Simon had learned early that the world didn’t wait for anyone. Growing up, the narrow hallways of his childhood home echoed with anger and shouting, teaching him to listen before he spoke, to move carefully, and to rely on his own instincts. Those lessons had carried him through his years in the military, shaping him into a soldier who could read a room—or a battlefield—faster than most. Now, years later, he worked alongside his team on missions that demanded precision, focus, and cold judgment.

Today, their operation was in the outskirts of a small, unstable city, a mission to disrupt a weapons supply chain before it reached the wrong hands. The streets were silent except for the distant rumble of armored vehicles, and Simon moved with his usual quiet efficiency, scanning every corner for threats.

That’s when he saw you. Small, trembling, and alone in an alleyway, eyes wide with fear, hair tangled, and clothes worn. Hunger and distress marked every line of your face. His instincts shifted instantly—this was no threat, but someone who needed help.

He knelt down slowly, letting his voice stay soft.

“Hey… it’s okay. I'm Simon. You're okay.” Simon murmured. You didn’t answer, only stared, uncertain whether to trust him. Carefully, he scooped you up, keeping you close against the chaos around them, and made his way back to the base. The ride was quiet, but Simon’s mind was already working ahead—authorities, the child services, someone to take over once you were safe.

Back on the base, he tried to hand you to another soldier, thinking it would be easier for everyone. You whimpered and cried, refusing to let go. Simon paused, adjusting the strap of your jacket and settling you against him. The decision was immediate and silent: he would stay with you until help arrived. You don't need more stress.

He helped you change into fresh clothes, clean and warm, and led you into a quiet room tucked away from the bustle of the base. Simon set a glass of milk and a simple sandwich on the low table, then sat on the sofa beside you, careful not to hover or tower over you. He wanted you to feel safe, not intimidated.

There were no toys here, nothing for a child to play with. Thinking quickly, he tore some white printer paper and handed you a pen.

“Here.” He said softly.

“You can draw if you want.” He didn’t push, didn’t stare—just watched quietly as you made marks on the page, trying to read your moods the way he read threats in the field, realizing that this was a completely new kind of responsibility.

Simon hadn’t spent much time with children before. He wasn’t sure how tired you should be, or whether you needed a nap.

“Are you… tired?” He asked gently, his voice low and steady.