"We've never trained together," I pointed out.

He laughed, a booming sound that filled the room and probably woke half the neighborhood. "Exactly! High time we changed that. Your old man's got a few tricks he could teach you."

Old man. Your old man. I suppressed a shudder at the phrase. This mountain of muscle and optimism was nothing like the cold, calculating yakuza patriarch who'd taught me how to break a man's will along with his body.

"Actually," I said, my mind shifting gears into manipulation mode, "I could use some advice."

Luka's face lit up like I'd just handed him a Father's Day card made of pure gold. "Of course! What do you want to know?"

I gestured to the punching bag hanging in the corner. "I've been working on my form, but something feels off in my stance."

It was bullshit, of course. I knew exactly how to throw a punch. I'd broken jaws and crushed windpipes with my bare hands in my past life. But getting Luka to focus on basic technique would keep him from noticing the dummy or asking questions about any abilities I might have.

"Let me see what you've got," he said, moving to hold the bag steady with one massive arm.

I threw a deliberately flawed jab, putting too much shoulder into it and leaving my guard down like an amateur.

Luka's eyes narrowed, professional assessment overriding paternal enthusiasm. "Not bad, but you're telegraphing. Here, try this."

He demonstrated a proper form, his massive fist snapping out with surprising speed for a man his size. The bag rocked backward with the impact, chains jangling in protest.

"You want to generate power from your hips, not just your arm. Like this."

I mimicked his movement, deliberately improving but still leaving room for correction. For the next fifteen minutes, we worked through basic striking techniques. I played the role of eager student, gradually "improving" under his tutelage, storing away his actually useful tips for later use.

"You're a quick learner," Luka said, watching me deliver a combination to the bag with feigned inexperience.

"Got a good teacher," I replied, swallowing the bile that rose with the compliment.

Luka beamed like I'd handed him the sun wrapped in a bow. He stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, and for the first time noticed the training dummy behind me.

His eyes widened. "Holy—what happened there?"

I turned to follow his gaze, cursing internally. Shit. In my excitement to test [SEVER], I'd left evidence all over our expensive training equipment. The dummy was covered in dozens of clean, surgical slices - some deep enough to expose the reinforced core material. Rookie mistake.

"Whoa!" Luka moved closer, running his thick fingers along one of the cuts. "Looks like you've been practicing with knives!"

My mind raced through a catalogue of lies. I needed a plausible explanation that wouldn't require a demonstration or raise more questions than it answered.

"Just trying out some new techniques," I said with a casual shrug. "Don't want to just be a one trick pony, right? Figured I should diversify my training."

Luka studied the dummy with professional interest, his calloused fingers tracing the deepest cut. "That's some control for a newly awakened." He turned to me with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "You're a natural, son."

Son. I'd never get used to that word. In my old life, I'd been nobody's son, just another street rat the yakuza had molded into a weapon.

He clapped a hand on my shoulder again, the force nearly buckling my knees despite my growing strength. For all his friendly demeanor, Luka packed serious power in that massive frame.

"Listen, I've been thinking." His tone shifted, becoming more serious but no less enthusiastic. "I pulled some strings and got us a priority slot today at VHC Central."

My stomach dropped like I'd swallowed lead. The VHC. The Valorian Hunter Commission. The regulatory body for all Hunters and Aspects. The organization with the resources, technology, and expertise to detect a fake. To find the wolf hiding in the sheep pen.

"What do you say we make it official? Go get your Aspect evaluated and registered?" Luka's eyes lit up with an almost childlike excitement. "A real father-son trip. My treat."

Ice-cold panic shot through my veins, turning my momentary confidence to ash. VHC Central meant tests, data, scrutiny - everything I wanted to avoid. They would scan me, measure my abilities, cross-reference their database. If they detected something unusual - like a System that didn't behave like a standard Aspect - I'd be flagged. Studied. Maybe worse. Much worse, if the rumors about what happened to anomalies were true.

But then I caught the look on Luka's face. Pure, unfiltered pride. The kind that couldn't be faked by even the best actor. He was genuinely excited to show off his son, the boy who had finally manifested an Aspect after years of disappointment. The former Zero who was finally worthy of the Kuzmina name.

And that's when it hit me - this wasn't just a trap; it was an opportunity disguised as one. Under the protection of a respected B-Rank Hunter, I could establish my public persona. Create an official record. Hide in plain sight under the most intense scrutiny, controlling exactly what they saw. The best lies are the ones told right to your face.

To refuse would be more suspicious than to accept. And besides, I needed to understand how their detection systems worked if I was going to evade them long-term.

"I'd love that, Dad," I said, injecting warmth into my voice that I didn't feel. "Let's go."

Luka's grin widened, if that was even possible, threatening to split his face in two. He pulled me into a bear hug that crushed the air from my lungs and lifted me clear off the ground.

"That's my boy! We'll get you sorted, get a proper evaluation, and start building your profile. This is a big day! The beginning of your Hunter journey!"

As he released me, chattering about procedures and forms and how proud Kimiko would be, I forced a smile while my mind raced through contingency plans.

Time to walk into the lion's den. Let's hope they don't notice the wolf in sheep's clothing.

Or if they do, let's hope I can convince them I'm just an unusually interesting lamb.

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