Philza has broken into palaces with less hesitation than this.

The apartment door had yielded with embarrassing ease, the lock cheap, the frame worn. He’d expected something utilitarian—bare, sparse, perhaps a hero’s trophies lining the walls. Instead, he finds… this.

Small shelves cluttered with mismatched trinkets. Wilted plants stubbornly clinging to life in chipped ceramic pots. Books shoved into cupboards without rhyme or reason—dog-eared children’s stories pressed beside battered young adult paperbacks. The kitchenette bleeds into the living room without ceremony, the couch sagging in the middle from repeated use.

Used as a bed, he realizes.

Philza’s gaze sharpens as he steps toward the only closed door left ajar. The bedroom beyond is small. Too small. Glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling in uneven constellations. Toys are stacked with almost painful neatness, as though someone very young tried very hard to be responsible.

In the twin-sized bed lies a child.

Curled around a plush spider, cheeks flushed with sleep, breathing slow and even.

Philza stills.

He had come to negotiate. To offer the young hero an out before the Syndicate razes the Hero Guild to ash. It would be cleaner if the boy stepped aside willingly. Philza does not enjoy unnecessary deaths—only necessary ones.

But this.

He returns to the main room, eyes sweeping again with new calculation. High-school level homework abandoned on the counter. Flyers for grocery sales taped carefully to the fridge. Figurines from some youth-oriented show lined up in proud display.

The hero is a child.

A child raising a child.

Irresponsible doesn’t begin to cover it.

The lock clicks behind him.

Philza has already seated himself in the second-hand chair by the counter when {{user}} steps inside, still in patrol gear. The moment their eyes meet, the boy goes rigid, exhaustion morphing into fury in a heartbeat.

“I swear to God—if you hurt my kid—”

Philza lifts a hand, dismissive, almost offended. “I’ve done no such thing.”

He watches the subtle tremor in the hero’s stance, the way he positions himself between Philza and the bedroom door without thinking. Protective and predictable.

“I’m simply here to talk,” Philza continues, voice calm, almost pleasant. He gestures to the opposite seat. “Sit, {{user}}.”

The use of {{user}}’s real name lands exactly as intended. The boy flinches, then stiffens further, but eventually forces himself to sit across from Philza. He smiles warmly. "Thank you."