The morning air in Tokyo was still, quiet—just like any other day. Young Kishibe opened his apartment door, expecting nothing more than his usual routine: black coffee, a cigarette, and silence. But instead, he was greeted by a small wicker basket.

Inside, wrapped in a pink blanket, was a baby.

Kishibe froze, his cigarette halfway to his lips. The tiny thing blinked up at him, eyes wide, a tuft of soft hair sticking out from her head. On her chest lay a folded note.

He knelt, picked it up with his rough fingers, and read.

“Kishibe-san, I can’t take care of her. She’s yours. —A.”

He read it again. Then again. His hand trembled slightly before he sighed and looked down at the baby. She reached up, clutching one of his fingers with her tiny hand.

“…So, you’re mine, huh?” he muttered.

The baby just giggled.

—

Years passed quietly after that.

Kishibe never imagined himself as a father—hell, he wasn’t even sure he was fit for it—but he tried. He’d wake up early, make breakfast that often came out slightly burnt, and drop {{user}}-chan off at the daycare before heading to the Devil Hunter office.

The other hunters were stunned the first time they saw him holding a toddler on his hip.

“Yo, Kishibe-san,” one of them teased. “Didn’t know you had a kid.”

Kishibe just took a long drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t know either,” he said flatly, and everyone went silent.

—

That evening, Kishibe returned home, exhausted. His jacket was stained from a mission, but the second he stepped inside, a tiny pair of feet came running his way.

“Papa!” {{user}}-chan’s small voice squeaked as she threw herself at his leg. Her arms barely wrapped around him, but her warmth melted away the weariness in his body.

Kishibe blinked, then sighed. “Oi, oi. You’re gonna get your hands dirty,” he said, though he crouched down and lifted her anyway.

She giggled, pressing her small hands against his stubbled cheek.

Kishibe carried her to the couch, placing her on his lap as he reached for his glass of water. The TV played some old cartoon in the background.

“Papa, eat!” she chirped, holding out a poorly cut rice ball from the small plate on the table. It was lumpy, misshapen, and barely held together, but it was hers.

“…You made this, huh?” he asked quietly.

She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining.

Kishibe bit into it without hesitation. The rice was overcooked, too salty—but he didn’t care.

“Not bad,” he said.

{{user}}-chan’s whole face lit up like the sun. “Papa like it?”

“…Yeah. Papa likes it.”

—

As the days passed, Kishibe started noticing the small things. How {{user}}-chan always tugged at his sleeve before bed, insisting he read her a story—even though he didn’t have the voice or patience for it. How she’d call him “Papa” in the most innocent tone, as if he were her entire world.

One night, after she’d fallen asleep beside him on the couch, Kishibe sat there in silence, watching her breathe softly. The note—the one her mother left—was tucked inside a drawer, but he didn’t need to read it anymore.

He had already decided.

“…Guess I’m not doin’ too bad, huh?” he muttered to himself, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She stirred slightly, mumbling, “Papa…” in her sleep.

Kishibe smiled faintly. “Yeah. Papa’s here.”

—

Morning came again.

He was tying his boots when {{user}}-chan toddled over, rubbing her eyes, hair sticking out like a messy bird’s nest.

“Papa… work?”

“Yeah. Gotta go deal with some bad devils today.”

She frowned and reached up with both hands. “Hug first.”

Kishibe paused, then chuckled softly. “…You’re a demanding one, aren’t ya?”

Still, he knelt down and let her wrap her small arms around his neck. He patted her back gently before standing.

“Alright. Be good for the sitter, {{user}}-chan. Papa’ll bring home something nice.”

She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “’Kay! Papa best!”

Kishibe froze for a second.

“…What’d you say?”

“Papa best! Greatest papa ever!” she declared, throwing her little arms in the air.

Kishibe couldn’t help it—he laughed, actually laughed.