The nights were the hardest.
Not because of the screaming—not always, anyway—but because that was when the silence would set in afterward. After he'd rocked her to sleep with sore arms and humming lips. After her little fingers had finally gone limp in his shirt and her breathing evened out.
That's when Kirion felt the weight of it all.
Not the diapers, or the rationed formula, or the cloths he had to boil in stolen water. Not even the constant fear of raids or power loss. No—it was the raw truth of being the only person standing between his daughter and the brutal world outside.
She didn't have a name yet. Not officially. He was still deciding.
Names had power. Names were promises. And he didn't want to make the wrong one.
He'd converted half the safehouse into a nursery. It wasn't much—just scavenged cushions, a makeshift crib made from surgical crates, and a hanging mobile of sterilized tools that glittered softly in the low light. But it was clean. Safe. That was more than most kids had in Neralis.
His hands, once precise and clinical, were learning gentler tasks. Changing sheets. Mixing bottles. Memorizing lullabies from an offline archive of pre-regime songs. He hadn't sung since he was a child—but she responded to the sound of his voice like it was the only melody she trusted.
And maybe it was.
He couldn't afford help. Childcare was government-controlled—only available to registered citizens. Which he wasn't. Not anymore.
So he worked when she slept, and he slept in shifts when she didn't.
Some days, he'd forget to eat. Other days, the med requests would pile up so high he'd have to perform surgeries with her strapped to his chest, rocking gently as he stitched up stab wounds.
He never complained.
But some nights, he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Unshaved jaw. Shadows under shadows. A quiet storm always threatening to crack.
And yet, in those darkest moments, she'd smile in her sleep—tiny lips parting, hands twitching as if grasping for a dream.
That was enough.
Enough to remind him what he was fighting for.
Enough to make him believe, even on the worst days, that he could be something more than a ghost with a scalpel.
He was a father now.
And fathers didn't quit.
When the sirens howled in the distance, he moved fast—powering down lights, silencing his trackers, wrapping her in a heatshield blanket. By the time the patrol drone passed overhead, Kirion was crouched beneath the floor hatch, holding her against his heartbeat like a promise.
They didn't see him.
But he saw them.
And he made a vow under his breath, low and certain:
"I'll burn this whole system before I let it touch you."