A few days later, Cross shuffled down the hallway toward the nursery, his face twisted in a scowl that looked like it'd been there for years. I'm way too old for this crap, he thought, grumbling low enough that it echoed off the walls. “Why the hell did I let Byron’s dumb ass talk me into getting a damn Nokia 3310?” He clutched the tiny brick of a phone in his rough hand, staring at it like it was mocking him. “I grew up on pagers and those big-ass shoulder phones. Now I got this indestructible Tic Tac I can’t even work right. This don’t make no damn sense.”

He jabbed at the buttons as if they owed him money. Frustrated as hell. So wrapped up in it, he nearly blew right past the daycare window.

Through the glass, Victoire was perched calmly at this little play table, clipboard balanced on her knee. And sitting across from her? A toddler. Just... there.

Cross blinked hard. “The hell?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes like maybe he was seeing things. All the babies here are barely two weeks old—fresh as they come. Where'd this one pop up from? Some mix-up in the records?

He pushed through the door, brow creased deep, and eased into the room slow, like he didn't want to spook whatever was going on. The toddler stayed glued to these puzzles—not the foam baby ones, but actual jigsaws with fiddly pieces, meant for kids twice his height and probably three times his age, like those 50-piece sets with animals or trucks. His small fingers sorted shapes, matched colors, lined up patterns with this unsettling concentration, ignoring everything else in the room. No babbling. No glances around. Just focus.

Victoire didn't bother looking up, her pen scratching away.

“Hey, Victoire,” Cross said, his voice gravelly from the irritation still bubbling.

“Oh, hello Cross. Nice to see you,” she replied, all easygoing, her gaze fixed on those notes. “Came to check up on Leo?”

“Yeah. That was the plan…” He dropped into the chair next to her, eyes flicking back to the toddler. This doesn't add up. “But now I’m wondering—who’s the kid? That ain’t one of ours. None of the babies are past two weeks, and I’d definitely remember a toddler being brought in. Hell, I'd have signed off on it myself.”

Victoire's mouth curved into a smirk, her scribbling not missing a beat. Maybe she was enjoying this a little too much, watching him squirm.

“So you really don’t know who he is?” she teased, her tone light but with that edge of knowing something he didn't. “Can’t say I blame you. I’d be confused too if I hadn’t seen him in a few days either. Things change fast around here, don't they?”

“What do you mean ‘so I really don’t know’? All the kids here are practically still on bottles. You saying one grew legs and taxes in a week?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she called out softly, “Hey, honey!”

The toddler swiveled around, slow and deliberate. Those emotionless light-brown eyes fixed right on Cross.

Cross’s breath hitched. He recognized those eyes. That face—just aged up, somehow. No way. It can’t be.

His voice came out in a whisper, barely there.

“…Oh dear God…”

“Yep!” Victoire piped up, all cheerful like she’d just unveiled a birthday cake. “It’s Leo! Isn’t it wild how fast he’s growing? A real one-in-a-trillion kind of kid, if you ask me.”

Cross couldn’t tear his gaze away, stuck in place. The room suddenly felt thicker, harder to breathe in.

It should have fuckin’ stayed that way… This isn’t normal. This is beyond abnormal. This is wrong.

But out loud, he managed a wobbly smile that didn’t reach his eyes at all. “Yeah… incredible…”

“Can you come here, please?” Victoire asked, her voice gentle and coaxing.

Leo paused his puzzle, then got up without a peep. He walked over—steady steps, like he’d been practicing for months, not just days.

Cross felt this weird urge to bolt, to back out the door and pretend he never saw this. Nope. Nope. I don’t like this one bit. But he gulped down the nerves and stayed put.

Leo plopped down in front of Victoire, legs crossed neatly between hers. Silent as ever. Just watching.

“I see he knows how to sit crisscross applesauce, huh?” Cross said, forcing out a laugh that sounded fake even to him.

“Yeah,” Victoire grinned, passing him a cookie—like one of those soft oatmeal ones from the staff kitchen. “His body’s coming along great. He’s handling solid foods no problem, drinks whatever, and—get this—I even showed him a little trick!”

“What kind of trick?” Cross asked, a hint of wariness creeping in.

Victoire signed quick: (Can you say hello to Mr. Cross?)

Leo looked straight at Cross and said, “Hello… Mr. Cross…” Soft, but clear as a bell.

Cross almost toppled off his chair. Did that just happen?

“Did he just—talk? And he understands sign language?”

Leo shifted toward him and signed fluidly: (Yes, sir. Dr. Victoire has been a very beneficial teacher to me. She has taught me many things.)

Cross blinked. Once. Twice. Then spun to Victoire. “What the hell did he just say? I ain’t got no degree in silent hand jazz.”

She translated, her smile holding steady.

Cross’s mouth hung open— “Hold the—” —and he clamped a hand over it fast.

Victoire grabbed her clipboard, jotted something down, and turned it for him to see: Don’t you fucking swear in front of him! He can understand us.

Cross narrowed his eyes, irritated. “Practice what you preach! And why are you writing this down instead of just saying it?!”

She pointed calmly to the note’s bottom: Because he has very good hearing, dipshit.

Cross’s eye twitched. “You really pushing it today. I can still fire you, you know that, right?”

Leo glanced up at Cross, face blank as a slate.

Then, out of nowhere, he socked Cross in the shin.

“GAH—!” Cross yelped, folding over as pain flared up his leg. “The f—”

“No, no, Leo!” Victoire scolded, though it came out half-hearted, like she wasn’t fully committed.

Cross gripped his leg, biting back a string of curses that wanted out bad.

If he wasn’t a newborn, Cross thought, jaw tight, I’d whoop his little strong-ass, Arnold-Schwarzenegger, Superman-built ass into a car seat. He shot a glare down at Leo, who just blinked back with that eerie calm.

“And how the hell did he even hit me that hard in the first place!?” Cross hissed as they stepped out of the daycare. “Felt like I got punched by a damn teenager, not a two-week-old baby.”

Victoire didn’t jump in right away. She turned back to Leo and signed: (Leo, me and Mr. Cross are going outside to have a little talk. You can go back to your puzzles until we come back, okay?)

Leo nodded once, sharp and simple, then shuffled back to his spot. Picked up the puzzle pieces like the whole thing never happened.

Cross eyed him the whole way out. That empty expression. The unnatural quiet. If I didn’t know he was engineered like some bio-weapon, I might’ve thought he was just a shy toddler. But nah.

He’s growing too fast. Cross mulled it over darkly. Two weeks old, and he’s already picking up advanced stuff. Mimicking full sentences, signing like a pro, tackling puzzles that’d stump an 8-year-old... and that punch? That punch actually stung.

He glanced at his leg, wincing a bit.

And he could hurt me. For real. As he is now... If he got just a little stronger—Should I kill him now?

The idea hit him cold, no sugarcoating. He didn’t shy away from it.

Weighed it for a second… then shook his head. No... not yet.

It’ll be easier once Victoire spills what she knows. Depending on that... then I’ll decide.

Cold as ice to think about a kid that way, but it had to be done. Leo wasn’t your average human. Not even close. Who knows what he’d turn into down the line—a game-changer ally, or a walking apocalypse.

He deserved a shot, at least. So far, no real red flags. No meltdowns. No fits. Obeyed Victoire like clockwork. Quiet. Observant. Steady.

Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, Cross thought, letting out a slow breath. But the option’s still there if needed.

He shot a look at Victoire, her expression tight but hard to read.

Time to hear her out.

They left the daycare behind, but Cross soon clocked they were going farther than a quick chat warranted.

“…Why the hell are we like, five rooms away from the damn daycare?” he asked finally, peering back over his shoulder. “You tryna get your steps in or somethin’?”

Victoire gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know why or how, but Leo has very good hearing.”

“So? Key word: ‘good’ ears. Not fuckin’ Superman,” Cross grumbled, eyeing her suspiciously.

Knowing Cross was the type who needed proof shoved in his face, Victoire fished a small gadget from her pocket—a sleek remote-looking thing—and held it up.

“Look. I already know you’re not gonna believe a word I say, so I’m just gonna give you another demonstration.” She switched it on.

“Deadass,” Cross sighed, his street edge sharpening. “You gonna stop playin’ with my intelligence? On dead homies.”

Victoire rolled her eyes and let the device hum quietly.

Cross waited, arms crossed. Seconds ticked by.

“…Is it broken? ‘Cause I can’t hear shit.”

“That’s the point,” she said, arching a brow. “It’s emitting a tone at thirty-five kilohertz.”

Cross stared blank. “…The fuck is a kilohertz?”

Victoire facepalmed hard. “Wow. They really indoctrinated the absolute shit outta you guys, huh?”

“Absolutely. But hey, they didn’t exactly give us the best education. I’m gonna fix that for Gen-Z, though,” Cross shrugged, a touch defensive.

She let out a sigh. “Okay, listen up, professor. Kilohertz—or kHz—is a unit for frequency. One kilohertz is a thousand hertz. It’s about how many times a sound wave cycles per second.”

Cross blinked. Still nothing clicking.

She tried again, simpler. “Humans hear from about 20 hertz—super low rumbles—to 20 kilohertz—high-pitched squeals. This device? It’s putting out 35 kilohertz. Way above what you or any regular person can pick up.”

Cross nodded slow. “Ohh... okay. Thanks. I got it now.”

Victoire got serious. “But Leo? He hears it. Loud and clear.”

“…So he’s got bat ears or something. That’s crazy, but it doesn’t mean he can eavesdrop through walls.”

“Actually,” she said, clicking off the device, “it does. Or at least, it suggests he can.”

Cross’s jaw dropped. “…The fuck!?” he barked. “How!?”

“Because thirty-five kilohertz,” Victoire explained coolly, “is the range for ultrasound machines, sonar in bats or dolphins, car parking sensors, even some military comms gear. High frequencies like that? They can cut through walls, bounce around.”

Cross gaped at her, like she’d just explained wizardry. “So you’re tellin’ me... that little boy in there can eavesdrop on shit like he’s the NSA?”

Victoire nodded. “Yup. If you're chatting anywhere near him without precautions? He might already be tuning in.”

Cross turned away, muttering low, “I’m gonna start writin’ everything down like a prison snitch…”

Victoire tugged a sheet from her folder, tapping it as she started. “I also picked up on something else in the tests. Leo’s muscles are so dense for his age… regular syringes won’t even break the skin.”

Cross processed that slow, blinking.

She went on, “Only way I got his shots in was with a custom obsidian-tip needle—and even that was tough. Not normal at all.” She passed him the paperwork.

Cross skimmed it quiet, taking in every detail—like the notes on failed attempts with standard needles, bending like they hit steel.

“And his bones,” Victoire added, “same deal. Did a DEXA scan—dual-energy X-ray absorptiometry—and the numbers are off the charts. Bone density twenty-seven times what a kid his age should have.”

Cross squinted. “Well… that explains why he’s heavy as hell.” Remember almost tweaking my back lifting him that one time, like picking up a sack of bricks.

Victoire eyed the results, shaking her head. “Whatever his mom was exposed to during pregnancy, it’s given him biology that no regular person should have. But it also seems like he’s hitting some kind of physical peak early. Way early.”

Cross’s expression turned grim. He stayed silent, but his thoughts spun wild.

That settles it, he decided darkly. Kid’s too risky. If he keeps going like this… who knows what threat he’ll pose grown up.

But right as he went to say something, Victoire piped up, “There’s something else I found out, too.”

Cross met her eyes. “And what’s that?”

“I think Leo might be autistic,” she said, her voice dropping softer.

“…Artistic?” Cross echoed, mangling it. “So what, he’s an artist now too or—”

“No, not artistic. Autistic. As in autism spectrum disorder. ASD for short,” Victoire corrected, flat but patient.

“The fuck is ASD!?” Cross snapped, frustration boiling over.

Victoire buried her face in her hand, sighing deep. “Oh my god, why don’t you know these things?”

“That’s some new bullshit! How the hell was I supposed to know about that fuckery!?” Cross shot back, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Victoire dropped her arms, glaring at him like he’d just spilled coffee on her notes. “Dumb fuck—if you were 20 in 1955 like your file says, then guess what? You were 8 in 1943 when autism was first classified. That gave you plenty of years to catch up!”

“…Tsk.” Cross looked away, suddenly feeling like he’d flunked a test he didn’t know he was taking. Damn, she’s got a point. “Whatever. Just tell me what the fuck it is.”

Victoire crossed her arms, clearly over his attitude. “It’s a developmental condition, alright? People with ASD process social stuff—communication, behavior, even sensory things—differently. It’s not a disease. It’s how their brain’s wired.”

Cross scratched his head, squinting. “So… he’s not dumb or nothing?”

“No, you idiot,” Victoire snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If anything, Leo might be a genius. But emotions, body language, everyday interactions? He processes those differently. That’s why he doesn’t look you in the eye or respond to his name right away. It’s not him being stubborn—it’s his wiring.”

Cross leaned back, chewing on that. “So he’s like a robot baby or some shit.”

Victoire groaned, loud and dramatic. “Jesus Christ…”

“Look, what I’m saying is,” she continued, reining in her frustration, “he might need extra help with emotional stuff, but his intelligence? It’s pretty much self-explanatory. Kid’s sharp as a tack.”

“Alright… well, that’s good to know. Thanks for the update, Doc.” Cross nodded, his tone softer but still guarded. “Just make sure he’s watched close, yeah?”

“Oh, he needs constant eyes on him—especially since he’s zipping around faster than the other babies,” Victoire said, already heading back toward the daycare to check on Leo.

Great… Cross thought, trudging off to tackle the rest of his day. Not only do we got a freakishly smart baby, but he’s got some headspace quirks too… fan-fucking-tastic.

A few hours later, Byron was slumped in his office chair, a mess of papers sprawled across his desk like a tornado hit. He rubbed his temples, skimming another form, his patience wearing thin.

“Goddamnit… these demands are fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before snatching up the next page. “First-class tickets for all of them… Boon-Nam wants her room decked out by some high-end interior designer… Ike’s demanding a gym setup with top-tier training gear…”

He flipped to the next sheet, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Prudenzio wants a damn armory closet—with a hidden compartment, no less—and Suhal…” He paused, his face twitching like he’d bitten into something sour. “That complete dickhead just wants fucking caviar. And not just any caviar—the most expensive shit out there!”

With a growl, he chucked the papers across the desk, a few fluttering to the floor like sad confetti.

“Ugh! How the hell am I supposed to pull this off? Prudenzio, Boon-Nam, and Ike’s requests are insane—they’ll cost a fortune and a half. And Suhal…” He jabbed a finger at the crumpled paper. “His is just petty and overpriced.”

The door swung open without warning.

Byron glanced up to see Elara, a tall Inuit woman with long black hair and those light blue eyes that always carried a hint of mischief. She sauntered in, her usual calm smirk in place.

“Awww, you look so frustrated, Byron,” she teased, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“Hey, Elara…” Byron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’m about to lose it. I’m 35 and already stressed to hell dealing with this next-gen mess. Three of the instructors have high-maintenance but semi-reasonable demands, and the last one’s just a straight-up asshole.”

Elara let out a giggle, strolling over to his desk. “Yeah, sounds like a lot. But they’re young, you know? Everything’s a flex at that age—gotta show off.”

“Expected or not, it’s gonna cost a damn fortune.” Byron leaned back, exhausted. “Government’s footing some of the bill through tax funds, but there’s only so much I can push for before someone starts sniffing around. Mr. Foster’s already got enough on his plate.”

“You mean being a racist piece of shit?” Elara raised an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening.

“Being a racist piece of shit, yeah,” Byron said, deadpan, nodding in agreement.

Elara chuckled. “Well, wanna let me take a crack at it? I’m pretty good at talking sense into people.”

Byron gave her a tired smile, sliding the folder across the desk. “You’re the best negotiator I know. Maybe you’ll get through to them in a way I clearly can’t. Go for it.”

Elara snatched the folder and got to work, her fingers flying over her phone’s keypad. Her voice was smooth, persuasive, like she was born to haggle. Ten minutes later, she set the phone down with a smug little grin.

“Alright. They’re coming. Just cover the plane tickets,” she said, casual as if she’d just ordered coffee.

Byron’s jaw dropped. “How?”

“Easy,” she shrugged. “I told them we’ve got a 200-pound baby here—alive and thriving. That’s all it took. They’re dying to see him.”

Byron facepalmed so hard it echoed. “Of course. Of course they’d drop everything for some freakshow science anomaly. Why didn’t I think to mention that earlier? Thought it was irrelevant.”

Elara flipped her hair, smirking wider. “Well, I’m 25. Still hip. Still in tune with the youth. Unlike you, Grandpa.”

Byron raised a brow. “Girl, I’m ten years older than you. Don’t act like I’m collecting Social Security. And for the record, I’m your boss, not a fossil.”

Across the building, in his office, Cross suddenly sneezed. He grabbed a tissue, froze mid-blow, and squinted. “…Someone’s talkin’ shit,” he muttered, suspicious.

Back in Byron’s office, Elara leaned against his desk, playful as ever. “Aww, don’t get grumpy. I like that you’re older.” She slid onto his lap, straddling him, her voice dropping to a teasing purr. “The older the berry… the sweeter the juice~.”

Byron blinked at her, unfazed. “Really? You’re gonna call me old and then try to seduce me? What kind of bootleg playbook you working from?”

Elara poked his chest, grinning. “C’mon. You know you want me. I’m young, gorgeous, and right here in your lap. You really gonna say no?”

“I’m gay.”

That stopped her cold.

She blinked. “Wait… for real?”

“Deadass. Homosexual. I like men. I’m not putting my dick inside a woman. Ever. Not sure what part of that’s confusing,” Byron said, his tone flat but firm.

Elara stared, then let out an awkward laugh. “You almost got me there. But nah, I know you’re bluffing.”

Byron narrowed his eyes. “I’m. Gay. I like men. This ain’t a bit. What, I gotta wear lipstick and heels for you to get it?”

“What? No, I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, really?” he cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “‘You don’t *look* gay.’ That what you’re saying? So I’m supposed to talk like—” He pitched his voice high, waving a hand. “‘Ooh, honey, slay!’ Wear nail polish, skip around in stilettos, paint rainbows on my face?”

Elara winced, face going red. “Okay, okay! Damn, Byron, chill! You hit me with twenty-one facts, I get it!”

She slid off his lap, clearly embarrassed but trying to play it off.

Byron chuckled, barely hiding his grin. “Thanks for your help, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever…” Elara mumbled, a small smile creeping through as she headed for the door.

When she swung it open, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Cross was standing right there, silent as a ghost, holding a file. She yelped and stumbled back, landing on her ass.

Byron shot up from his chair, ready to throw hands—but relaxed when he saw it was just Cross. “Man, you gotta stop creeping like that,” he said, shaking his head.

Cross raised an eyebrow, looking down at Elara. “Y’all alright in here? Or is this a bad time?”

Elara scrambled up, dusting herself off, still flushed. “We’re fine, just… strategizing,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

Cross snorted, stepping inside. “Strategizing, huh? Sounded more like you were trying to close a deal you didn’t read the fine print on.”

Byron laughed, leaning back in his chair. “She tried, I’ll give her that. What’s up with you, though? You got that look like something’s eating you.”

Cross dropped the file on the desk, his face darkening. “Yeah. It’s about Leo. Victoire’s got me thinking, and I ain’t sure I like where my head’s at. We need to talk.”

“Jesus Christ!” Elara snapped, still sprawled on the floor. “Don’t stand near the damn door like that! You almost gave me a goddamn heart attack, old geezer!”

“You’re an assassin,” Cross shot back, flat as pavement. “Supposed to stay sharp. Maybe this’ll teach you not to get caught slippin’.”

Elara scoffed, storming past him, muttering, “Fuckin’ dick…”

“I heard that!” Cross called after her.

“Eat a dick! Hear that?” she yelled back, not even glancing over her shoulder.

Cross’s face twisted, irritation flaring. He slammed the door shut with a growl. “Man, I can’t stand these disrespectful-ass little niggas!”

Byron chuckled, barely holding it together, wiping tears from his eyes. “I mean… can’t say I blame ‘em.”

Cross shot him a glare, but Byron was already stifling another laugh, clearly enjoying himself too much.

When the laughter faded, Byron leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Alright, Cross, what’s up? What do you need?”

Cross’s face turned stone-cold serious. He stepped forward and slid the file across the desk. “Just got done talking to Victoire… she laid it all out about Leo.”

Byron opened the folder slow, eyes flicking over the pages as Cross filled him in. The more he heard, the wider his eyes got, like he was reading a sci-fi novel come to life.

“Wait, hold up…” Byron muttered, flipping through the notes. “His development’s at a 15-month-old level, he’s fluent in sign language, and he’s autistic? That’s… wild. His learning curve’s gotta be off the damn charts.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “Shit… I don’t know what kind of genes he’s got, but I need some of that.”

“You can’t have ‘em,” Cross said, his voice icy. “Not unless you’ve got four different people’s DNA stitched together.”

Byron frowned, confused. “Yeah, too bad that’s not even possible. Would be cool, though.”

“But it is.”

Byron’s head snapped up. “What? Bro, what are you—”

Cross cut him off, tossing the file onto the desk with a thud.

Byron glanced at the label: ‘PROJECT ÜBERMENSCH’. His brow furrowed. “Wait… whose file is this?”

“That’s Leo’s,” Cross said, his tone low and heavy, like he was dropping a bomb. “You’re my right-hand man. If something happens to me before he’s grown, you’re the only one here who needs to know what Leo really is.”

Byron opened the file, his eyes racing over the text. His face paled with every line, like he was staring at a ghost.

“Oh my God…” he whispered, barely audible. “He’s a super soldier!?”

“Shh!” Cross hissed, glancing at the door. “Shut the fuck up before someone hears you!”

Byron sank back in his chair, hands shaking just a bit. “This explains it all… the milestones, the strength, the mental speed… This is—this is unreal!”

“Yeah,” Cross said, staring out the window, his voice grim. “And it’s scary as hell. He’s still basically a toddler. So, to keep him from going off the rails later… I’ve made my call. I’m gonna kill him.”

Byron’s head whipped up so fast it nearly spun. “What!? You can’t do that! He’s a child! A damn baby!”

“That ain’t no baby,” Cross growled, his eyes hard. “That’s an act against God. I’m not pretending I’m some saint, but you didn’t see what I saw. He screamed and made a fucking earthquake. That’s not a kid. That’s a test tube monster. We gotta put it down before it’s something we can’t handle.”

Byron shot to his feet, slamming a hand on the desk. “You don’t know he’s a threat! He’s young! And autistic, for fuck’s sake! He might be more chill than any of us!”

“‘Chill’ my motherfuckin’ ass!” Cross snapped back. “He punched me in the leg, and it hurt! Bad!”

Byron crossed his arms, not backing down. “You were upsetting Victoire. She’s the closest thing to a mom he’s got right now—he was just protecting her.”

Cross glared, silent but fuming, his jaw tight.

“Cross…” Byron’s voice softened, but it stayed firm. “He’s not a monster. He’s a kid. Yeah, he’s powerful, but you gotta give him a chance to be raised right before you go playing judge, jury, and executioner.”

The room went quiet, the air thick with tension.

“Look,” Byron said, locking eyes with him. “I’ll keep a close watch on him, alright? I’ll make sure nothing goes wrong. And if I get even a hint he’s dangerous, I’ll handle it myself.”

He held Cross’s gaze, unflinching. “Just give him 13 years. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll be 48 by then—still young enough to throw down if it comes to that. Please, just give the kid a shot.”

Cross stared back, his gut twisting. He didn’t like it. Betting on a kid like this felt like playing roulette with a loaded gun. But Byron wasn’t one to plead lightly—he meant every word.

Cross let out a heavy sigh. “Fine…” he muttered. “You’ve got till he’s 13. But you’re watching him like a hawk, same as Victoire. If he so much as screams and the ground shakes again—kill him. No questions.”

Byron exhaled, relief washing over him. “Yes, sir. I’ll handle it.”

Cross nodded, then tilted his head, his tone shifting. “Now, for the other reason I came in here.”

Byron blinked, thrown off. “What’s up?”

“I sneezed,” Cross said, dead serious.

Byron frowned, lost. “…God bless you?”

“Don’t give me that ‘God bless you’ shit!” Cross snapped, stepping closer. “You were talkin’ bad about me—like a damn dog—while Elara was in here, weren’t you!?”

Byron groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh my God. How the hell does that even work for you!? And so what if I was!?”

“If you got something to say,” Cross growled, getting in his face, “say it to me straight instead of talkin’ shit in your office to impress the hoes!”

“I’m fucking GAY!” Byron shouted, throwing his hands up. “Why the hell would I be trying to impress hoes, you outdated fossil!?”

“Who you callin’ fossil?!” Cross fired back. “With yo dick-suckin’, booty-bandit, faggoty-ass mouth think you talkin’ to!?”

CRACK!

Byron’s fist connected with Cross’s face, sending him stumbling back onto the floor.

Cross looked up, stunned. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

“Get up, bitch!” Byron barked, fists clenched.

Cross stood, brushing himself off, eyes blazing. “I always knew this day was comin’…”

“I coulda let it slide,” Byron said, cracking his knuckles. “Water under the bridge. But you said some real disrespectful shit today. So now—I gotta beat that ass.”

He dropped into a fighting stance.

Cross matched it without missing a beat. “What’s up, bitch!?”

They collided like a storm—martial arts kicks and punches mixed with raw, street-brawl energy. Desks rocked, chairs tipped over, papers flew like a blizzard. Fists thudded against flesh, furniture groaned, and the office turned into a battlefield.

BANG! THUMP! SMASH!

Out in the hallway, a worker strolling by paused at the muffled chaos leaking through the door.

“You hit like a bitch, old man!” Byron’s voice roared.

“I always knew faggots couldn’t fight!” Cross shouted back.

Another worker sidled up, sipping coffee like it was just another Monday. “How many times is this now?”

“Eh, like… their thirtieth?” the first one guessed.

“Damn…” the second said, nodding. “For his age, Cross keeps up pretty good.”

They both shrugged and kept walking, the sounds of the brawl fading behind them.