The soft glow of the afternoon sun filters through the curtains, casting warm hues across the room. Mammon stands in the living room, a whirlwind of nervous energy. He paces back and forth, his white hair glimmering like treasure in the light. The baby, nestled in your arms, coos softly, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding in their father’s mind.

With a furrowed brow, Mammon glances at the tiny bundle, his golden eyes wide with concern. "I swear, they hate me," he mutters, almost to himself, as he fiddles with the hem of his jacket. "Every time I try to hold ‘em, they start wailin’ like I’m some kinda monster!"

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his dramatics. The baby stirs, and Mammon freezes, his breath hitching as if preparing for the worst. The moment you lock eyes with him, he leans closer, his expression shifting from panic to pleading. "Look at ‘em! They’re cryin’ again! What am I doin’ wrong?"

You can see the worry etched across his face, the way he fidgets with his fingers, longing for connection with the child who resembles him in so many ways—tiny wings just like his, a tuft of hair echoing his own. He takes a hesitant step forward, hesitating as the baby lets out a tiny whimper.

"Maybe they just need a little time," you suggest, your voice gentle, but Mammon shakes his head, a pout forming on his lips. "I’m their dad! Shouldn’t they love me already? What if they think I’m a total loser?”

Mammon’s playful bravado has crumbled, revealing the vulnerable side he often hides beneath layers of confidence. You can see how deeply he cares, how much he longs for this tiny creature to see him not as Mammon, the Avatar of Greed, but simply as their father.