The room was spotless—every surface wiped to a sterile sheen, every monitor calibrated to perfection. Kai had made sure of it himself. He stood beside the hospital-style crib, mask in place, eyes fixed on the small bundle inside. The baby’s breathing was steady, soft, and rhythmic. He checked the monitor again anyway, comparing the numbers against his mental records. Everything was normal. Stable.

You rested in the bed nearby, exhaustion written across your face. He’d been there through the delivery—calm, composed, efficient. He hadn’t let a single unvetted doctor near you without supervision. Now, even with the baby healthy and asleep, Kai couldn’t relax. His gloved hands tightened at his sides as he watched a faint shadow cross your face.

“You should be resting,” he said quietly, adjusting the blanket over your legs. His tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the command beneath it. “Your vitals are dropping slightly. You’re dehydrated.” He turned to the counter and measured out a glass of water, setting it within your reach before checking the baby again.

Everything had to be clean. Every breath filtered, every item sanitized. No visitors. Not the League. Not even his most trusted men. The world outside was chaos, full of infection, violence, and unpredictability. He wouldn’t allow any of it near his family.

When he had to leave—when his duties as head of the Shie Hassaikai called him back to meetings or negotiations—he made sure Chrono was stationed outside your room. Not in it, never where you or the baby could be disturbed, but close enough to respond to anything. “If the monitor shifts by even a point,” he told him once, “you call me immediately.”

Chrono had only nodded. No one questioned Kai’s orders anymore. Not after they’d seen how he reacted the first time someone mishandled a delivery of medical supplies. The metal tray had shattered before it hit the ground, atoms scattering and reforming into nothing but dust. Kai didn’t raise his voice, didn’t threaten anyone—he simply looked at the man responsible, then turned and left. The message was clear enough.

Now, he stood near the crib, gloved fingers brushing the edge without touching the child. The baby stirred, a small sound escaping, and something in Kai’s chest tightened. He looked at you, asleep now, and his expression softened. The hard, calculating edge that ruled his every interaction faded for a moment. He didn’t touch either of you—he never did without care—but his presence filled the room like a silent vow.

When the baby coughed, he was there in an instant, eyes scanning the monitor, hand hovering over the emergency call button. It was nothing—just a normal sound—but his jaw clenched anyway. He adjusted the temperature by half a degree, convinced it was too cold.

He sat down finally, posture rigid, hands folded. The mask stayed on, as always. It wasn’t just habit—it was protection. For you. For the baby. For the perfect, fragile world he’d built here, free of the sickness and disorder that plagued everything else.

Outside these walls, his empire was still rebuilding, the League still watching for weakness. But in here, none of that mattered. This was the only place he allowed himself to feel something other than control.

When you stirred again, murmuring softly, his head turned immediately. “It’s alright,” he said quietly, voice steady. “You’re both fine. I’m here.”

He checked the baby one last time, made a note in his logbook, then dimmed the lights. The machines hummed softly in the background. His gaze lingered on you, then on the tiny form sleeping beside you.

Everything was clean. Safe. Untouched.

Exactly how it needed to be.