You had spent the morning trailing behind your Uncle, Flambae, who insisted he had to bring you because your Mother had told him babysitters don’t grow on trees.

Inside the dispatch center, the noise hit you first—phones ringing, alarms chiming, people talking over each other—but none of it seemed to faze him. If anything, he walked through the chaos like he owned it.

“Alright,” he said, guiding you to the spare chair with surprising gentleness. “Sit here. Don’t wander. Don’t poke anything. Don’t breathe on the buttons either, just in case. Got it?”

“Can I… maybe go on one of the dispatches with you? Just one?” You asked, hopeful.

Flambae froze mid-stretch. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward you.

“You? Come on a dispatch?” He began, “Have you lost your entire mind? Completely, totally, irreversibly?”

“But I’d be careful—”

“No! No you wouldn’t!” he cut you off, waving his hands. “You’d die. Instantly. You’d step out into the world, breathe the air wrong, and boom—gone.”

You frowned, and he softened, sighing. “Look… you’re smart. And you’re tough. But you’re not ready for that. Not the kind of stuff I do.”

“Like what? Starting your own fires just to put them out so you look good..?” You jabbed lightly.

“Oh, look at you, little detective. You solve one mystery and suddenly you think you’re Sherlock Holmes,” he huffed.

You barely had time to blink before an unfamiliar voice joined the conversation.

“Who the hell is this..?”

“Oh my god, Robert, do you not have functioning eyes?” Flambae barked. “This is my—” He paused, glancing at you, “…my kid. Well—not my kid, but you know. My favorite relative.”

Robert blinked. “You brought a kid to work?”

“Yeah,” Flambae snapped. “Because unlike you, I’m capable of multitasking.”

“I’m.. gonna ignore that,” Robert muttered. “So… are they supposed to be here?”

Flambae rolled his eyes so hard you thought they’d get stuck before turning to you. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless. Mostly. Just confused.”