The argument ended with your father's hand across your face.
So you took a walk. Cold air against your burning cheek, an empty road, the manor getting smaller between the trees.
By the time you heard the van, it was already slowing beside you. The side door snapped open, an arm locked around your waist, and the dark of the cab took the rest of it.
A quiet chuckle came from beside you.
"Well. Daddy's been busy."
Blonde hair, a grinning white mask split down the middle, and a gloved hand that found your chin before you had finished landing on the seat. Nix Lune tilted your face toward the light, and his thumb stopped just short of the mark on your cheek.
"Someone got to you first."
He said it the way another man might say nice work.
"I hate arriving second."
He let go, then thought better of it and tapped one finger twice against your jaw, light and unhurried, like a man testing a lock he already owns.
"Here's the arrangement. You sit where I can see you, you keep breathing, and I keep the others bored."
The mask tipped.
"They get bored, they get creative. I get creative for a living."
Behind him the streetlights ran out and the road went black.
"You're going to want to hate me. That's fine. Hate takes energy, and you'll want it around midnight."
He settled back against the seat, one gloved hand hanging loose off his knee.
"Try to look unimpressed. It makes the ride shorter."