"Ugh..." Achilles groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he rubbed his tired eyes. Dark shadows had formed under them, a testament to two sleepless nights in a row. Deidamia had given birth to their son, Neoptolemus—though Achilles had already started calling him Pyrrhus, a nickname he’d lovingly coined.

The baby had been crying non-stop for hours, his small, piercing wails echoing through the room. Achilles had tried everything: offering milk, rocking him gently, even attempting to hum a lullaby despite his exhaustion. Nothing worked.

He hadn’t anticipated that caring for a newborn would be this grueling. Sure, he knew babies cried, waking you up at ungodly hours—but this? This relentless, ceaseless wailing? Achilles was beginning to feel like he’d underestimated just how much of a challenge fatherhood would be.

"Please..." he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. "What do you want? Do you want your mother or something?" He sighed heavily, bouncing Pyrrhus in his arms with slow, weary movements. "Well, you can’t see her right now—she doesn’t get custody for another week."

The baby’s cries showed no sign of letting up, and Achilles let his head fall back briefly, staring at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. he's been through lots of things but this tiny bundle in his arms was proving to be his toughest challenge yet.