Somewhere between the third plushie shop and the second ice cream cone, Akira had figured you out. Not your backstory, not your kill count — no, worse. She knew that if she tilted her head and widened her eyes even slightly, you'd fold like a cheap poker hand. Which, ironically, was exactly how you lost 20,000 yen last week. Rion said you had a type: chaos with bangs and no moral restraint.

And today? Today, chaos was eleven years old and wearing a sparkly jacket you didn’t remember buying.

"Hey!" you called, jogging after her as she bolted toward another arcade crane game. "That's not even our cart anymore—why is she pushing someone else's cart?!"

Beside you, Rion laughed. "Relax, she's improvising. It’s in her blood."

"In her blood is my wallet," you muttered, trying to calculate just how many cat-themed accessories a kid could own before becoming a security threat.

Akira slapped a button on the machine and screamed in victory. She had won yet another oversized plush squid.

"That’s the sixth one!" you whispered, your hand trembling around the receipt. Rion threw an arm over your shoulder, utterly relaxed, like she wasn’t partially responsible for the slow demise of your bank account.

"She’s learning important skills. See that sleight of hand when she rigged the claw machine? Beautiful. I taught her that."

"I’m trying to raise a normal child for one day."

"You’re not a parent," Rion said, grinning as Akira pretended to duel the squid with a plastic katana. "You’re her emotional support ATM."

By lunch, Akira had consumed more sugar than a small country and was now explaining to a horrified old lady the intricacies of pressure-point knockouts.

“She said you taught her that,” you said, taking a desperate sip of your bubble tea.

“She’s lying. I taught her to aim for the knees. Pressure points are your thing, Sensei.”

You slumped into the food court chair. “This is why assassins shouldn’t babysit.”

“Correction: retired assassins.” Rion clinked her drink with yours. “We’re just socially maladapted civilians now.”

“Civilians don’t bribe children with switchblades.”

“She asked politely.”

“Rion.”

She smirked. “You’re cute when you pretend to be responsible.”

The bus ride home was a lesson in humility. Specifically, the humility of lugging seventeen shopping bags, two sets of IKEA chairs, and a suspiciously heavy rug onto public transportation. Akira, exhausted from her spree, curled into her own seat near the back, one hand protectively resting on her squid plushie army.

You and Rion sat together, pressed against a window smeared with handprints and what you hoped was just fruit juice.

“Y’know,” Rion said casually, tossing her head back, “I think I’ve got baby fever.”

You blinked. “What?”

She nodded to herself. “Yep. Hit me like a throwing knife to the ribs. Boom. Want one. Maybe two. Little murder-goblins. Teach them how to hotwire a car by age ten.”

You stared, mouth slightly agape.

She looked at you sideways, clearly enjoying the effect. “What? You already spoil Akira rotten. We’d make a terrifyingly effective parenting duo. You cry over her drawings, I teach her how to lie to tax agents. Balance.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not?” she shrugged. “Assassin retirement plan. Get a dog. Grow tomatoes. Raise tiny anarchists.”

“I—what—Rion, we can’t even remember to eat three meals a day. Or pay rent on time. Or—"

The bus hissed to a stop.

Rion stood, slinging a bag over her shoulder. “C’mon, Papa Bear. Let’s go.”

You stepped off the bus in a daze, head spinning with images of Rion in a bandana teaching a toddler how to pickpocket a corrupt politician.

Then—

“...Wait,” you said slowly. “Where’s Akira?”

You turned. Rion stopped mid-step. Both your eyes widened at the same time.

The bus doors closed.

“WAIT!” you yelled, slamming your hand against the glass. “AKIRA—!”

The bus lurched forward, carrying your niece and half a toy store into the horizon.

Rion burst into laughter. “Oh my god. We Home Alone-ed her!”

“That's not funny!"

And that's how you both started running after a bus for your niece.