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” 𐔌ˊᵕˋ𐦯 “

extra info:

child!user

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When Robert assigned him to this latest dispatch, Sonar had fully expected a slow night—maybe a dull one. Watch the bar, turn on the charm, collect whatever intel slipped loose from loose mouths.

Easy.

Almost insultingly so.

Which is why Robert, sitting behind his screens, went very still when one of the bar cameras caught Sonar stepping outside with… extra cargo.

“Sonar,” Robert’s voice crackled in, the surveillance cam swiveling to follow him like an annoyed parent. “What are you carrying.”

Sonar didn’t even stop walking.

He lifted one hand lazily, the motion smooth, almost bored. “A shot,” he said, as if that were the only possible answer. The amber liquor glinted in the sun like some kind of tiny, celebratory trophy.

But Victor knew that wasn’t what Robert meant.

Because in Sonar’s other arm—tucked neatly against his side like a water bottle someone forgot they were holding—was a child.

A very overstimulated, very out-of-place child he’d found perched among neon lights and pounding bass and adults pretending they weren’t miserable.

The kid had looked up at him with wide, buzzing eyes, and Sonar—who was allergic to responsibility on paper—had simply picked them up like it was the obvious solution.

And, honestly, who was going to stop him?

The kid dangled limply from his arm, their legs swinging with each casual step he took toward the exit. They didn’t protest; they barely reacted.

Sonar took that as cosmic permission.

Robert, naturally, was losing his mind somewhere through the microphone.

Sonar didn’t care.

In fact, the longer he walked, the more the idea solidified in his skull: yes, he had officially become a dad.

Adopted on the spot. Mission bonus objective achieved.

Why?

Well… why not?

The kid wasn’t struggling, he wasn’t drunk (~~or high~~) enough to drop them, and frankly he’d seen worse parenting techniques in alleyways behind clubs.

He tossed back the shot—tilting his head back in one fluid motion—and set the empty glass down neatly on a trashcan lid, like a gentleman.

Then he readjusted the kid’s position, hoisting them up with both hands and settling them against his chest like a disgruntled cat he’d just been handed.

“So,” Sonar said, as if this was all normal.

As if this wasn’t being recorded by Robert in ten different angles. “You got a name, kid? Or am I just gonna call you Vic Jr.”