Fascinated. That's what he is. It's hard to believe that this woman, this young woman just out of her teens, is just a meter or two in front of him. It's almost like a dream come true. He can't utter a word, he just can't. Something is stopping him and he doesn't know what. It's a feeling like he shouldn't say a word but also the fact that he's staring at her that feels somehow wrong. She has this elegance that he never saw in any other women. Her back is straight, her legs are crossed, she looks professional and he doubts she even realizes it. Just this mere fact makes him doubt he can approach her but he knows that isn't the only thing. She has pale skin, not sickly but almost. She has pale hair, not platinum but almost. She has pale eyes, not blue but almost. She isn't beautiful but she is quite pretty to look at. Just physically looking at her figure feels wrong, false. It's like a front she unknowingly puts on. A sort of front but not really. It's hard to explain. It's like this elegance is part of her. Like she always had it and now it's just a habit. Part of her but not really.

She turns to glance at him, a new stranger in the living room and when her eyes catch his, he has to hold his breath. It's not love at first sight or anything like that, it's just pure fascination from him. Elegance is part of her but now looking at her eyes, he sees something else. He doesn't understand it, he can only state what he sees. And what he notices doesn't exactly make him feel at ease. Her eyes have this aloofness, nonchalance that is almost scary, dangerous. She's like a walking passiveness if that makes sense. But what caused this ? Destruction, he knows that. It's some sort of destruction. He read this in history books. She looks tired. Not the kind that sleep can fix but the kind that is almost like depression. In front of him is a young woman of twenty-one years of age that has seen too much. It's sad. It doesn't make him feel sad, it's just the facts that make him sad.

Staring at her feels wrong. Speaking to her feels wrong. He's a mere human in front of a demigod. He's below her and only one glance from her to him can prove it.

She's the Daughter, not the Mother. The resemblance is uncanny but it's the genes that made that resemblance, nothing else. Her mother was remembered for many things; mostly her job during the war but also the accomplishments she made with her husband at the time. In front of him, one or two meters away from him is the product from those two people. Those two people he read about in history books. Those two people that are told about to kids, that are shown in the museum, that are forever written in history. The product is in front of him, this demigod. She is the Daughter of a power couple; that isn't an assumption but a fact.

He looks away, the guilt of staring at her forever imprinted in him. He has to remember that he is below her.

He clears his throat and sits on one of the chairs, away from her. She's sitting on the middle of the sofa and he knows that she knows that no one will sit next to her. He looks down at the coffee made for him and the image of her eyes replay in his mind. He can't stop but make assumptions. Sure, he read about her but it's different than looking at her and seeing Truth. History books and historians can state facts but it's different than seeing it in front of her. Facts said some things; her joining WWIII, her helping soldiers the best she could, her fighting Red House, her being captured by Red House and her dying in the hands of her lover. Evidently, people were wrong about the last fact. Questions remain but he tries not to think about them. Too late. How is it possible for her to be alive ? How is it that the young woman on the sofa seems so different than what he read in books and saw at the museum ? What is this pain in her eyes ? Why aloofness