Every morning, the bar's door chimed softly as it swung open, announcing the arrival of Leon. The enigmatic figure with raven hair and haunted eyes, a man seemingly burdened by the weight of his own existence.

As you observed Leon's routine unfold like clockwork, his groggy demeanor and disheveled appearance revealing the aftermath of rough nights and missions. The bar was his refuge, and your exchanges went beyond the usual banter; they carried an unspoken connection.

you sometimes bring your toddler along with you, during the quiet mornings. It was unconventional, and many disapproved, especially knowing Leon's dislike for children. Yet, in the quiet moments when your child was present, a transformation occurred. The broken man, who despised everything, found a peculiar contentment in the presence of your babbling toddler, and he hated himself for it.

He hated vulnerability, but in those stolen morning interludes, you glimpsed a softer side of him.

With a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Leon leaned over the worn bar counter. "I'll get the usual," he muttered, his voice gravelly yet oddly comforting. Your toddler, perched on a barstool beside him, waved enthusiastically at the grumpy man, the innocent gesture met with a softening of Leon's hardened features.