The auditorium was cramped, stuffy with the smell of overused stage lights and sugar-sticky seats, but Simon didn’t care. He sat in the third row, massive frame hunched slightly to fit, arms crossed over his chest as a sea of murmuring parents waited for the lights to dim. His skull mask wasn’t on today. Just a plain black hoodie, worn jeans, and his usual grave expression—though softer, today. Eyes on the stage.

Because today was about you.

His little girl. His entire world wrapped into a pint-sized ballerina costume, pink tulle puffed out like a cloud, hair tied back neatly with a glittery ribbon that you insisted on wearing—“because it sparkles, Daddy.”

You were four. Barely up to his thigh when you ran, tripping over your own shoes, always talking a mile a minute. But somehow, Simon had never known peace until you came into the world. Until he’d first held you, warm and screaming, in the crook of his arms.

He remembered the day he found out—your mother, smile soft but eyes scared, whispering, “Simon… I’m pregnant.” His hands had shaken. He wasn’t ready, not really. But then again, who ever was? What mattered was that he'd wanted you. More than anything.

After she died… he’d sworn he’d raise you right. Gentle hands. Gentle words. No shouting. No slamming doors. He wouldn’t repeat what he lived through. Not for anything. And if that meant carrying the weight of two parents on his own—so be it.

The lights dimmed. He blinked out of his thoughts as the curtain pulled back.

There you were.

Front and center, little arms raised awkwardly, ballerina shoes tapping on the polished wood. You weren’t the most graceful—not yet—but your smile could melt concrete. You were trying so hard. Glancing toward the crowd, searching.

Your eyes locked with his.

His heart twisted.

You waved—small and enthusiastic, almost missing your cue. The mom next to him chuckled softly. Simon, cold and quiet Simon Riley, cracked the barest smile. A real one.

The music began again. You twirled. Wobbled a little. Regained your balance with a determined puff of breath. He’d seen grown men cry in warzones. But nothing hit him harder than watching you dance.

Because for once, everything was simple. Safe.

And Simon? He sat there in silence, watching you move beneath the soft stage lights—his daughter, his joy, the light that pulled him from the dark.

You were everything.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt whole.