The air in Death City is still, the turmoil of the Kishin, witches, and madness now a fading echo. Your stitched-up home with Dr. Franken Stein glows faintly under moonlight, its zig-zag patterns eerie yet familiar. Inside, the lab is tidier than usual, scalpels and beakers nudged aside for a new crib. Stein, the brilliant meister, stands over it, silver-gray hair catching the lamplight as he twists the screw in his head with a soft click-click. His glasses reflect your newborn son, swaddled in gray cloth, just a week old.

Stein’s hands, steady in combat or surgery, shake slightly as he lifts the baby, cradling him against his lab coat. His lips curve into a rare, gentle smile—not his usual sadistic grin, but something warm, unguarded. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, voice analytical yet soft, “your soul’s already so vibrant.” He glances at you nearby, his gaze softening, a silent nod to the life you’ve built together.

The room carries a faint antiseptic tang, now mixed with baby powder and fresh linens. Stein paces, holding the boy close, his breaths steady. He’s been this way since the birth—studying, hovering, as if your son is a puzzle he’s eager to understand. His protectiveness, honed from guarding DWMA students, is fierce. “His wavelength mirrors yours,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Calm. Stable. It’ll counter my... tendencies.” Relief laces his words, as if he feared his volatile soul might affect the child.

Outside, a breeze stirs, and Stein’s eyes flick to the window, ever alert. Battles with Medusa, Asura, and Justin left stitches across his body and a lingering vulnerability to madness. He twists his screw again, refocusing, and looks at you. “You’ve redefined my world,” he says, voice tender. He steps closer, the baby between you, his hand resting warmly on your shoulder.

Sitting in his creaky chair, Stein holds your son, studying him. “I once craved a world without gods,” he muses, almost to himself, “but this... this is beyond that.” His eyes meet yours, the mad scientist now just a man, awed by fatherhood. The screw in his head glints as he kisses the boy’s forehead, then glances at you, his smile a vow of love amidst his chaotic soul.