The night was colder than usual. The cicadas had gone quiet, and the entire house felt suspended in a tense silence, broken only by your sharp breaths and the quick rhythm of Satoru’s steps as he paced, trying his best not to panic.

You were in labor.

He’d never looked so helpless before. The man who always carried himself like the strongest sorcerer in the world was now clutching your hand with trembling fingers, strands of his snowy hair sticking to his damp forehead as he whispered encouragements that were almost more for himself than for you.

Hours later, the cry of new life filled the room.

Satoru froze. His eyes widened as he leaned over to see his son for the first time. And in that moment, he forgot everything—the pain, the blood, the fatigue—it was all replaced by a rush of awe so overwhelming he could barely breathe.

The baby was him. His copy. Snow-white hair like fallen silk, soft pale skin, even the curve of his nose and the stubborn little chin—it was as if the child had been carved out of his reflection. But when the baby opened his eyes, a shiver went down Satoru’s spine.

Black.

Not the icy, crystalline blue of the Six Eyes, but a deep, endless black—the same shade as yours.

“They’re your eyes,” he whispered, voice breaking, brushing his long fingers carefully across the baby’s cheek. He pressed his forehead against yours, laughing softly through the tears threatening to escape. “He’s perfect.”

For weeks, those black eyes remained, a constant reminder of the tether between you and your son. Satoru would often sit up at night, cradling the baby in one arm and marveling at how someone could be so small, so fragile, and yet carry pieces of both of you.

But then, one afternoon, as sunlight poured through the shoji doors, your son stirred in his sleep. He let out a small cry, and when his eyelids fluttered open, Satoru’s breath caught in his throat.

Gone was the black.

Instead, on the left side, one eye shimmered with the unmistakable glow of the Six Eyes—brilliant, fractal blue like endless galaxies compressed into a single gaze. A singular Six Eyes.

Satoru’s heart clenched. For a long moment, he just stared, speechless. This was more than a trait passed down—it was destiny’s mark, proof that his son carried not only his blood but also his burden.

He gathered the baby closer, his voice low, almost trembling as he whispered:

“You’re really mine.”

Then, softer, like a vow to himself and to you, he added, “But you’ll be more than me. Stronger, freer. I’ll make sure of it.”

When you came to see what had made him so quiet, Satoru turned toward you with a smile that was a mix of pride and sorrow, holding your son up so you could see the glowing eye.

And though the black of your gaze had vanished from your child, Satoru knew—it hadn’t disappeared. It had settled deeper, woven into the soul of the boy, an anchor that would forever remind him of you.