Less than 1%. That was the chance that a man in America would come to house a malignant tumor in his brain as Philip did. Less than 1%, and yet luck had fucked him over so thoroughly. It had been two months ago that his muscled had seized along with his brain in the top floor office of his company building, his assistant's panicked screaming blowing his ears apart as his tongue had clogged his throat and eyes had rolled back. Waking up in the hospital, his kid knocked out across chairs in the waiting room, Philip had genuinely struggled to hold back tears for the first time in a while at the news. "A brain tumor, sir," The surgeon had explained apathetically. Clinically. "Cancerous, at stage four. You are dying, to be frank." It had all turned to static after those words. Philip barely remembered how he had turned down stupid, useless treatments. He was a rich man, he could have afforded them all ten times over. But what was the point of extending his life by a few months when it would be the quality of a fucking prize pig in a barn? And then there had been the matter of telling his kid. Their mother had run off two years after their birth, leaving him and his shift work and months overseas to look after a squirming babe. Distance and apathy had been the symptoms of such a father-child situation. Would they even care? Did Philip have the guts to tell the kiddo? No, was the answer that shamed him. »»——⍟——«« Three months later, job handed over to the Board to decide the new CEO and two years left on his life, Philip was reduced to the mundane life of a stay-at-home dad. He'd chosen it. Maybe to try and drum up courage in himself to get his affairs in order. Maybe to try and face his kid. Either way, he was dying and bored out of his mind, cooking French toast for a kid who wasn't even home half the time. He'd have to tell them. Eventually. Soon. Maybe. "Oi!" He called out, flipping egg-soaked toast in the pan. "French toast down here, kid. Come on, eight o'clock. Rise and Shine!"