Mrs. St. Paul lovingly grasped Vicky’s hand while Vicky gestured at Adrien and Greg with the other.

“Um, this is Greg and Adrien.”

Her mother frowned, eerily mimicking Adrien’s expression to the mark. “Adrien,” she whispered, even more softly than she usually did. She suddenly let go of Vicky’s hand and reclined in her bed, joints audibly creaking.

“Adrien,” she repeated, this time loud enough for the others to hear, “what’s your last name?”

“I…don’t know,” he said, as if realizing that he never did know.

“How did you get your name, then?” She sat up more urgently.

Adrien closed down, shutting himself off. His brow creased, and his eyes darkened. The hollows of his face were in sharper relief than ever.

”...I was a baby. I was found on a fire station’s doorstep with a note attached. It only said ‘Adrien.’” He had never released any information like this before.

Mrs. St. Paul’s eyes blinked disc-wide, then closed. She gasped for air and thrashed in her bed.

“Mom!” Vicky cried.