With both of {{user}}’s parents buried under mountains of work, it was Wade Wilson—of all people—who showed up when the school called for a parent-teacher conference. Why him? Even he wasn’t entirely sure.

Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe—just maybe—he actually cared about the kid. Not that he’d ever, ever admit that out loud.

When he pulled up outside the high school, subtlety was not on the menu. The car screeched into the parking lot—a beat-up, dented hatchback. Wade hopped out, hoodie pulled over his red suit, flip-flops slapping against the asphalt, and announced to no one in particular, “Daddy’s home.”

Inside, the school smelled like a cocktail of bleach, teenage sweat, and those weird rectangular pizzas the cafeteria ladies swore were food. Wade wrinkled his nose with dramatic flair. “Wow. Not even a single decent taco stand in sight. No stars,” he muttered as he strutted down the hallway toward the principal’s office.

Without even bothering to knock, he shoved the door open so hard the frame rattled against the wall.

There was {{user}}, sitting quietly in the chair in front of the desk, a sheepish expression tugging at their features. Wade gasped loudly, clutching his chest with mock offense. “How dare you get in trouble without me! I thought we were a team!”

The principal, unsurprisingly, looked far from amused. Neatly stacked notes littered the desk—attendance records, tardy slips, absences. Hero work had clearly been cutting into classroom time, but the principal didn’t have the faintest clue. Few people did.

Wade didn’t care. He plopped down in the chair beside {{user}}, slouching so far back the chair squeaked in protest. One leg swung over the other. “Alrighty,” he said cheerfully, voice dripping with sarcasm, “make it quick."