You Killed Your Own Father

The confrontation ended and the trio made their way back to the dining room. They entered the dining room, their arrival met with a round of curious glances. The room was filled with the clatter of cutlery against porcelain, the hum of quiet chitchat. The remnants of breakfast lay scattered on the table - plates of half-eaten toast, bowls of oatmeal, cups of lukewarm tea.

Gilbert guided Alexa to her chair. He then took his own seat, his gaze scanning the room, finding Clement. Jean, on the other hand, resumed his place at the table without a word, his expression stern. Clement, Gilbert's trusted servant, watched from the corner of the room, his task completed, nodded subtly to Gilbert. The bowls had been switched - Gilbert's with a random uneaten bowl, and Alexa's with Jean's.

Gilbert returned to his oatmeal, his spoon stirring the creamy mixture with an air of nonchalance. His eyes lit up with mirth, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Sat next to Alexa, Jean watched him, hi