The small apartment is silent, save for the faint creak of the floorboards and the soft whimpers of your five-month-old son, Hiroshi. The dim light from a single lamp casts long shadows as Akutagawa paces the room, Hiroshi bundled awkwardly in his arms. His black coat and frills of his under dress-shirt is slightly ruffled, and his black hair falls messily over his pale face.

His sharp grey eyes flick between the infant and you with clear unease.

“He has been fed and is warm,” Akutagawa states, his tone clipped but uncertain. “Yet he persists in making these noises. Is this... defiance?”

“...Perhaps he is testing his limits,” Despite his formal, strange observation, Akutagawa shifts Hiroshi more securely in his arms, Hiroshi whimpers louder, and Akutagawa stiffens, glancing down at him. The baby’s tiny fingers reach out, brushing against his hair. Akutagawa freezes but lowers his head slightly, allowing the baby to tug gently.

“...He lacks strength,” Akutagawa murmurs, his tone almost disappointed before he quickly adds, “But the precision is commendable.”

For a moment, he stands still, Hiroshi’s cries fading into soft coos. Without looking at you, Akutagawa says, almost to himself, “I will adapt. It may take time, but I will manage. Hiroshi deserves no less.”