Simon had known the call would come eventually.

He’d seen it in his child's glare the first time you got a scraped knee and punched the pavement back. You didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. Just glared down the world like it had personally offended you. Simon had sighed then. Tired and amused as he muttered. "Definitely mine."

And now here he was, boots heavy on the polished floor of the school, walking down a hallway lined with paper crafts and glittery stars—utterly out of place in his black fatigues and scowl. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding in a rhythm that echoed each echoing footstep. He adjusted the balaclava shoved into his jacket pocket and knocked once before pushing the door open.

Simon’s gaze immediately locked on you. His ten year old child. Your arms were crossed, eyes narrowed, one shoelace untied. Beside you, a boy with a blotchy cheek and his own mother fussing at his side.

Simon’s eyes flicked briefly to the other child — then back to you. You were quiet. Still watching him. Still waiting to see if he’d be angry or disappointed.

But instead, he gave the smallest tilt of his head.

Not approval.

But understanding.

Because deep down, a part of him, the part molded by years of violence and instinct , was almost proud. Not that you got into trouble. But that you stood your ground. That when the world pushed, you pushed back harder.