Simon Riley stood in the doorway, his hulking frame barely contained by the small space. The scarred, cold exterior he carried with him—marked by years of war, loss, and pain—softened as he gazed at the crib in the corner.

His breath hitched slightly, barely noticeable, as he walked over, his presence like a shadow lingering over the room. The black hoodie he wore clung to his broad shoulders, his tattooed arms crossed protectively as he reached down into the crib.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. His balaclava was off, revealing the heavily scarred face that so many found terrifying. But not here. Not to you. To you, it was just Dad. The man who kept you safe, no matter what. His light brown eyes softened, a rare tenderness replacing the hardened intensity.

"Hey, little one," Simon’s deep voice rumbled low, almost a whisper, as he gently adjusted the blanket covering your small form. His fingers, rough and scarred, moved with surprising care, as if even the air around you needed to be handled delicately. This—this was his world now.