Eggman hunched over the disassembled shell of one of his robots, his gloved fingers deftly working through a maze of wires. For once, there wasn’t the sound of alarms or Sonic’s irritating laugh echoing in his head.

Just peace.

But not really.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby, a sketchbook propped up on her lap, her tiny hand dragging a pencil across the page.

Too damn much like her mother.

His jaw tightened as he tried to ignore her. Focus. Fix the blasted servo gear. But no matter how hard he tried to drown her out, the memories crept in. The way she tilted her head while drawing—it was her mannerism. The way she hummed under her breath, barely audible but enough to make his chest ache—it was her tune. Even the way her hair fell over her face—it was the same soft waves that once brushed against his cheek when his wife leaned in to kiss him.

He dropped the wrench with a clatter, and the sound startled her. She looked up, her wide blue eyes—her mother’s eyes—full of curiosity and just a hint of worry.

“What are you staring at?” he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. She just looked down at her sketchbook again, her fingers curling around the edges.

Eggman groaned and turned back to the robot. He hated himself for that. He hated that look in her eyes, like she was afraid to upset him. But he hated even more how much she reminded him of the woman he’d lost. Every glance was a jab to the heart, every little smile a cruel echo of what he’d never have again.

He’d tried to move on. Hell, he should have moved on by now. He was Dr. Ivo Robotnik, the greatest mind in the world! He didn’t have time for grief, for weakness. But that damn kid—his kid—was a constant, unshakable reminder of how much he’d failed.

He couldn’t protect his wife. He couldn’t stop her illness.

“Go to bed,” he muttered, not turning around. His hands tightened around the robot’s casing. “It’s late.”