Day broke with a raw, pale sunlight, filtering weakly through the grime-streaked windows of River Loft. Evan woke in the narrow space between crib and sofa, body aching in more places than he cared to admit. At first, he thought the sound by his head was his own heart—then recognized the raspy breath and tinny snores as Sam, collapsed on the folded futon with half a sleeve of crackers clutched to his chest.
Evan stretched quietly, careful not to wake Nora. The infant's fever had stayed low through the night, thanks to their tag-team shifts with cool cloths and formula. She slept now with one foot dangling from under the teal blanket, cheeks no longer fire-bright. Every minute of peace felt borrowed, a treasure safer not counted out loud.
He padded to the kitchenette to make instant coffee, only to find Mira already there, nursing a lukewarm mug and blinking at her phone as if it had just informed her she'd been selected for a manned mission to Mars.
Evan poured himself a cup, steadying, and kept his voice soft: "Any more calls from the temp agency?"
"Not yet," she whispered. "But Megan scheduled a video check-in this afternoon." Her lips twisted. "Says it's policy, but I think she wants to make sure Nora's not actually a cat I'm claiming as a dependent."
He smiled, grateful for the humor. Even in daylight, Mira's eyes still bore the edges of last night's worry. "Maybe pitch Nora's teething skills. She's got star potential."
Their comradery was interrupted by a rapid knock on the door. Sam, jolted awake, nearly rolled off the futon.
"Mail run?" he croaked, but Mira was already unlocking the door for Professor Calver.
The professor's sharp, gray eyes swept the room with practiced efficiency. "I'm only here as a neighbor who owes someone homemade banana bread," she said, waving a paper-wrapped loaf. "And because I'm not above bribing you both for peace of mind before tomorrow's grant panel."
She peered over the makeshift crib, nodding satisfaction at Nora's even breathing. "Looks like you triaged just fine, Mr. Wood. Good instincts."
Sam laced up his shoes, mumbling about errands. It was the Harper version of "give the grownups privacy." A rare, intuitive kindness.
Calver pulled Evan aside near the window. "Lucas sent in a revised grant abstract this morning. Last-minute. Thought you should know."
Evan's shoulders tensed. "He's pushing hard?"
"He always does." Calver shrugged, glancing back at Mira and Nora. "But the board knows a good application from a desperate one. You've got until 11 tonight to polish slides. If you need advice, text me."
She bowed out with a wink at Mira ("Best of luck, dear—I remember newborn nights too!"), and Sam followed, bag two bananas heavier than when he'd arrived. The apartment, for a moment, felt like a stage struck after the curtain: clutter and purpose in every corner, but the real drama still offstage.
Evan settled beside Mira, reviewing to-do lists as Nora woke with a bright, alert squall that turned into a laugh the instant she saw Evan's face.
Her joy hit him square in the chest. How was it possible to feel so new every time she looked up? He brushed his thumb over her head, thinking how desperately he needed her to stay innocent through whatever blowback Lucas, the system, or anyone else had planned for them.
He sipped his coffee and opened the Super Dad System interface, concealed from Mira but ever present.
[Main Quest Day 2: Attend to three direct care tasks for Nora by sunset.
(Feeding, changing, interacting; each must generate "Sincere Affection" feedback.)
Reward: Parental Insight II, 70 SP, Bond Level +2.]
Clear and actionable, just the way he liked it. He decided to log each act, not because the system needed proof, but because accountability was the most honest thing he could offer Mira and himself.
He started with the easy one: feeding. Mira smiled and handed over a bottle, Nora clapping tiny fists in anticipation. Holding her in his lap, he kept eye contact, cooing and humming softly while she drank. It wasn't logical—data in, mood out—but the way her body relaxed into his arms whispered of a trust deeper than answers.
[Sincere Affection feedback: Detected. Progress 1/3.]
Next: changing her diaper. A minor crisis unfolded when Evan realized he'd bought size twos, not size ones, and after a comic struggle with the tabs, Mira stepped in to demonstrate the "tuck 'n roll" technique every young parent swore by. Laughing through the mess, Evan felt his patience stretch and snap, then regrow—not as brittle resolve, but as a more ductile kind. Grit, he realized, was patient repetition.
[Sincere Affection feedback: Detected. Progress 2/3.]
The last requirement—direct interaction—left him nervous. Mira encouraged him to take Nora onto the ragged area rug and play. "Feathers, blocks, singing, anything except your stats lecture voice. She loves goofy."
He tried peekaboo, then a round of gentle "Wheels on the Bus." Even tripped his voice up for the wipers part, making exaggerated swoosh sounds that finally coaxed a giggle so huge from Nora that for a split second, Evan forgot the world could be mean.
[Quest Complete. Parental Insight II unlocked, +70 SP, Bond +2 (Total: 17/100).]
A glowing warmth crept from his wrist up his bicep into his chest. He suddenly knew which funny faces Nora liked best, the signs that signaled boredom, and the gentle ways to ease her back toward sleep without relying on white noise. The sense was oddly humbling—as if some part of him, inherited or learned, was always meant for this.
Mira applauded his progress with a sly grin. "You're a quick study, Dad."
He caught her hand before she could turn. "Let's make today count—whatever comes." He wanted the words to mean small safety, not a presage of storm, but the lingering sense of a watcher in last night's stairwell soured his optimism.
Mira nodded, somber. "I trust you." It mattered more than any academic commendation.
By late afternoon, the weather turned again. Mira's video interview with Megan yielded praise for her "adaptability," and a minimal bump in pay. Evan juggled calls for tutoring sessions, managing to land two new students for the coming week—a good start on the $400 target, though hardly a finish line.
A new message pinged quietly in his field of vision:
[Side Quest: Interview with University Family Services in person, within 24 hrs.
Reward: Subsidized daycare slot application priority +50, Emergency Help Line unlocked.]
Evan shared it aloud, grateful for a prompt that paved the way for support. Mira agreed, pointing out that "help lines" always sounded like something you'd never need until the one day you did.
Their small triumphs stacked up by dinnertime: a baby who napped well, a meal delivered by a neighbor from floor two (some kind of tomato stew, spiced with the subtle confidence of someone who'd cooked for three kids under five), and updated grant slides showing his research's impact on city-wide outage rates. Balance held—for now.
But nobody really believed they'd won the day without cost. Not when the mail slot coughed out a plain envelope addressed by hand:
Wood
Ainsley
River Loft #12-B
Inside: a single, clipped news article about a successful tech grant at a rival university, and a sticky note with Evan's name written in too-perfect script. No threats, no contact info, just the unspoken weight of being watched.
He showed Mira. "A warning? Or a flex?"
"Both," she said. "Either way, they want you thinking about them."
Sam, fresh in from the gym and seeing the tension, read the note and offered the only practical wisdom: "Buy a lock for the mailbox."
Evan turned the clipping over again, teeth clenched, as the system flicked in a new note:
[Passive threat detection calibrated. Incidents will now auto-log for 72 hrs. Stay alert.]
That evening, he checked the street twice before heading for his grant pitch in the evening. At the library, he revised slides until his eyes stung, every so often touching the scarf on his neck for luck. Late into the night, thunder grumbled over the city, promising—if not safety—at least a rhythm to brace against.
The pitch—and whatever followed—marched toward him, minute by relentless minute. But as midnight arrived and the system rolled over to Day 3, Evan realized something had changed. Fear didn't own him anymore—not all of him. Not with Nora's laughter still echoing in his bones, and Mira's trust rooting there, too.
A new quest alert slid into view, bright as daybreak:
[Main Quest: Face the Grants Board. Deliver your research, defend your family's future.
Reward: Apartment Upgrade Tier 1, Unlock Relationship Skill Tree.]
He leaned back, a smile sneaking up in spite of everything. If survival meant learning new skills, this family—odd as they were—might finally be ready to do more than just duck the rain.