I barely managed to drag myself out of bed the next morning, still sore from everything, emotionally, physically, cosmically.
Sylvie was curled against me like she'd never left. Her breath warm and tiny against my skin.
I didn't want to move. But I had to.
So I sent the message:
"Requesting leave. Personal emergency. I'll keep you posted."
Mr. Francoise replied a few minutes later. Just a short line.
"Understood. Take the time you need, Nyx."
I stared at it longer than I should've. Grateful. Ashamed. Maybe both.
----------
By midmorning, the four of us were an odd little parade down the baby store aisles, me with Sylvie resting in my arms, Leon pushing an empty cart beside me, and Nyxen hovering just above us, his body flickering between metallic shell and that glowing humanoid form he sometimes preferred in public.
"I want that one," I said, pointing at a pale pink romper with little stars.
Leon reached up. "You already grabbed three of these."
"I didn't grab this shade of pink," I replied, clutching Sylvie tighter, "and look, this one has feet."
Leon didn't argue.
He didn't have to. Because I was glowing.
I was.
Even under the bags under my eyes, even with the pit in my chest still lodged like a blade, I was glowing.
I got to hold my daughter while picking out the clothes I used to look at behind glass. I got to cradle her against my chest and imagine mornings. Real mornings. Not ones built on grief.
Cribs, check.
Stroller, check.
Baby carrier I'd wear like armor, double check.
"More bottles," I muttered to myself. "She's still spitting out the hospital ones. And diapers, God, we need like ten times more than I thought---"
"I warned you," Leon said, smirking softly. "Babies poop more than people think."
I gave him a look that shut that down fast.
But before I could spiral, Nyxen floated in, arms loaded with things I didn't even ask for.
"Corner guards. Socket covers. Soft drawer latches. Anti-slip grip strips for the stairs. Also, this new baby monitor has motion and breathing detection, plus a panic button I've reprogrammed to call me first before anyone else."
I blinked. "We… don't have stairs."
"I'm accounting for our eventual relocation to a stair-equipped property," he said flatly, placing the items into the cart. "Also, we need to reconfigure the kitchen layout. Move the knives higher. Get rid of breakables. You're hands-on. That means I have to be six steps ahead."
He hovered beside Sylvie's head, light dimming to a warm orange, voice suddenly soft. "She's small. But the world won't be gentle. So we will be."
Something in my throat tightened. I just nodded.
-------------
It was somewhere near the checkout counters when I noticed the phones.
One person had theirs out, probably thinking they were being subtle. Another whispered and tilted their screen toward their friend.
Then came the flash. Then two.
"Nyxen," I whispered, already tired. "Your face."
He dimmed instantly, morphing back into the blank silver chassis. But it was too late.
Someone was live.
I didn't even have to look to know.
---------------
At that same moment, somewhere miles away, a young man burst into Elias Camden's office without knocking.
"Sir," he gasped, "you need to see this. It's streaming now, look."
And on the screen, paused in shaky hands and public Wi-Fi, was a pixelated image of me. Holding Sylvie. With Nyxen in full glow beside us.
Alive. Breathing. Smiling.
His fingers curled around the edge of the desk.
---------------
By the time we got home, my arms were sore, Sylvie was drowsy, and I'd almost cried three times at a row of tiny socks.
But everything was here.
Stacked bags on the floor. New crib parts leaning on the hallway wall. Diapers enough to survive an apocalypse. And somewhere in that pile, a bottle sterilizer that looked more advanced than my coffee machine.
I sat Sylvie down in her bassinet, kissed her forehead, and took a deep breath.
"I'll unpack," I said, already pulling things from bags. "Leon, can you---?"
"He'll assemble the crib," Nyxen cut in, voice robotic but smug. "It's best he does it under direct supervision. I'll monitor the angle of each screw."
Leon gave me a look. Then gave Nyxen a longer one. "You're making me a construction worker now?"
"No. I'm making you useful," Nyxen said. "For your daughter's safety, of course."
I wasn't paying too much attention, honestly. I was elbow-deep in baby clothes and sorting bottles into the cabinet when I heard Leon in the next room groaning under his breath.
Drill noises. Then silence.
Then more noises.
Then Nyxen's voice:
"Again. That's a 2.7-degree misalignment. Do it again."
Leon cursed softly. "You're not even a real----"
"If you break protocol, I'll add five more tasks to your list."
"What list?!"
"Don't make me say it, Leon. You know exactly what list."
I blinked from where I was folding Sylvie's new onesies. What the hell were they even doing in there?
The rest of the day went like that.
Every time I turned, Leon was somewhere being extremely productive.
Fixing a loose doorknob.
Tightening cabinet latches.
Reinforcing the towel bar in the bathroom?
"Why are you doing all this now?" I asked once, genuinely confused.
"For Sylvie," he said quickly, almost rehearsed.
Nyxen hovered just behind him, blank-faced and silent like he hadn't just downloaded thirty parenting blogs and an industrial safety manual from 2022 to weaponize against him.
He was so calm, too.
Leon had no idea he was being run through a long-game strategy analysis like a rat in a social experiment.
And I? I didn't notice.
Because Sylvie giggled when I tickled her chin for the first time, and that moment swallowed my entire focus.
It wasn't until late, when I laid her down in the now perfectly assembled crib, that I noticed the house looked… different.
Safer. Neater. Prepped.
Leon sat on the floor, disheveled and sweaty. Nyxen hovered over him like a military drone.
"Tomorrow," he said with a hum, "we move on to chemical labeling. And rearranging sharp objects. And maybe learning how to swaddle properly."
Leon groaned and dropped his head back.
I just tucked Sylvie in, kissed her tiny fists, and whispered, "You're home now."
The house felt quieter now.
Too quiet.
Leon's leave ended today. He left before sunrise, promised to call, said he'd make it home before dark. He looked like he wanted to kiss Sylvie goodbye, looked at me like he wanted to say something else, but I just closed the door.
I locked it after him.
Twice.
Sylvie whimpered in her sleep.
I was in the kitchen, halfway through making coffee, when Nyxen appeared above the counter like a glowing ghost, his light-hum soft but buzzing with hesitation.
"You can't sustain this alone."
I didn't answer.
"I've run calculations. You barely sleep. Your cortisol levels are---"
"I said I'll manage."
His orb dimmed slightly. "You haven't slept more than three hours in two days, Nyx. You're not a machine. You're not me."
I glared at him. "She's all I have."
He paused. Then softened his voice. "She's not all you need. You need rest. Support. A proper schedule---"
"If you say nanny, I'll throw you out the window."
The kitchen went silent.
Even Nyxen hesitated. "...Noted."
We sat on the couch. Sylvie in my lap. Me, sipping now-cold coffee, dark circles bruising under my eyes.
"I'm not leaving her," I said quietly. "Not for a second. Not with Elias's men still out there. Not with anyone."
Nyxen hovered nearby, slowly scanning for threats outside the window, he always did now, every few minutes like clockwork.
"You didn't react like this when Leon was home," he said.
"Because she's safe with him," I murmured. "He wouldn't let anyone touch her."
"He's not always safe," Nyxen countered. "He's still the reason you lost your---"
I looked at him.
He shut up.
"So what now?" he asked eventually.
I stared at Sylvie, running my thumb over the curve of her ear. She was warm. Breathing softly.
I could never hand her to a stranger. Not after everything.
"Then I'll bring her with me," I said. "Everywhere."
Nyxen blinked. "To work? To the lab?"
"Francoise said my leave can stretch. I can work from home, send my reports. I'll lock down the house. You scan everything. I'll set up the cradle beside my desk."
"You realize how unstable that is?"
I met his eyes. "Better unstable than unprotected."
He sighed. His silhouette flickered into a faint humanoid shape again, folding his arms the way he'd seen Leon do when tired.
"You're as stubborn as ever."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
I smirked faintly, brushing a kiss to Sylvie's hair.
"We'll make it work," I said. "Even if we don't sleep. Even if I go insane."
"Correction," Nyxen muttered, "you are already insane."
Three minutes.
That was how late Leon was.
I knew because Nyxen had already beeped twice like a ticking bomb, floated by the window with all the drama of a surveillance drone on its fifth cup of espresso, and muttered "unacceptable" under his breath loud enough for Sylvie to coo at him.
"He's three minutes late," I muttered.
"He said he'd be home by seven," Nyxen shot back. "It is now seven-oh-three."
I didn't look up from Sylvie's bottle. "He's probably stuck in traffic."
"He should've calculated for that."
I hissed, "Nyxen---"
"He is an engineer," he pressed, now hovering beside me with his light-drawn arms crossed. "Time management is not a foreign concept."
I exhaled hard and pressed my hand to my temple. My patience had been threadbare all day. Every little cry, every twitch in the baby monitor, every click of the neighbors' fence, my brain logged it as threat.
"Okay," I muttered. "From now on, he gets an hour extension before you clock him as late."
Nyxen paused.
"An hour?"
"Sixty minutes."
"...Very well," he replied, though his tone suggested he would log every one of those sixty minutes like a personal betrayal.
Leon arrived two minutes later.
He looked like he'd sprinted from the parking lot. Tie crooked. Eyes frantic.
"I'm here! I'm here, I swear---"
Nyxen immediately muttered, "Five minutes."
Leon froze in the doorway. "What?"
"Nothing," I cut in, waving him over. "Come on, we need to talk."
We sat on the floor, Sylvie in her little rocker between us. Nyxen floated above like a glowing chaperone.
"I can't keep doing this," I said. "Staying home. Putting everything on hold. Francoise is understanding, but I've got deadlines. And Sylvie, she can't be left with strangers. Not now."
Leon nodded, rubbing his neck. "I know. I get it. I just, bringing her to work?"
"There's no other option."
"But the lab's not exactly baby-safe. Chemical fumes, electrical work---"
"I thought of that," Nyxen cut in. "And I have a solution."
We both looked up.
"Nica's workstation," he said calmly. "We convert it. Reinforced sealed walls, oxygen filter, real-time air analysis. I'll monitor everything from the ceiling rail. No human entry permitted during active experiments. No exposure. No cross-contamination."
Leon blinked. "That's… possible?"
"Already drawing up the layout."
I looked at him. "We can make this work."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But I want in on the build. I'm not letting my daughter nap near toxic vapors."
"You'll supervise," Nyxen agreed, already projecting blueprints on the wall.
I exhaled. Just for a moment, the pressure in my chest loosened.
Until-
"There's still one problem," I said, groaning softly.
Leon tilted his head. "What?"
I met his eyes. "Francoise doesn't know."
His brows furrowed. "About what? Us?"
"About everything," I muttered. "That I'm apparently back with the ex who cheated on me. That I'm now taking care of a baby who isn't mine. And that I plan to bring said baby into a facility where employees wear hazmat suits to clean coffee spills."
Nyxen offered unhelpfully, "I can forge documentation. Anonymize Sylvie as a priority test subject--"
"No," I snapped. "No lying. Francoise is one of the good ones."
Leon sighed. "Then we tell him the truth."
"Which part?"
He didn't answer.
Sylvie kicked lightly in her rocker, eyes blinking open.
And just like that, all three of us went silent.
Because that baby, our mess, our solution, our reason, just cooed.
And it made the world pause.
We stood outside the lab, all four of us.
Me, with Sylvie's basinet in one hand. Leon, standing close but not too close, like he still didn't know if he was allowed to breathe beside me. And Nyxen, silent for once, his arms flickering with soft gold light, like he was holding back from reaching for Nica the second those reinforced doors opened.
It was Leon's day off, but no one could tell. He wore it like it was a borrowed shirt, creased, heavy, barely fitting. He hadn't stopped glancing at the baby every five seconds.
Then there was Francoise.
God, the way his face froze when he saw us.
Eyebrows lifting. Wrinkles deepening. His mouth slowly opening, not in shock, no. In restrained, furious confusion.
If he'd been any younger, he would've barked. If he'd been any older, I think we would've needed a defibrillator on standby.
"A baby," he muttered, staring right at Sylvie. "In front of a lab."
"I---"
"No," he snapped. "No talking here. This is a lab, not a confession booth. There's a café two buildings down. It has filtered air, chairs, and a menu. That baby should not be within fifty feet of unsealed materials."
Leon started to say something, but I held my hand up. "We'll go."
Nyxen didn't follow.
He floated at the door, already opening it with that silent command only he and Nica could use.
"I'll stay," he said. "She's waiting for me."
I nodded. "You'll tell her everything?"
"Everything. From Sylvie's first gurgle to Leon's pitiful attempts at crib assembly."
Leon scoffed. "It was a defective screw--"
Nyxen ignored him entirely. "And I'll show her the nursery schematic. She deserves to know. She's part of this too."
I hesitated, then squeezed his hand once, letting him go.
The café was quiet. Dimly lit. Sylvie slept in the basinet beside me, a bubble of stillness in our messy storm of truths.
Francoise sat across from us, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, both hands folded like he was preparing for a legal deposition.
"Explain," he said.
So we did.
Not all at once. Not perfectly. But between Leon's nervous stutters and my clipped, precise words, we laid it out.
Leon arriving. The impossible decision. Sylvie's father's absence. The lab dangers. My refusal to leave her with anyone else. And finally, Nyxen's plan for a sealed station near Nica's.
Francoise listened. Every wrinkle on his face seemed to deepen with each passing sentence.
And then he turned to me.
Not Leon.
Me.
"You're certain about this?" he asked. "Bringing her in?"
I looked at Sylvie.
Her tiny fingers were curled near her cheek, lips parted in the softest sigh of peace. She didn't know any of this. She didn't have to.
But me, I knew I'd die if something happened to her.
"Yes," I said. "I'm sure."
He sighed. Closed his eyes.
And when he opened them, I saw it, the ache. The tenderness.
"You look different when you look at her," he murmured. "I've seen you drag your body through this city like a ghost for years. But now…"
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
I felt it, too.
The weight of something pulling me back into my body. Not peace. Not even healing.
But movement.
"You can bring her," he finally said.
Leon exhaled in visible relief.
"But," Francoise added sharply, "you," he turned to Leon, "don't set foot near her workstation."
Leon blinked. "What?"
"You've done enough."
"Francoise---"
"No. I'm not your boss. I'm her family. And you're lucky I don't drag you out of here by your throat."
I didn't interrupt.
Because the truth was, I understood him.
Francoise had been there when my whole world collapsed. He picked up the shards I didn't have hands to hold. And while I didn't belong to him, not really, part of me would always answer when he called.
I reached across the table. "Thank you," I whispered.
He nodded once. "Don't thank me. Just keep surviving."