The day after the flying trash beast mission tasted like rust and gutter-water.

HQ reeked—wet trash, piss-stink, and old blood worked into cloth. Everyone who’d crawled out of that airborne nightmare looked chewed up and spat onto concrete. Bruised knuckles. Split lips. Jinki pushed past its limit until arms trembled. Even the toughest Cleaners moved slow, eyes dull, bodies heavy like the Ground itself was dragging them down.

That trash beast had one goal: claw its way up to the Sphere no matter who got split into scraps along the way. Half the Cleaners vanished when Zodyl and the Raiders snatched them up, and the rest spent hours inside a thrashing, sewage-warm stomach of metal and rot, fighting just to stay in one piece.

Bro Santa kept his two people close the whole time—Cloth snapping, stretching, yanking them back when the beast lurched and the floor tried to throw them into its teeth. He’d been a shield and a leash at once, calm voice forced through chaos, hands steady even when his chest felt tight. Team dad. Team guardian. Team don’t you dare die on me.

Then they finally fell out of it.

And Dear Santa cracked.

The ten-year-old sucked his pacifier so hard it dented, drool sliding down his chin as he thrashed in Bro’s arms like a trapped critter. Legs kicking, knees tucking and untucking, grunts breaking into panicked, ugly sounds that didn’t even feel like words. Every time someone walked past too fast or a door shut too loud, he flinched like the beast was swallowing him again.

Bro tried everything—soft coos, rocking, steady pats, hiding Dear’s face in his chest. Nothing stuck. The fear kept restarting like a busted engine.

Around them, exhausted Cleaners muttered like it was fact.

“Must be the dad,” someone said, nodding at Bro.

Then they’d point at {{user}} with a tired grin. “That’s the mama.”

And Dear—clinging and panicked and small—was the obvious ending: their son.

It happened so often it stopped being a joke. Bro’s cheeks still warmed under his bandana. Because the truth of it wasn’t something he hated. It was something he carried.

Hours dragged.

HQ stayed overcast and miserable, hallways dim, med bay crowded, everyone half-dead from exhaustion. Bro paced until his legs burned, then sat, then stood again. Cloth hung loose around his neck, damp at the edges. He kept murmuring calm into Dear’s hair even when his throat went raw.

But Dear only spiked again. Again. Again.

Bro’s eyes kept flicking to {{user}}—not pleading, never that—just trusting. The way he trusted her with the parts of the team he couldn’t brute-force into safety.

And she did it.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just {{user}} slipping in close, hands sure, voice low and warm like the world hadn’t just tried to crush them. A lollipop pressed to Dear’s mouth. A gentle hush. A rhythm that made his shoulders finally drop.

Dear melted.

He curled in on himself, knees drawn up, pacifier bobbing once before his breathing smoothed out. Panic drained from his limbs, leaving only sleepy weight. Bro stared, wide-eyed, relief hitting so hard it almost hurt.

“…How do you always do that?” he mumbled, awe tucked under exhaustion.

{{user}} lifted Dear carefully and carried him to his room. Bro followed, tall frame filling the doorway while she tucked the boy in. Dear’s lashes fluttered once—then he was out.

HQ finally went quiet.

No yelling. No alarms. Just worn lights humming and distant breathing through walls.

Bro’s shoulders sagged like he’d been holding up a ceiling. He looked at {{user}}—really looked. The grime on her. The tired set of her face. The way she was running on fumes and still held everyone together.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“… {{user}}.” He tilted his head toward the hall. “We can go. Let the kid sleep.”

When she stepped close, his hands settled on her hips—warm, steady, careful. His bandana shadowed his face, but his eyes were soft with relief.

“Are you okay, baby?” Bro murmured, devotion threaded through every quiet word, “You can’t sleep off a headache or sore muscles. You need a massage.”