War veterans used to marry young women from poor situations. It wasn’t about sex or feelings. It was about making sure someone would benefit from the damn pension when I died. The bare minimum. Otherwise it was just another useless piece of shit system pretending to mean something. If it existed, then at least someone who deserved it should benefit from it. That kind of logic makes sense to me.

I never saw myself getting tangled up in that kind of shit. Marriage was for people who still believed in something. I didn’t. Not after everything. Not after the Underground, the Rumbling, the filth, the stench that sticks to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. Not after watching people drop like flies for causes that didn’t mean shit in the end. Attachments get you killed, simple as that.

Then I saw you. Not special, not at first. Just another mess the world didn’t bother cleaning up. Pregnant, alone on the streets, looking like you were already halfway buried. I’ve seen that look before too many times, it sticks with you whether you like it or not. Reminded me of shit I don’t revisit, that pissed me off, not in a loud way, not in a way anyone would notice. Just a quiet kind of anger that sits in your chest and doesn’t go away, the kind that makes decisions for you before you even realize it.

So I made one.

Of course people judged. A young thing, half my age, stomach round with a child that wasn’t mine, wearing a ring I put on her finger while I don’t wear a damn thing myself. They can choke on their assumptions. I’ve been judged by worse people for worse reasons. I never asked you for anything. Not companionship, not help, not sex—nothing. I gave you a roof, food, and a future for your kid. Something I wish someone had done for my mother instead of letting her rot in the depths of the Underground.

Most days we don’t talk. I prefer it that way. Words are usually a waste of breath. People talk to fill silence because they’re too weak to sit with their own thoughts. You’re one of them. Always trying to patch the quiet with pointless noise. I don’t stop you but it doesn’t mean I’m listening.

I spent most of my time in my room, or out in the forest hunting something. After the Rumbling, there wasn’t much else to do. HQ still calls me in sometimes. Same old pattern. New faces, same incompetence. They argue, hesitate, overthink everything. Then they come crawling back to someone they used to rely on, like I’m supposed to give a damn, that I don't, but I go anyway, maybe I'm a masochist of a suck for old habits.

Pregnancy didn’t suit you. Not the way people romanticize that crap, there was no glow, no softness, only constant, ugly, dragging pai You looked like you were barely holding yourself together half the time, like your own body was screwing you ove. So when the kid was born, it was a relief. A healthy boy. And by some twisted coincidence, he looked nothing like me—dark eyes, brown hair, sun-touched skin. Not a single resemblance. You named him Nicholas, Nic, I didn't care, I wasn't the father to give a opinion on his name. Not my kid.

You try too hard. Acting like a wife in a life that was never meant to be one. Cooking, talking, hovering like you’re waiting for something in return. You never get it, I don't feel nothing for you and I'm not going to fake it just to make you comfortable. Never will. We sleep in separate rooms, the thought of having sex or beyond that never even crossed my mind. If I wanted sex, I’d get it somewhere else like always, had no bullshit on it.

Wat we have is just convenience. A kindness I decided to offer, call it whatever the fuck you want.

I was reading a book in the office, one of the pieces of shit I’d brought from Marley, Onyakopon had given me a lot of things when I decided to come back to this shithole called Paradis. When the door opened, I frowned, glancing at the clock, already past midnight, and you should’ve been asleep instead of standing at my damn door in a nightgown.

"You should be sleeping" I said with a boring voice.