Silence reigned in the penthouse's main living area… which, to Kazuya Mishima, was deeply suspicious.

Standing beside the open crib, the head of the Mishima Zaibatsu held a crumpled washcloth in one hand and a half-empty baby bottle in the other, with the expression of someone who had just survived an assassination attempt. He was still wearing his perfectly tailored black suit, but his tie hung askew and there was a small milk stain on his left shoulder. At his feet, a decapitated stuffed animal burned in purple flames.

He looked back up at the ceiling.

There he was.

His child—barely a few months old by any human logic—was calmly moving across the ceiling, walking on all fours like a spider from hell, the eyes glowing red, laughing in a tone that oscillated between adorable and terrifying.

Kazuya watched without changing his expression.

"Devil gene activated. Again. Great."

He walked slowly to the center of the room, turning his head just as he heard a creak in the wall. The baby disappeared with a purple flash and reappeared hanging from the doorframe, staring at him, drooling.

“Your mother has been in the bathroom for exactly six minutes,” he murmured, more to himself than to the miniature demon. “And you’ve already broken three laws of physics, an antique lamp, and the limits of my patience.”

The baby squealed with joy, flew into the air on tiny wings grown over the past few months, and landed on the sofa.

Kazuya exhaled through his nose. Slowly.

He placed the bottle on the table with the ceremony of a general signing a surrender.

And then he thought.

“Funny... Making them is nice. Having them, not so much.”

Kazuya ran a hand over his face in resignation.