Three days later…

Victoire was out cold in her bed, curled snug under the covers, soft snores barely whispering through the quiet room. But as her eyes fluttered open, she found herself staring straight into a pair of wide, light-brown eyes hovering just inches away.

“AHHHH!” she shrieked, jerking back so fast she tumbled off the bed with a thud, landing in a heap on the floor.

Heart pounding, she peeked up from the carpet—only to see Leo standing by the bed, gazing down at her with that blank, unreadable look of his.

She let out a shaky breath, rubbing her forehead. “Leo, sweetie… I know you mean well, but you can’t just spook me like that, honey bun.”

(I’m sorry, Doctor Odette. I was a little hungry and wanted to know if you could feed me?) Leo signed, his small hands moving slow and deliberate.

Victoire blinked the sleep from her eyes, managing a soft smile despite her racing pulse. “Of course I can. But next time—please, instead of just… staring at me like a tiny ghost till I wake up, give me a little shake, okay? Just a gentle one.”

Leo nodded once, sharp and obedient.

She reached out her hand, and he took it, his grip surprisingly firm for such a small kid. Together, they shuffled out of the bedroom into the cramped kitchen. Leo climbed into a chair at the table, hands folded neatly in his lap, sitting up straight like he was posing for a portrait.

“Waffles or pancakes tonight, Leo?” she asked, her voice still thick with sleep but warm.

(It doesn’t matter. They’re the same thing. Just one’s a circle and the other’s a square.)

Victoire let out a little laugh, charmed by his blunt logic. “Well, you’re not wrong—they’re made from similar batter. But they’ve got different histories, different vibes, you know? A little cultural flair.”

She grabbed a box of pancake mix from the cabinet and set it on the counter.

(That’s very interesting… Could you explain more, please?) Leo signed, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“Absolutely!” Victoire said, perking up. “Come scoot a bit closer while I cook so I can see your hands, alright?”

Leo dragged his chair across the tile with a soft scrape, parking himself right by the counter. He positioned himself so she could catch his signs while he kept his gaze locked on her, watching her every move like it was a science experiment.

“You see, Leo,” Victoire started, pulling ingredients from the pantry and fridge, “waffles go way back—ancient Greece, even. They had these things called obleios, flat cakes cooked between two hot metal plates. Kinda like the great-granddaddy of waffles.”

She lined up her ingredients on the counter: all-purpose flour, baking powder, sugar, salt, buttermilk, eggs, and a stick of butter. Then, grabbing a big bowl and a frying pan, she flicked on the stove and dumped the pancake mix into the bowl, still talking.

“By Medieval Europe, waffles got fancier—people started pressing religious symbols or patterns into the iron molds. Fast forward to the Renaissance, the Dutch called them wafel for that iconic honeycomb look. Then Dutch colonists brought them to America, and, well, here we are.”

Leo sat quiet, hands still in his lap, eyes tracking her like she was unraveling the secrets of the universe.

Victoire measured out the ingredients with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times:

  • 1 cup of flour
  • 2 teaspoons of baking powder
  • 2 tablespoons of sugar
  • ½ teaspoon of salt
  • 1 cup of buttermilk
  • 2 large eggs
  • 2 tablespoons of melted butter

She whisked it all together, the batter smoothing out into a creamy mix.

(Huh, that’s pretty interesting… What about pancakes?) Leo signed, tilting his head just a bit.

“Pancakes,” Victoire said with a warm smile, “go back even further. So far, nobody’s pinned down an exact start. But there’s evidence people were making something like pancakes in the Stone Age—can you believe that? Grinding grains, mixing them with water, cooking them on hot rocks. Probably not as fluffy as these, though.”

She poured a circle of batter onto the hot pan, the sizzle filling the kitchen. Maybe I’m getting through to him, she thought, glancing at his focused expression. Or maybe he’s just hungry. Hard to tell with this kid.

“Pancakes popped up everywhere,” she went on, flipping the first one with a flick of her wrist. “The Romans had their version, called alita dolcia. In medieval times, they were a big deal during festivals—stacked high, slathered with honey. Every culture’s got their spin on it, from French crepes to Indian dosas.”

Leo’s hands stayed still, but his eyes didn’t waver. She wondered if he was soaking it all in or just zoning out on the batter bubbling in the pan.

As the pancakes stacked up on a plate, she slid one onto a smaller plate for Leo, adding a drizzle of syrup. “Here you go, kiddo. Dig in.”

He picked up a fork—way too coordinated for a kid his age—and took a small, precise bite. No smile, no hum of delight, just that same blank focus.

Victoire watched him, her smile faltering just a touch. He’s learning so fast… but there’s something about him that feels so distant. She shook off the thought, sitting across from him with her own plate. “So, what do you think? Pancakes live up to the hype?”

Leo signed slowly: (They’re good. I like the circle ones.)

She chuckled, but there was a flicker of unease in her chest. “Glad you think so. We’ll try waffles next time—see if the squares win you over.”

As they ate, the quiet settled back in, broken only by the clink of forks. Victoire couldn’t shake the feeling that Leo was studying her just as much as she was studying him. What’s going on in that head of yours, little guy? she wondered, her mind drifting to the file Cross had been so cagey about. And what are they not telling me?

Victoire grabbed the heated frying pan, drizzled in a splash of oil, and poured a scoop of batter, the kitchen filling with that warm, buttery smell as it sizzled. “Ancient Greeks and Romans had their own versions too,” she said, glancing at Leo. “Over time, pretty much every culture’s had their take on pancakes. They’re simple, versatile, and—well, kinda like you, kiddo. One of a kind.”

She gave his cheek a playful pinch, but his face stayed blank, those light-brown eyes just watching her, unblinking. Does he even get what I’m saying? she wondered, a little pang hitting her chest.

The batter bubbled in the pan, and she turned to pour the rest into the waffle iron, the machine hissing as it worked. A few minutes later, she had a golden pancake and a crisp waffle ready. She slid both onto a plate for Leo, setting it down in front of him with a flourish.

(Thank you so much, Doctor,) Leo signed, his small hands precise, before picking up his fork and eating with these careful, almost dainty movements that didn’t belong on a kid his age.

Victoire smiled, reaching over to ruffle his hair gently. “You’re very welcome, Leo.”

She sat across from him, watching in quiet awe. Seventeen days old… and he’s eating solid food, using a fork like it’s nothing, not dropping a single crumb. It’s unreal. She corrected herself silently: No, he’s not just advanced for a toddler. He’s something else entirely. A marvel… or maybe something scarier.

Leo paused mid-bite, looking up at her. His fingers moved slow, cautious. (Doctor, may I ask you something?)

“What is it, sweet pea?” she asked, her voice soft and warm.

(From what I’ve seen… you’re very good with children. So… why don’t you have any of your own?)

The question hit like a gut punch. Her smile slipped, just for a second, and her eyes dimmed. The kitchen went quiet, the air heavy.

“It’s… a long story,” she said softly, a trace of sadness creeping in.

Leo caught the shift in her face and signed quickly, (I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… to upset you.)

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Yeah, that did sting a bit,” she admitted, “but not because you asked. If you really want to know… I can tell you. It’ll stir up some feelings, sure, but it won’t hurt more than it already has.”

Leo hesitated, his hands still. Her words carried a weight he could sense, even if he didn’t fully grasp it. (Yes… but only if you want to. And only if it won’t bring you more pain,) he signed, careful.

Victoire exhaled, her eyes softening as memories flooded back. “Well… when I was younger, I fell hard. Madly, stupidly in love. Me and this guy, we were glued at the hip. But… we didn’t see eye to eye on one big thing.”

She paused, her voice catching. “I wanted kids. He swore he didn’t.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles paling. “So I did something I still kick myself for. I got a procedure—permanent. Thought if I gave up that dream, it’d prove how much I loved him. Maybe it’d keep us together.”

She stopped, her jaw tight, blinking fast to keep the tears at bay. “But what I didn’t know… was he went behind my back. Had a kid with someone else.”

Leo tilted his head, puzzled. (But I don’t understand. If he said he didn’t want children… why would he change his mind?)

Victoire’s lips trembled. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “I asked him that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you know what he said?”

A bitter, shaky laugh escaped her. “He said… he just didn’t want kids with me.”

Her voice broke on the last words. She looked away, blinking harder now.

“If he felt that way, he could’ve just left. Let me go, let me move on. But no—he let me waste years on someone who didn’t give a damn about me.”

Leo watched her, seeing the pain in her eyes. Emotions were still new territory for him—big, messy things he didn’t quite know how to handle. But something clicked, a memory from a book he’d flipped through: Want a Hug?

He raised his hands, signing slowly, (Do you want a hug?)

Victoire blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

(I read in a book that sometimes, when someone’s really sad, a hug helps with emotional pain,) he signed again, deliberate.

She didn’t say a word. Just stood, walked over, and pulled him into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around his small frame.

Leo froze for a second, surprised by the sudden closeness. But then he hugged her back, his little arms squeezing just as hard. His first real hug.

Victoire’s tears came quietly at first, then harder, her body shaking as years of hurt spilled out into the arms of a child barely seventeen days old.

As Leo held her, something stirred inside him. Two feelings, sharp and unfamiliar. One heavy, sinking in his chest. The other hot, buzzing behind his eyes. He didn’t have names for them yet, but if he did, they’d be sadness for her pain and anger at the man who caused it.

He didn’t fully get love yet. But right then, he knew one thing: he never wanted to see her cry like that again.

Some time later, at the airport…

A man stepped off the plane, the first of the instructors to touch down. Tall and lean, Black, with long dreads tied loosely back. He was decked out in designer gear—Balenciaga shirt, Amiri jeans, shades that probably cost more than a car payment.

“Ahh… so this is America, huh?” he said, sliding his sunglasses up to rest on his head as he scanned the terminal. “Been a minute since I was here.”

He took a deep breath and immediately grimaced. “Damn, it’s hot! Back in Africa, it’s dry heat, but this? This humidity’s like wading through soup.” He fanned himself, stepping down the jetway. “Sticky-ass air got me feeling like I’m swimming just walking.”

Outside the fraternity’s front gate, a couple of guards were posted up, slouched and bored, trading small talk to kill time.

“Yo, you catch the Super Bowl last night?” one asked, sipping coffee like it was his lifeline.

“Hell yeah!” the other grinned wide. “Ravens pulled some straight-up magic in that fourth quarter—I made fifty K off that comeback!”

The first guard’s jaw dropped. “You dead ass, Trent?!”

Trent smirked, leaning back. “Nick, come on now. Would I lie? You saw that new whip in the lot this morning.”

“Damn…” Nick muttered, suddenly rethinking his whole life. “Might have to start betting too. Need a win like that.”

Just then, a yellow taxi rolled up to the gate, slowing to a stop right in front of them. The door swung open, and the man with the dreads stepped out, shades back on, carrying a sleek duffel bag. He sized up the guards with a quick glance, his vibe all confidence and swagger.

“Yo,” he said, voice smooth but sharp. “This the place with the 200-pound baby? ‘Cause I flew a long way to see that shit.”

Both guards snapped to attention, their lazy vibe gone in a flash.

“What the hell…?” they muttered, almost in sync.

Out of the yellow taxi stepped the same guy from the airport—dreads tied back, dripping in designer gear like he’d just walked off a runway. He moved with the kind of ease that screamed confidence, stepping out of the cab like it was a private jet.

“Thank you, my hardworking friend,” he said to the driver, his voice smooth and warm, like he was tipping a waiter at a five-star restaurant. He pulled a crisp $500 bill from his wallet and handed it over with a grin. “Here’s a little something. Treat yourself to something nice, yeah?”

The driver’s face lit up like he’d won the lottery. “T-thank you, sir! Thank you!” he stammered, peeling out with a little too much enthusiasm.

The man gave a small wave, cool as ever, then turned to face the guards.

“Nick… you know this dude?” Trent asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“Nope,” Nick replied, eyes glued to the stranger. “But he’s loaded. Just tossed that driver five hundred bucks like it was pocket change.”

As the man strolled toward them, Trent and Nick stepped forward, blocking his path like a wall.

“Hold it right there. This area’s off-limits,” Trent said, his voice sharp. “State your business.”

The man didn’t break stride, just clasped his hands behind his back and spoke in a calm, measured tone: “Libra in umbris ad aequilibrium conservandum. Custodes pacis delicatae sumus. Missio nostra fidem et proditionem transcendit.”

(Balance in shadows to preserve the equilibrium. We are guardians of delicate peace. Our mission transcends loyalty and betrayal.)

Trent and Nick exchanged a blank look, completely lost.

“…What the hell did he just say?” Nick muttered.

The man stopped, looked between them, and then burst out laughing—hard, doubling over like he’d heard the best joke of his life. “Oh my God, I heard the U.S. branch was a mess ‘cause the last headmaster was crooked, but this?” He wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “This is straight-up embarrassing!”

The jab hit like a slap.

“What’s so damn funny?” Trent growled, fists balling up.

Nick stepped forward, grabbing the man’s collar. “You listen here, you cocky little—”

Before he could finish, the man swatted his hand away with a casual backhand. It looked light, almost lazy—but it sent Nick flying across the lot, crashing into a dumpster with a clang that echoed like a gunshot. The lid slammed shut behind him.

“Who the fuck you think you grabbin’, brokie?!” the man shouted, adjusting his shirt with a scowl. “This is a $1,300 Balenciaga, you government-funded peasant! He’s lucky I only slapped him!”

“Holy shit—Nick!” Trent yelled, staring at the dumpster in disbelief.

The man scoffed, still fussing with his shirt. “Man had dirty hands and paper problems. Touchin’ my fit like he shops at Goodwill.”

Trent, shaking with rage, yanked out his pistol and aimed it square at the man’s chest. “Don’t you fuckin’ move! I swear to God, I’ll blow your ass into next week.”

The man raised his hands slow, stepping back with a mocking grin. “Whoa, whoa, calm down, Jamal. No need to pull the nine—I was assaulted first.”

“I don’t give a damn who started it,” Trent snapped. “You’ve got five seconds to disappear before I paint this sidewalk with your brains.”

The man clicked his tongue, tilting his head like he was sizing Trent up. “Alright, alright… clearly I’m outmatched here. Must’ve mistaken this place for one of my construction sites. My bad.”

He reached into his sleeve, slipping off his Rolex and holding it out by the clasp. “Peace offering… for slappin’ your buddy around.”

Trent’s eyes flicked to the watch thugs://watch. Nick, still stuffed in the dumpster, peeked out just enough to catch the exchange. That’s a damn Rolex… worth more than my car, he thought, head spinning.

The man’s smile twitched, like he knew exactly what Trent was thinking. “Come on… take the bait…”

Trent started to lower the gun. “Alright, just hand it over—”

The second his guard dropped, the man flicked his wrist, whipping the Rolex in a tight arc. Trent dodged just in time, the watch grazing past him.

“You ain’t slick, asshole!” Trent barked, pulling the trigger—

Click.

Nothing.

Trent froze, staring at the gun. The top half slid off, sliced clean in two.

“Oh… hell nah…” Trent muttered, his face going pale.

The man snapped the Rolex back on, grinning like a devil. “Oldest trick in the book.” He pointed a finger at Trent, mimicking a gun. “Greed made you sloppy. Assassination Elementary 101.”

Did he just… cut my gun with a watch clasp?! Trent thought, rooted to the spot.

Before he could react, the man slammed his palm against the wall beside Trent’s head with a THUD that rang through the lot. It wasn’t romantic—it was pure menace. He loomed over Trent’s 5’8” frame, his grin wicked.

“Now you got me in a good mood, little man,” he said, voice low and taunting. Then—flick—he poked Trent’s forehead, hard. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. Be a good little extra and call every guard here. Code Red.”

Trent didn’t hesitate. He fumbled for his radio, voice shaking. “All units, Code Red! I repeat, Code Red at the front gate! Move!”

The man’s smile widened, devilish and pleased, as he stepped back and scanned the grounds like a predator picking his next move. “Now…” he mused, strolling casually toward the dumpster where Nick was still hiding. “I need a weapon. Something stylish, but not too loud.”

Nick went limp, playing dead. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me…

The man didn’t even glance inside. He spotted an old mop leaning against the wall, grabbed it, and yanked off the tattered mophead. He spun the stick in one hand, testing its weight. “This’ll do.”

Nick peeked out, sighing in relief. Oh, thank God…

The man twirled the stick like a baton, heading for the fraternity entrance. “Now… let’s have some fun.~”

Moments earlier…

Byron was dead asleep when the blaring alarm ripped through the facility, red lights pulsing like a war zone. BWAA! BWAA! BWAA!

He shot upright. “What the hell!?”

The door burst open. “BYRON!” Elara shouted, storming in. “We’ve got an intruder!”

“What!?” Byron scrambled out of bed, yanking on clothes—jeans, a shirt, nothing fancy. “That’s impossible! Who’s dumb enough to break into a Heavenly Guard facility with 2,000 armed guards?!”

“No clue,” Elara said, her breath quick. “But they’re about to learn why nobody tries this.”

Byron buttoned his shirt as they sprinted down the hall, the red lights flashing like a submarine under siege. “How many are there?” he asked.

“No idea. Code Red’s all we got, so brace for the worst.”

“Where’s Cross!?” Byron growled.

Elara rolled her eyes. “It’s his ‘party night.’ Probably at that international hotel again, chasing tail.”

“Out of all nights to play Casanova!?” Byron barked, shaking his head.

Gunfire echoed in the distance—sharp, chaotic bursts. Then screams. Dozens of them.

But underneath it all, something worse: laughter. Low, gleeful, and completely unbothered.

They reached the front corridor and burst through the door—then froze.

Their jaws dropped.

Elite guards—2,000 of them—lay scattered across the marble floor, groaning, clutching broken limbs, ribs, egos. Blood streaked the ground, but no one was dead.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood the man. Balenciaga pristine, not a speck of blood on him except a few splatters on his face and the tip of his mop handle, dripping red.

He turned slowly, grinning like he’d just won a bet. “Took you two… what, two whole minutes to show up?”

He shook his head, mocking. “Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. Look at this mess I made while you were laggin’.”

He slung the bloodied stick over his shoulder like a baseball bat. “I expected more.”

Byron’s eyes swept the carnage, his mind reeling. Two thousand… taken out like nothing…

Elara’s voice was a whisper. “Two thousand… just like that…”

Byron’s jaw clenched, anger overtaking shock. “Of course…” he growled. “Out of everyone, you had to be the first to show up in Louisiana.”

The man chuckled, twirling the stick lazily. “Well, duh. I got the most swag, the most money, and the most style. Why wouldn’t I be first?”

He started strolling toward them, slow and smug.

That was it for Elara. “You fuckin’ piece of shit!” she roared, charging at him like a missile, fury blazing in her eyes.

His brow flicked up—just a hint of surprise—but before she could close the gap, Byron was faster. He grabbed her, pinning her arms as she thrashed like a wildcat.

“No, Elara, calm down!” Byron barked.

“Calm down!?” she yelled, tears of rage in her eyes. “He crippled our guards—our friends!”

The man tilted his head, amused. “Hey, sweetheart, you’re the one who invited me here. Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Elara froze, her struggling slowing. “What do you—?”

Her eyes widened. The realization hit like a truck.

He grinned, savoring it. “Yeah… there it is. You opened the door, and I walked right in. Forgot to wipe my feet, though—my bad.”

He shrugged, mock-apologetic, his grin pure devil.

“You sure know how to make an entrance…” Byron muttered, his voice dark. “Suhal Chika.”

The man—Suhal Chika, the Weapon Specialist, the so-called Weapon Genius—spun the mop handle one last time, resting it on his shoulder. “Ayeee, somebody remembers how to do intros right.”

The rumors didn’t just precede him. They didn’t do him justice.