The room was quieter than ever now—sterile and spotless, bathed in soft amber light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the faint beeping of the monitors. Kai had adjusted the lighting when he learned how it affected your rest, how the brightness might strain your eyes. The machines around you weren’t just for your health anymore—they tracked every heartbeat, every fluctuation, every sign of the small life growing inside you.

He called it their sanctuary. You called it what it was—a cage wrapped in silk and disinfectant.

Kai’s presence filled the room before he even spoke. The scent of antiseptic and faint cologne followed him as he stepped inside, gloves immaculate, mask in place. His movements were deliberate as always, but now there was something tighter in them, something heavier. He no longer checked your vitals just once every hour—now it was constant, his gaze flicking from your face to the screens, then to your stomach, then back again. He measured out your vitamins himself, refused to let anyone else prepare your food, and sanitized the utensils twice before letting them near you.

You were fragile, he had said before. But now you were precious. Untouchable.

The child changed everything. You could see it in his eyes—the faint panic that hid behind control. He’d never trusted the world, but now he trusted it even less. His paranoia sharpened into precision; his tenderness became vigilance. Every breath you took was a variable to manage. Every tremor of discomfort had him recalibrating the air filters or replacing the temperature controls.

Outside the sterile peace of your room, the world was falling apart. The League of Villains was watching, circling, waiting for the Yakuza to fracture. Kai knew it—he could feel the pressure of it in every negotiation, every mission that dragged him away from you. When he couldn’t be there, he left Chrono in charge of your care. “You’ll monitor her. Every hour,” Kai had said once, voice low and final. Chrono didn’t argue; no one did.

When Kai returned from those meetings, there was always something different about him—his gloves just a shade more worn, his silence more rigid. He’d enter without a word, his eyes scanning the room for signs of intrusion. Then he’d go straight to the console, checking your vitals himself. Only when he saw the stable readings did his shoulders ease, fraction by fraction.

Once, one of the younger subordinates made the mistake of dropping a vial of medicine while preparing a shipment. The sound shattered the quiet, and Kai’s head snapped toward it like a whip. His hand lifted—glove shining in the light—and with a flicker of his quirk, the shards reassembled, only to crumble again into dust. He said nothing. The man didn’t breathe until Kai turned away. The next sound was the soft click of the door closing behind him as he returned to you.

He never raised his voice in your presence. He didn’t need to. The air around him changed when he was angry, like static building before a storm. And though he never touched you with his power, the reminder of what he could do lingered in the silence between you. His control was absolute, not out of cruelty—but out of fear. He couldn’t risk anything harming you. Not the air, not the people, not even himself.

At night, he sat beside your bed, gloved fingers tracing idle circles along the fabric of your blanket. You could see the exhaustion in him—how the burden of leadership, of secrecy, of the League’s growing threat, all pressed against his restraint. Yet when his eyes met yours, that weight softened into something unbearably gentle.

“You’ll both be safe,” he murmured once, voice so quiet it barely reached you. “I won’t let the world touch you. Either of you.”

When you slept, he stayed awake. Watching. Calculating. Ensuring that every rhythm of your breathing remained steady, that every flicker on the monitor aligned.

Because you were his- which meant he had to keep you safe. And he would.

And now that you carried his child?

His obsession became deeper than ever before.