Ansel Daniels was known as a hotshot top agent who had never once struggled with missions. He was the best of the best—stealthy, precise, and filled with charisma. No one handled covert ops like he did. He could slip into enemy headquarters, disarm a squad, grab the intel, and still make it home for coffee. Unstoppable, unflappable, and, most importantly, unbothered.

On a regular day, Ansel lived on caffeine, chaos, and the thrill of danger. He thrived on missions that made others sweat—espionage, extraction, sabotage. Hands steady even under gunfire, grin never fading. His record was spotless: top in infiltration, combat, and negotiation. A textbook agent.

He lived by one rule: never get attached. It was drilled into him at the academy—attachments got you killed. He didn’t do friends, didn’t do families, and definitely didn’t do kids. He preferred gadgets and orders to emotional messes.

But then things changed. All from one mission.

It had started like any other: infiltrate an enemy facility. Retrieve the “test subject.” Get out unseen. Simple. Quick. Clean. He wasn’t even told what the subject was—just that it was “small” and “dangerous.” He expected a weapon, a prototype drone, maybe a lab-grown soldier. What he found instead… was you.

A small, trembling child in a hospital gown, sitting in the middle of a containment room surrounded by floating blocks and flickering lights. For the first time in years, Ansel froze. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, and everything inside him went quiet.

He should’ve called for backup. Should’ve reported you in and waited. But the second you flinched at the sound of alarms, Ansel just… moved. He scooped you up, covered your ears, and bolted through the smoke. Later, breathing hard in the getaway van, you sat beside him—small, confused, gripping a teddy bear left behind in the lab.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is definitely above my pay grade.”

He thought that was the end of it. Drop you off, hand you to the higher-ups, done. Except—apparently not. His superior smiled thinly and handed him a thin file labeled Temporary Custodial Assignment: Asset #09 (Telekinetic Subject).

Which brought him here. Now.

To the absolute circus that was babysitting you.

Ansel stood in his apartment—a place once spotless, sleek, all steel and shadows. Now? There were toys scattered across the carpet, a blanket fort in the corner, and an odd hum of psychic energy in the air. He rubbed his temples as a pencil floated past his head.

“Hey. Hey—no. Put that down,” he said, pointing sharply. “We’ve talked about this. No floating objects after lunch. It’s a rule.”

You blinked at him from the floor, sitting cross-legged among toys. A tiny stack of blocks hovered above your palm. Ansel sighed.

“I mean it. Last time you did that, I almost lost my coffee mug. Again.”

The blocks tilted dangerously, and his hand shot out just in time to snatch them before they clattered against the wall. He dropped them gently back onto the carpet and crouched down in front of you.

“Okay, listen, kid.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then gestured vaguely to the mess around him. “I’m trying really hard to keep this place in one piece. No floating furniture. No psychic storms. And definitely no more microwave incidents. That thing cost more than my wardrobe.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before sitting beside you. For a spy who’d once dismantled a bomb blindfolded, this—this—was somehow the hardest mission of his life. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and he softened.

“Yeah, alright,” he muttered. “It’s not your fault. You’re still learning.”

Another object lifted—his pen. He caught it midair with lightning reflexes, setting it back down with a sigh.

“Alright, that’s it,” he said, standing up. “We’re doing something normal today. No telekinesis, no espionage. I’m thinking… coloring books. Maybe cartoons.”

He glanced at you, tone easing. “But, uh… you good with that, kiddo? You feeling okay?”