone gripped her hair tighter, forcing her to take him deeper into her throat, while the third bit the skin on her neck, leaving a hickey.

Thoughts jumbled from alcohol and arousal. A pleasant emptiness rang in her head—no memories of her father, no feelings of guilt, only pure, animal pleasure. The clone's cock slid along her tongue, filling her mouth to the limit, and Rogue sucked greedily, with a kind of desperate desire.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the second clone showing something to the original. The next moment, Naruto sharply pulled out of her. Before Rogue could understand what was happening, the third clone slid under her, lying on his back. Her body reacted instinctively, hips instinctively rocking forward.

"Fuck everything..." Rogue exhaled when the clone entered her with one movement.

The original's hot breath burned her lower back. His cock slid between her buttocks, pressing against her anus. Surprised, Rogue jerked, but strong hands were already holding her—not letting her pull away, but not causing pain.

To hell with thoughts... pulsed in her head in time with the movements. Naruto entered slowly, allowing her to adjust, stretching her inch by inch. The whiskey dulled all sensations, turning pain into a strange, viscous pleasure.

"Fuck..." Rogue moaned when he entered completely.

Two cocks stretched her almost to the limit. On the edge of consciousness flickered a thought that tomorrow would be painful, but right now she didn't care. Rogue wanted this pain. Wanted to feel them everywhere, to lose herself in these sensations.

The clone in her mouth set the rhythm, thrusting into her throat. The others picked it up, moving sometimes in sync, sometimes discordantly. Rogue lost herself in this rhythm, dissolved in it. Hair stuck to her sweaty back, saliva mixed with pre-come ran down her chin.

Her body burned. Each thrust echoed with a new wave of pleasure until it became almost painful. The clone beneath her moved more sharply, deeper. Naruto pounded into her ass from behind, holding her by the hips. At some point, Rogue stopped understanding whose hands were whose, whose cocks, where was up and down.

The clone in front of her tensed, pulsing on her tongue. Rogue felt hot semen filling her mouth. She swallowed greedily, not letting a drop spill, tasting the salty flavor on her tongue. The clone's moan mixed with her own muffled moan as Rogue swallowed the last drops.

The orgasm hit suddenly—sharp, almost painful. Her body arched, muscles convulsively clenched around both cocks inside. The clones and the original didn't stop, continuing to fuck her, prolonging the pleasure. One orgasm flowed into another until her consciousness began to drift completely.

At some point, Rogue felt them coming—almost simultaneously, filling her with hot seed. They continued moving for several more seconds, smearing semen inside, until two pops announced the disappearance of the clones.

Rogue collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily. Her legs trembled, pulsating between them, a mixture of semen and her juices flowing down her thighs. Naruto fell beside her—just as sweaty and breathing heavily.

Tomorrow's going to be fucking painful... Rogue thought lazily, feeling a pleasant languor throughout her body. But right now, she felt good. Empty. Calm.

Naruto pulled Rogue to him, burying his nose in her disheveled hair. The white streak emitted a faint smell of whiskey. Rogue buried her face in his neck, inhaling his familiar scent, mixed with the musky aroma of sex. His fingers absently traced patterns on her back, making her skin break out in goosebumps.

Rogue lay staring at the motel ceiling. The neon sign outside the window continued its endless dance—flash, fade, flash again. On the bedside table stood a lonely empty whiskey bottle. The thick smell of sex mixed with cheap air freshener hit her nose.

The sweat on her skin was beginning to cool, and Rogue involuntarily shivered. Somewhere in her chest, a familiar feeling was forming—that nasty mixture of guilt, disgust, and helplessness that overwhelmed her after particularly desperate sex. Naruto slept beside her, his breathing even and calm. So proper. So pure. In the darkness, she could make out his profile—and at this sight, something painfully contracted inside.

Nausea rose to her throat. Not from him—from herself. From how she clung to these touches like a dying person to the last breath of air. Sometimes Rogue felt she was just using him. That this whole story wasn't about love, but about her fucking addiction to finally being able to feel someone's skin on hers.

In moments like today, when her father looked through her... She grabbed onto Naruto like a life preserver. And the worst part—part of her hated this dependency. Hated how desperately she needed him. His touches. His smile. That stupid ability of his to see something good in everything.

Maybe all this was just another way to escape reality? From the fact that she's the killer of her own brother? That her mother can't look her in the eyes, and her father...

Fuck, how tired Rogue was of figuring out what she felt for Naruto. Sometimes it felt like love—especially when he looked at her as if she were something more than a walking curse. And sometimes... sometimes it seemed to her that Rogue had simply found the perfect drug. Someone who could give her what she had been deprived of for so long.

And the scariest thing—Rogue didn't know if she was even capable of a normal relationship. Of real intimacy. Not physical—emotional. Every time Naruto tried to talk about something serious, everything inside her tightened. She had learned to spread her legs but couldn't, fuck, open her soul. Because it was easier to fuck than to talk about the shit going on in her head. Easier to use his body to silence the screams in her memory. Easier to come than to cry.

Sometimes Rogue caught his gaze—so pure, open, full of some blind faith. And it made her sick with herself. Because Naruto looked at her as someone whole, someone worthy of salvation. And she... she was just fragments of that girl from Mississippi, glued together with rage and guilt. Used him as glue to hold these pieces together.

Naruto deserved better than being a crutch for a broken woman. Deserved someone who could love him completely, not just fuck him trying to fill the emptiness inside. Someone who wouldn't use his touches as a substitute for therapy. But Rogue was too selfish to let go. Too afraid to be alone again with herself. With the darkness that lived inside. With Jimmy's voice that still called to her at night.

Dr. Moira MacTaggert had spent the day working nonstop. After witnessing the incredible healing of a patient with her own eyes, she urgently needed to prepare convincing medical documentation for official authorities. She consulted with colleagues, studied similar cases in medical literature, and meticulously prepared the documents. The chakra that Naruto had used worked real miracles—Owen D'Ancanto hadn't just awakened after twelve years in a coma but had fully recovered physically, as if his body had remained in perfect condition all these years.

The next five days passed in continuous examinations. MacTaggert personally monitored every test and analysis. For the outside world, Owen's recovery was explained as the result of an experimental treatment program supposedly conducted over the past few years. This cover story was supported by carefully prepared documentation, including records of regular muscle electrostimulation, which explained the absence of atrophy.

By the end of the fifth day, after confirming the patient's stable condition, MacTaggert signed the discharge papers. Priscilla, truly happy for the first time in many years, took her husband home.

Rogue hadn't appeared at the hospital since that night when Naruto had helped her lose herself in a whirlwind of passion.

She hadn't called her mother. The phone lay nearby, but each time her hand reached for it, she saw her father's face in her mind, his empty gaze. Rogue told herself she was giving them time to recover. In reality, she was simply afraid. Afraid to see in her father's eyes the same disgust she had once seen in her mother's.

The taxi door closed with a dull thud, cutting through the silence of the winter morning. Priscilla stood next to her husband, nervously fidgeting with the strap of her bag. Her gaze darted to the cemetery gates, then back to Owen.

"Maybe we should have waited?" worry permeated her voice. "You only left the hospital yesterday and..."

"No," Owen quietly interrupted her. His voice sounded hoarse, as if each word was an effort. "I'm not ready. And I never will be ready. But I need to do this. Now."

The taxi slowly pulled away. The sound of the running engine gradually dissolved into silence, leaving behind only the soft rustling of falling snow. White flakes lazily swirled in the air, covering the world around in a ghostly shroud. Everything seemed blurred, unreal—the gray sky, the bare branches of trees, the headstones darkened by time.

They walked slowly along the cleared path. The snow creaked under their feet, and the sound seemed inappropriately loud in the frozen silence of the cemetery. Priscilla walked slightly behind her husband, giving him space but staying close enough to support him if needed.

Owen moved mechanically, as if on autopilot. His gaze was fixed ahead, but he seemed to see nothing around him. Fragments of memories flashed through his mind—Jimmy helping him in the garage, handing tools with his small hands; the two of them assembling a model airplane together; his son showing him his first A in math...

The grave looked well-maintained—someone had recently cleared the snow from the headstone. The dark granite glistened with moisture, and the engraved letters appeared particularly sharp:

James "Jimmy" D'Ancanto 2007 — 2013 Beloved Son and Brother "Forever in our hearts"

Owen froze. His hand slowly rose to his lips—a gesture that Priscilla remembered from their early dates, when he tried to contain strong emotions. She could see his shoulders trembling slightly, his fingers of the other hand clenching into a fist.

Owen knelt in the snow, ignoring the cold, placed his hand on the cold granite, and ran his fingers over the engraved letters of his son's name. The touch of the stone made everything real—until that moment, somewhere deep in his soul, there had been a crazy hope that it was all a mistake, a bad dream.

"Hey, champ," he whispered. His voice broke. "Dad... Dad's back."

Priscilla silently stepped back several paces. She knew her husband—knew that he needed this time alone with his son. Twelve years ago, she hadn't been able to say goodbye to Jimmy properly, drowning in her own grief. Now she could give Owen what she herself had been denied—the chance to say goodbye.

The snow continued to fall, settling on Owen's dark hair, on his shoulders, on his outstretched hand. He didn't notice the cold. His fingers still traced the letters, as if trying to memorize every curve, every line. His lips moved silently—he was saying something, but the words were meant only for Jimmy.

Time seemed to stop. The world narrowed to this small space between father and gravestone. Everything else receded, dissolved in the falling snow—the hospital, the coma, twelve lost years. There remained only father and son and the unspoken words between them.

Owen slowly took a small toy wrench from his coat pocket—the same one he had once given his son, teaching him to distinguish between sizes and threads. Jimmy had carried it everywhere, playing at being a mechanic like his father. The toy had been found among the things Priscilla had preserved from that day.

He carefully placed the wrench at the base of the headstone, clearing away a bit of snow for it. The metal gleamed dully in the gray morning light.

"I miss you, little one," Owen's voice was barely audible. "I miss you so much."

Priscilla watched as the falling snow slowly covered the silvery toy with a white blanket. Her heart ached—not with the sharp, tearing pain of twelve years ago, but with a deep, dull ache that had become part of her being. She knew that Owen was now beginning his journey down this road of grief, and there was nothing she could do to ease his suffering.

Time passed unnoticed. The snow continued to fall. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled hum of the city could be heard, but here, among the graves, there was a special silence—a silence full of unspoken words and unfulfilled hopes.

Finally, Owen slowly rose. His pants were wet from the snow, but he seemed not to notice. He ran his hand over the headstone once more, wiping away the clinging snow, revealing his son's name.

"Time to go," Owen said quietly, not turning to his wife.

Priscilla nodded silently, though she knew he couldn't see. She took a handkerchief from her bag that she had prepared in advance and offered it to her husband. Owen took it mechanically but didn't wipe his face—he just clutched it in his fist.

They slowly moved toward the exit. Owen walked slightly hunched, as if carrying an invisible weight on his shoulders. Priscilla stayed close but didn't touch him—she remembered how he needed space in moments of strong emotion.

At the cemetery gates, Owen stopped and turned around. The snowfall had intensified, and his son's grave had already become a blurred silhouette in the distance. He looked in that direction for a long time, as if trying to imprint every detail in his memory.

"Let's go home," Owen finally said, his voice hollow but firm.

Priscilla took out her phone to call a taxi. While she spoke with the dispatcher, Owen continued to look toward the grave. Snow fell on his face, but he didn't brush the snowflakes away. They melted on his cheeks, mixing with what might have been tears or simply melted snow.

At that moment, the winter sun briefly emerged from behind the clouds. Its pale rays slid over the cemetery, making the snow sparkle, and for an instant, it seemed that the small metal wrench at Jimmy's grave flashed with a silvery light—like a final farewell sign from son to father.

The apartment in Queens greeted them with silence. Small, just two rooms, but clean and bright. Priscilla led her husband to the bedroom, where the bed was already made.

"Make yourself at home," she pointed to a dresser. "Your things are here. I saved what I could."

Owen nodded without saying a word. His gaze slid around the room, noting details—flowered curtains he had never seen, photographs on the walls, unfamiliar furniture. Everything was foreign. Nothing from his previous life.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything," Priscilla added quietly and left, closing the door behind her.

Owen slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. His coat was still damp from the snow, but he was in no hurry to take it off. A single thought pulsed in his head—the small metal wrench left on his son's grave. Jimmy had been so happy when he received it as a gift. "Now I'm just like you, Dad!"

Time dissolved. Owen sat motionless, looking out the window at the falling snow. The gray sky gradually darkened, and lights began to come on in neighboring houses. Somewhere on the street, a car drove by, the bass of its music muffled through the glass.

A knock at the door made him jump.

"Owen?" Priscilla's voice sounded gentle. "I brought you some tea."

He didn't answer, but she came in anyway. She placed the cup on the bedside table, hesitated for a second.

"With sugar, just how you like it."

A familiar gesture from his past life. She had always known how many spoonfuls of sugar to put in for him. A small detail connecting the past with the present. Owen felt a lump forming in his throat.

"Thank you," he croaked.

Priscilla left again, leaving him alone with the tea and his thoughts. Owen stared at the steam rising from the cup but made no attempt to pick it up. Time stopped again.

The next thing he was aware of, the room had become completely dark. The tea had long since gone cold. Behind the door, he could hear the muffled sounds of a television—the news, it seemed. With a mechanical movement, Owen finally took off his coat and unbuttoned his shoes. He lay down on top of the blanket, still dressed. He closed his eyes.

Sleep wouldn't come. Before his eyes was Jimmy's face—laughing, alive. And then it was replaced by another image—a frightened woman with a white streak in her hair. Marie. His little girl, transformed into a stranger.

Sometime during the night, Owen heard Priscilla's quiet footsteps. She opened the door slightly, stood for a few seconds. He pretended to be asleep. The door closed again.

The morning of the second day brought a headache and a sense of unreality. Owen stood in the bathroom for a long time, studying his reflection in the mirror. The same face as twelve years ago. Not a single new wrinkle. As if time had bypassed him, freezing him in that last day.

Priscilla was already busy in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and toast filled the apartment.

"Good morning," she tried to smile. "Breakfast is almost ready."

He sat down at the small kitchen table. Everything here was foreign—the dishes, the curtains, even the salt shaker shaped like a kitten. Nothing from his past life.

"Where..." he cleared his throat; his voice was hoarse from prolonged silence. "Where are our things? From the old house?"

Priscilla froze by the stove.

"Most of it had to be sold. The house too. Medical bills..." she didn't finish, but the implication was clear.

Twelve years in a coma. It must have cost a fortune. Their established life, his auto repair shops, the house they loved so much—everything was gone.

"I saved some things," Priscilla added quietly. "Photo albums, some personal items. They're in boxes in the storage closet."

Owen nodded but didn't ask to see them. It was too early. The memories were too fresh and painful.

The day dragged on endlessly. Owen moved to the armchair by the window, watching life on the street. The world had changed—people dressed differently, cars looked futuristic, everyone constantly stared at thin phone slabs. An alien world.

Priscilla tried to engage him in conversation, told him some everyday details—about her work as a nurse at a local clinic, about the neighbors, about the weather. He half-listened, occasionally nodding. Reality still seemed unstable, unreal.

In the evening, she brought him a tablet.

"You can read news here, watch movies. I'll show you how to use it."

Owen shook his head. Not now. Too many new things, too many changes. Priscilla didn't insist.

Another night passed without sleep. He lay looking at the ceiling until the pre-dawn twilight began to seep through the curtains. Fragments of memories spun in his head—Jimmy learning to ride a bicycle, Marie helping her brother with homework, all of them together at a picnic in the park... Happy moments that had now become sharp fragments of a shattered life.

On the third day, something changed. Owen stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection. The same jawline, the same wrinkles around his eyes—as if time had stopped. He raised his hand, clenched and unclenched his fist, watching the movement of muscles under his skin. Something wasn't right.

Coming into the kitchen, he found Priscilla engaged in her usual morning ritual—making coffee, quietly humming an unfamiliar melody.

"Honey," his voice was hoarse after long silence. "Something strange is happening."

She turned, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"I was in a coma for twelve years," Owen said slowly. "But my body... it doesn't look like the body of someone who spent so much time without movement. No muscle atrophy. Nothing."

Priscilla set her cup on the table and sat down next to him. Understanding flashed in her eyes.

"Do you remember that guy who was with Anna?" she asked quietly. "The blond one?"

Owen nodded. The young man with unusual markings on his cheeks, like whiskers. He was holding Marie's hand when she...

"He's special," continued Priscilla. "A mutant, like her. But his gift is healing. He's the one who brought you back to life, restored your body."

Owen froze, processing the information. The scene at the hospital appeared in a new light.

"Is he..." Owen hesitated. "Is he dating her?"

Priscilla nodded, reached for her phone.

"Look," she opened some application with a red icon, typed something in the search. "His name is Naruto."

A video appeared on the screen. Paris, the Eiffel Tower in the background. Suddenly the camera jerked upward, capturing a figure enveloped in a golden glow. The light was so bright that details were lost, but as he began to descend, Owen recognized the same characteristic markings on his cheeks.

"Incredible," he whispered, unable to tear his gaze from the screen.

Priscilla placed a cup of coffee in front of him, her hands trembling slightly.

"He's the only one who can touch her," she said quietly. "I don't know why..."

Owen leaned back in his chair, trying to comprehend what he'd heard. He couldn't wrap his mind around it—his daughter, his little Marie, had been living for twelve years without being able to hug someone, hold hands, feel simple human warmth. What was it like to exist in a world where any touch carried a threat? And now someone had appeared in her life who could heal with a touch and glow like the sun.

He rubbed his temples, feeling reality slipping away, dissolving in a kaleidoscope of new revelations. His gaze wandered around the room, trying to latch onto something familiar, something habitual that could ground him in this new reality. And then he noticed it—an old photograph in a simple wooden frame, a family snapshot from Marie's fifteenth birthday.

"Is this the only photograph?" Owen asked when Priscilla gave him his coffee.

She froze, the cup in her hand trembled.

"No, there are a few more... in the boxes."

"And more recent ones?" his voice sounded deceptively calm. "After... that day?"

Priscilla turned to the window, her shoulders visibly tensed.

"Marie... she left soon after what happened," her voice sounded strangely hollow. "We... we lost touch."

Owen felt something tightening inside. There was something strange in his wife's voice, some false note that he couldn't quite identify.

"What do you mean 'left'?" Owen asked quietly. "She was a child, Priscilla. A sixteen-year-old girl."

Priscilla busily began adjusting the curtain, though it didn't need adjusting.

"It was... a difficult time," her voice trembled. "After what happened... She couldn't stay here. Too many memories, you understand?"

Something in her words sounded wrong, strained. Like a rehearsed script she had repeated many times.

"And then?" Owen persisted. "Did you try to find her?"

Priscilla turned sharply to the sink, clattering with the dishes.

"Of course," her voice sounded too high. "But she... she didn't want to maintain contact. You understand, after everything that happened..."

She didn't finish, pretending to be completely absorbed in washing a cup. Her hands moved mechanically, passing the sponge over and over the already clean porcelain.

Owen looked at his wife's tense back, feeling that something else lay behind her words. Something she didn't want to or couldn't talk about.

His daughter, his little Marie—where was she now? How had she coped with her gift? This uncertainty seemed unbearable.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Priscilla furtively wiping away tears with a kitchen towel. There was a nervousness in her movements, as if every question about their daughter caused her physical pain.

"Do you know anything at all about her?" Owen asked quietly. "Where she is now?"

Priscilla shook her head, still not turning to face him.

"There's a school. For people like her. Maybe she found help there."

He spent the rest of the day going through old photographs that Priscilla had finally taken out of the boxes. The pictures were only from before that day—happy moments from their past life when they were still a complete family. Marie on a swing, Jimmy with a new bicycle, family picnics in the park... Each photograph like a punch to the solar plexus.

In the evening, Owen picked up the tablet for the first time. He clumsily scrolled through the news, getting used to the touch screen. The world had changed more in these twelve years than he could have imagined. Flying robots had appeared on the streets, laws against mutants...

The latter made him pause. He opened an article about the "Sentinel Program" and immersed himself in reading. With each paragraph, his expression grew darker. The world hadn't just changed—it had become a dangerous place for people like his daughter. And somewhere out there, in this hostile world, she was trying to survive alone.

On the fourth day, the heaviness in his chest became unbearable. At breakfast, he finally decided:

"I want to call her, meet with her."

The cup in Priscilla's hands noticeably trembled. Coffee spilled onto the tablecloth, leaving a dark stain. She opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment, a powerful explosion shook the street. The window panes rattled, dishes on the table clinked. Somewhere in the distance came a metallic clang and people screaming.

Owen rose sharply, knocking over his chair. A column of smoke was rising on the horizon, and in the sky... In the sky, something huge and mechanical was hovering.