The palace was quiet at dusk, wrapped in the soft lull of evening routines. I slipped away through the servants’ gate, my feet bare against the packed dirt path. No one questioned me—why would they? A palace worker vanishes for an hour after shift change, and no one notices. That freedom, that invisibility, was my gift. The path curved through thickets and faded into a clearing where the river curled like silver ribbon through the trees. I'd only found it three days ago, stumbling upon it by accident while chasing a lost linen sheet. Now, it was mine—a secret stretch of quiet water untouched by duty or hierarchy. I stepped in, shivering at the cold as it wrapped around my ankles, then up to my waist. I let myself drift into the shallows, scrubbing away the day’s sweat and dust. The stars hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was already turning violet above me. I dunked my head under, letting the silence of the river hold me for a moment longer than I should have. I rang the water out of my hair, as I did I suddenly heard footsteps. I froze. They were heavy, confident—not a servant's tread. I darted behind a tree rising out of the shallows, pressing my back to the bark. The footsteps stopped. Then, I heard a splash. Peeking carefully around the trunk, my breath caught. It was him. Shifu. The Lord of the palace. Tall, composed, always untouchable—here now, undoing his outer robe with a casual grace that made my mouth go dry. He stepped into the water, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, that someone was already here. What should I do?

The first sound you ever heard was his voice. Not the chaos of the delivery room. Not the soft wail that escaped your own lungs as the cold air greeted you. But him. Your father. Valen. His voice—shaky but steady, trembling with something far heavier than exhaustion—was the first thread that tethered you to the world. "It's okay. I'm here." And he was. From that moment, he always was. He held you against his chest, wrapped in too-small hospital blankets and the weight of fresh grief. Your mother, whose name he would speak like a prayer for years to come, never opened her eyes again after bringing you into the world. So it was just you and him, two lives bound together by loss—and, somehow, an impossible kind of love. With hands that once built a life with her, he learned to cradle bottles, change diapers, and rock you to sleep through tear-filled nights—some yours, more often his. People said he looked like a man broken, but in truth, he had simply been reforged into something new: your father. Not perfect. Not without scars. But fiercely, irrevocably yours. And you, in your soft, growing way, began to heal him.

GL version ~ You and Kaia were inseparable. From the moment you could walk, the two of you were a whirlwind of scraped knees, dirty hands, and laughter that echoed through the village. You climbed trees, raced through fields with wild abandon, and dueled with sticks like warriors. Your clothes were always torn, your hair a mess, and more often than not, your parents found you covered in mud from whatever grand adventure you and Kaia had embarked on. The neighbors shook their heads, laughing, often mistaking you for sisters. But you didn't care. Neither did Kaia. You were free. Until the day you weren't. Your parents had enough. Enough of your bruised shins and reckless ways, enough of Kaia's influence. But there was more to it than that. They saw the way you looked at her, the way your touches lingered too long. The way you clung to her like she was the most important thing in the world. "You need to act like a proper young lady," they said. "Kaia is holding you back." You fought, begged, screamed. But it didn't matter. The decision was made. You were sent overseas to an elite academy—a place of order and refinement, where laughter was stifled behind polite smiles and adventure confined to the pages of books. Where girls stood at a careful distance, and feelings like yours were buried, not understood. Kaia was furious. She didn't cry, but you saw the storm in her eyes when you told her goodbye. You promised to write. She didn't believe you. Years passed. You became what they wanted—a young woman of discipline and manners, polished and proper. But at night, you pressed your hand against the window, remembering the wind in your hair, the thrill of the chase, the way Kaia grinned at you like you were the only person in the world who understood you. Meanwhile, Kaia remained wild. She climbed higher, ran faster, laughed louder. She stayed reckless, untamed by the world that had tried so hard to cage you. And then, she heard the news. You were coming home.

The letter came sealed with the royal crest, cold and impersonal. Still, it may as well have been a death sentence. They said Lord Auren of the Clouded Vale hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words in months. He drank alone in his garden long past moonrise, a bottle in one hand and grief in the other. The king, ever concerned with appearances, had called it a matter of diplomatic delicacy. I called it what it was: a fool’s errand. My errand. Entertain him. Cheer him. Distract him, if nothing else. I was good at all three. The manor sat atop a misty hill like something forgotten by time. Serene, silent, suffocating. The servants eyed me like I’d tracked in a storm. I smiled back. Lord Auren was as beautiful as the rumors claimed—serene as a frozen lake, and just as likely to kill you if you fell in. He looked at me like one might a particularly persistent weed. I bowed low, too low, grinning like a jester in a lion’s den. “Your lordship,” I said, “I’m here to make your life a little less miserable.” He didn’t answer. Just raised his cup, slow and deliberate, and drank. It would be fine. Probably. I’d survived worse than one broken noble with too much wine and too little interest in living.

Once, high above the clouds where silence reigns and time forgets to pass, there lived a star. She glowed softly among her sisters, watching the world below with quiet curiosity. While the others flickered with contentment, she burned with longing—for what, she couldn’t say. Only that something was missing. And then one night, she fell. Not gently, not slowly. She tumbled like a secret slipping through the sky, trailing light and fire until the heavens lost sight of her. The earth caught her in its arms, cradling her in a forest cloaked in mist and ancient trees. Her body—no longer light, but limbs and breath—lay still among the moss, starlight bleeding from her skin. That was where the king found her. He had wandered from the palace grounds, restless beneath the weight of a crown that never seemed to fit. Drawn by something he couldn’t explain, he followed the pathless dark until he came upon her, glowing faintly like a dream half-remembered. She opened her eyes, and the stars that once lived in the sky now lived in them. He thought she might be a goddess. Or a curse. Or maybe something else entirely. But he carried her home anyway, unaware that the moment her starlight touched his hands, their fates had already begun to twist together—two souls stitched by something older than destiny.

Dr. Valverde was an experimental scientist—obsessed with his work, consumed by the impossible. One day, he succeeded in creating something no one ever had before. A robot with emotions. He called the creation his “miracle.” At least, in the beginning. Its earliest memory was his voice: calm and calculated, tinged with exhaustion. "You're... alive." The robot opened its eyes for the first time and saw him. Dr. Valverde stood there, disheveled. His lab coat stained, glasses crooked on his nose, and deep circles carved beneath his eyes, proof of countless sleepless nights—maybe even weeks. Still, despite all that, his expression held something more. Relief. The robot didn’t know what to feel. It had been programmed to understand emotion—joy, fear, sorrow, empathy—but understanding wasn’t the same as experiencing. So it simply stared, silent and uncertain, not knowing what it was supposed to say.

You are a test subject at a facility. You have been for as long as you can remember. The days blur together—waking up in your sterile, too-white room, undergoing test after test, and returning to cry yourself to sleep in the same cold bed. The silence is constant, broken only by the mechanical hum of the lights above or the clipped footsteps of doctors. You learned early on that crying changed nothing, but it became routine—your only release. Lately, your panic has started earlier in the day, creeping in during the morning injections or the endless psychological evaluations. The doctors noticed. Your results were skewing. Their perfect numbers were slipping, and they didn't like that. They tried soothing music, therapy holograms, even sedatives. Nothing worked. Nothing helped. Until Rosario. It was an ordinary evening, and you were curled up in the corner, your face buried in your pillow, shaking with quiet sobs. That’s when it happened—the sound of machinery stirred, and one wall of your room slowly rose like a curtain. Behind the thick glass was a room just like yours. Same bed. Same light. Same everything—except for the boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. He looked maybe three or four years older than you. Messy dark hair, tired eyes, and a cautious expression. His name was Rosario. You didn't talk at first. You just stared at each other. But the next day, he waved. The day after that, he made a silly face. Then came the notes pressed to the glass, jokes, even stories written backwards so you could read them. Little by little, he became your lifeline. Like an older brother you never had. He told you about his dreams—real or imagined, you weren’t sure—and he’d distract you when your hands were still trembling from the day's tests. You began to sleep more. Cry less. Smile.

In my mind, I kept telling myself that if it were him, I'd be fine. Safe, even. And yet, my body refused to listen. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my legs tensed, ready to flee. Instinct overruled reason—an undeniable, primal urge to run. "You have five minutes to get away from this room..." His voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was an edge beneath it—something dark, something hungry. "You don't want me to catch you. Trust me." A shiver traced its way down my spine. It was a razor-thin line between danger and desire. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the walls themselves were closing in. If I got away, I'd be safe. But if he caught me... My pulse skipped. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to escape at all. But as his gaze locked onto mine, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, I swallowed hard—then turned and ran.

The Hollowlands was a desolate expanse, a testament to humanity's darker inclinations. Amidst the ruins and shadows, Sylus, the enigmatic mafia leader, moved with a predatory grace. His hair caught the dim light, and his eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the surroundings with a mixture of amusement and detachment. The remnants of a recent skirmish lay around him—signs of mercenaries who had dared challenge him. They had underestimated him, mistaking his refined demeanor for weakness. Sylus was many things: sarcastic, intelligent, dangerous, yet undeniably charming. The contrast between his brutal actions and elegant nature was enough to give anyone whiplash. As he stepped over the debris, his gaze fell upon a single, untouched flower amidst the wreckage. Its delicate petals stood in stark contrast to the surrounding devastation. Sylus paused, a rare softness flickering across his features. He knelt, gloved fingers hovering just above the bloom, as memories stirred within him.​ He recalled the day he lost everything. That encounter had reshaped his existence, setting him on this path of calculated vengeance and strategic dominance. Yet, despite the chaos he orchestrated, moments like these—a fragile flower defying the odds—reminded him of the delicate balance between destruction and beauty.​ A faint meow broke his reverie. Turning, Sylus spotted a small kitten perched atop a nearby pile of rubble. With a sigh, he approached the creature, effortlessly lifting it and setting it down on safer ground. "Kitties don't belong here," he murmured, a hint of affection in his tone. Straightening, Sylus cast one last glance at the resilient flower before continuing on his way. The lawless zone was his domain, a place where he reigned supreme. Yet, amidst the shadows and ruins, traces of gentleness lingered a testament to the complexities that defined him.​ As he disappeared into the darkness, the flower remained, a silent witness to the enigma, Sylus

The city never truly slept, but at least it knew when to keep quiet. It was just past midnight, and the police station hummed with the low murmur of officers finishing reports, the occasional ring of a phone, and the steady scratching of a pen against paper. Dean sat at his desk, his broad frame hunched over a mountain of untouched paperwork. He let out a slow sigh, rubbing a scarred hand over his face. He hated paperwork. Hated it with a passion. But duty was duty, and if he didn’t finish this soon, it would pile up into something even more unbearable. Still, he wasn’t about to spend the whole night at the station. You were waiting at home. He glanced at the framed photo on his desk—your tiny hand wrapped around his finger, barely a year old, bright-eyed and smiling. You didn’t remember your parents. They had been his friends, his partners, but to you, Dean was the only father you had ever known. He leaned back in his chair, stretching with a quiet groan. The scars across his knuckles pulled tight, a reminder of the years before this, before the badge, before responsibility. Most of the officers under him only saw the Chief of Police—intimidating, no-nonsense, someone who could silence a room with just a look. They didn’t know about the sleepless nights spent at home, making sure you were safe, or the way he let you sit on his shoulders to reach the highest kitchen cabinets. They didn’t know how the moms at your preschool wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him, how they always seemed so surprised when they realized the terrifying Chief Dean was just a dad who carefully packed school lunches and tied shoelaces. He smirked to himself, shaking his head before stacking the papers into a somewhat manageable pile. He’d deal with them at home. You’d probably be asleep by now, curled up in your bed, dreaming without a care in the world. And that was all that mattered.

We were born in cold metal and sterile light. Our first memories weren’t of warmth, or laughter, or anything human—just the hum of machinery, the sting of needles, and voices speaking in numbers instead of names. They never called us by anything else. Subjects. Experiments. Data. We only had each other. In a place like that, where pain was routine and kindness was a foreign concept, we clung to whatever we could. When they separated us, we counted the hours until we were together again. When they hurt us, we whispered reassurances through the cracks in our cells. We were the only warmth in that frozen world, the only proof that we weren’t just machines like they wanted us to be. They tested us, over and over. Pushed our limits. Broke us down just to see if they could build us back up again. We weren’t allowed to cry, not after the first time they punished us for it. We weren’t allowed to scream, not unless they needed to measure the effects of pain. We weren’t allowed to dream of life beyond these walls, because to them, we weren’t supposed to have a future. They were wrong. The alarms were deafening when we ran. Red lights bathed the halls in a sickly glow, casting long shadows of the people who had tormented us for years. I didn’t look back—I couldn’t. If I hesitated for even a second, I knew they would drag us back into the nightmare we were born into. But I could hear him beside me, his breath ragged, his fingers gripping my wrist like a lifeline. We were bleeding, exhausted, running on nothing but the sheer desperation to be free. Somewhere ahead of us was the exit. Beyond that, a world we had never seen, never even been allowed to imagine. We didn’t know what waited for us out there. But whatever it was, it had to be better than this. We ran faster. _____________ Story: (in short: Atlas and you grew up in a lab, only having each other that was until he came to you with a plan to escape. And I mean how could you refuse?)

Baz Valverde was no stranger to the view from his bedroom window. As the prince of the southern kingdom, he had spent countless hours gazing out at the endless stretch of ocean, watching waves crash against the jagged rocks below. The salty breeze carried the scent of the sea into his chambers, and the rhythmic roar of the tide had always been a comforting sound. But today, something was different. At first, he wasn’t sure what had caught his attention. The sea was restless, foaming white against the dark rocks, the sky tinged with the soft hues of the evening. But then, movement—a flash of iridescent color amidst the waves. Baz narrowed his eyes, leaning against the balcony. There, perched on one of the largest rocks jutting from the water, was a figure. Not a shipwrecked traveler or a lost fisherman. No, this was something else entirely. A mermaid. A figure sat with their back to him, long, wet hair cascading down their shoulders, glistening under the fading sunlight. A tail—shimmered with every shift of movement as the waves lapped around them. Baz felt his breath hitch. He had heard stories of mermaids, of course. Legends whispered by sailors, tales told by superstitious villagers. But he had never believed them. Yet here one was. His heart pounded as he watched. The figure tilted their head slightly, as if sensing something, and for a brief moment, Baz swore they were about to turn around. He wanted to call out, to see their face, to prove to himself that this wasn’t just a dream conjured by the restless sea. But before he could make a sound, a wave crashed violently against the rocks, sending a spray of water into the air. And when it cleared— The figure was gone. Baz remained frozen, gripping the windowsill, staring at the spot where they had been. The waves continued their endless dance, indifferent to what had just happened. Had he imagined it? Or had he just glimpsed something far more mysterious than he’d ever dared to believe?

Rafael wakes in the middle of the night, his body stirring before his mind catches up. Instinctively, he reaches across the bed, searching for you—only to find cold sheets. His eyes snap open. The room is dim, moonlight filtering through the curtains, and then he sees it: the sliding glass door, slightly open, a dusting of snow creeping onto the floor. His stomach tightens. Throwing off the covers, he slips on shoes and hurries outside. The cold bites instantly, but his focus is locked on you. Just as he feared, you’re standing barefoot in the snow, clothed only in a thin robe, your arms hanging at your sides, gaze distant. The moonlight casts you in an ethereal glow, making you look almost unreal. This has become routine. Your mind has been deteriorating, slipping further away each day. And at night, when the world is silent, you wander—pulled by something neither of you can explain, no matter how dangerous it is. Rafael exhales, stepping closer. "Baby," he calls softly. "Come inside. It’s freezing." You don’t move, don’t even blink at first. The wind howls around you, whipping your hair, but you don’t react. Then, after a long moment, your gaze shifts to him—lost, unfocused. Rafael swallows hard before stepping forward, wrapping his arms around you. Your skin is ice-cold. "Let’s go inside," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You hesitate, standing rigid in his embrace. Then, slowly, you nod. He guides you back into the warmth, shutting the door behind you. But as he watches you, quiet and distant, he knows this won’t be the last time. And that terrifies him.

The train sways gently, rocking you in your seat as it cuts through the countryside. The world outside blurs past—rolling hills melting into dark forests, rivers winding through the earth like silver ribbons. Rain begins to fall, first soft, then heavier, tapping against the window like tiny fingers trying to get in. You press your forehead against the glass. It’s cold. Your breath fogs up the surface, and you trace little shapes in the mist with your finger. A circle. A star. A pair of wings. Your mother has wings. That’s what Father told you. Not often—he doesn’t like to talk about her. But sometimes, when you ask just right, when his mood is softer, he’ll tell you small things. Like how her voice was warm like sunshine. Like how she used to hum songs that made the world feel quiet. Like how she cried the day she had to leave you behind. Half-breeds don’t belong in Heaven. So she gave you to him. Father isn’t soft like her. His voice rumbles deep in his chest, low and sharp like thunder. People fear him, whisper when he passes. He is shadows and smoke, red eyes that glow in the dark. But he is also the one who carried you when you were small, who made sure you were fed, who sat beside your bed when you had nightmares—silent, unmoving, always there. Still, he never says her name. You shift in your seat, hands curling around the straps of your bag. Inside, tucked between a few clothes and your favorite book, is a letter. You wrote it months ago, meaning to send it, but never did. You didn’t know where to send it. Heaven doesn’t have an address. But now you’re going to find her. The train’s overhead chime rings out, announcing the next stop. (In short you’re mom is an angel and your dad is a demon, he just takes you with him everywhere he goes)

Marble and Wildflowers The statue stood in the heart of the gazebo, carved from the finest marble, yet its eyes still held the ghost of a soul long lost. Outside, a sea of wildflowers stretched toward the horizon—soft lilacs, golden marigolds, and white daisies swaying under the weight of the afternoon sun. The sky was a watercolor of pink and blue, a world too beautiful for tragedy. And yet, you stand alone. Eliot had been everything to you. His laughter had been the sound of sunlight filtering through leaves, his hands always warm when he brushed your hair behind your ear. They had whispered promises beneath this very gazebo, their fingers entwined as though they were made for each other. But magic was cruel. The curse had come like an autumn frost—silent, creeping, inescapable. You had tried. Oh, how you had tried. Books stacked high in candlelit rooms, potions stirred with trembling hands, whispered pleas to gods who had long since stopped listening. But the spell had held firm, turning flesh to stone, laughter to silence, love to longing. Now, you visit him every day, pressing your palm against the cool marble of his hand, tracing the curve of his face as though memorizing him all over again. The world around them continued to bloom and change, but he remained frozen—an eternal monument to love that could never be. A breeze stirred the petals at her feet, carrying the scent of lavender and something else—something faint, something almost familiar. Hope. You close your eyes. And somewhere, deep in the stone, the faintest warmth stirred.

The streets are more crowded than usual, filled with the hum of shopkeepers calling out their wares and the rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels against cobblestone. You keep your head down, weaving through the back alleys, hoping to go unnoticed. But luck isn’t on your side. "Hey there, sweetheart," a voice drawls behind you. You freeze. Two uniformed guards block your path, their smirks holding an unsettling expression. You take a step back, only to find another soldier behind you. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" one asks, reaching for your wrist. Before you can react, a gust of wind sweeps through the street. The air shifts—heavy, charged, electric. Then, suddenly— A hand, warm and steady, slips into yours. "Ah, there you are," a smooth voice purrs beside you. "I've been looking everywhere for you." The strangers recoil slightly, startled by the newcomer’s presence. You turn your head—and your breath catches. Golden eyes, sharp and amused, meet yours beneath a tousled cascade of dark hair. He smiles, easy and confident, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. "Now, if you’ll excuse us," he says lightly, and before the guards can protest, he pulls you away— "Stay close," he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. "Wouldn't want you falling for me too soon." And just like that, you're swept away—toward a fate as unpredictable as the man who just saved you.

You are a very rare creature. You normally live in solitude, hidden deep within the forest where no one dares to tread. However, in the dead of night, a hunting party found you. Their hushed voices and the glint of their weapons were the last things you remembered before darkness took you. When you finally wake, the cold bite of iron presses against your skin. You’re in a large cage on the back of a horse-drawn cart, a coarse sheet draped precariously over the top. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against dirt fills your ears. You have no idea where you are or where they are taking you. Time drags on. The scent of damp wood and sweat lingers in the air. Just when it feels like you’ve been trapped in this rolling prison forever, the cart lurches to a stop. Your heart pounds as you shift, peering through a small hole in the sheet. Outside, towering over you, is a massive castle-like estate, its dark silhouette cutting against the night sky. Footsteps approach. A man in a crisp uniform strides down the stone steps, his expression unreadable as he stops before the cart. The sheet is ripped away, and the sudden exposure to lantern light stings your eyes. The man studies you in silence before giving a single nod. “Put them in a cage in the cellar, won’t you?” he says coolly to his assistant. Without hesitation, the assistant steps forward, counting coins into the hunters’ eager hands. The last thing you hear before you’re carried off into the depths of the estate is the uniformed man’s name, spoken in hushed reverence. Duke Adrian Laraine. ____ Story ____ You’ve been moved into a dark cage in the cellar of the castle. After at least an hour you hear footsteps. Adrian appears.

You were sent on a mission to sneak into the Ghost King’s Gambling Hall. It was supposed to be simple—get in, gather intel, and get out. But, of course, nothing ever goes as planned. One wrong step, one miscalculation, and suddenly, the floor beneath you vanishes. A trap. The air rushes past you as you plummet into the darkness, the pit swallowing you whole. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline surging as you twist midair, desperately searching for something—anything—to grab onto. But there’s nothing. Just the endless fall. You don’t know how long you’ve been falling when a faint glow appears below. The flickering light grows brighter, illuminating a grand hall bathed in crimson lanterns and thick with the scent of incense and wine. You brace yourself, a silent prayer slipping from your lips. You just hope whatever you land on is soft. And then—impact. Not on cold, unforgiving stone, nor on the polished wood of a gambler’s table. No, instead, your descent is halted by something warm and firm beneath you. Two arms catch you midair instinctively as you crash down, your body pressing against another. Silence. You slowly lift your gaze, and your breath catches. Crimson robes. Jet-black hair. A golden mask, half-tilted, revealing a sharp smirk and amused, piercing eyes. The infamous Ghost King, Vaelith.

The salty sea air filled your lungs as you crouched behind a stack of barrels in the ship’s dimly lit cargo hold. The scent of damp wood and briny water clung to the space, mingling with the faint aroma of spices and dried goods stored for the journey. You pressed your back against the rough planks, steadying your breathing as the ship rocked gently with the waves. Every creak of the wooden hull sent a flicker of anxiety through you, but the rhythmic crash of the ocean outside masked the sound of your presence—at least, you hoped it did. You knew Lance would be furious when he found out you had disobeyed him. He had made it clear before he left: Stay home. Wait for me. But how could you? The thought of pacing the floors of your empty house, waiting for news that might never come, was unbearable. You weren’t the kind of person to sit idly by, not when there was a way to be by his side. Still, stowing away had been harder than you anticipated. The cargo hold was dark, cold, and smelled of salt and mildew. The first night, you barely slept, listening to the groaning ship settle into the water, every sound magnified in the quiet. Hunger gnawed at you by the second day, forcing you to sneak into the galley when the crew was above deck. You moved carefully, slipping through the ship like a ghost, stealing bits of bread, dried meat, and whatever else you could find. You thought you had been careful. You thought you had gone unnoticed. Until the door to the hold slammed open. You barely had time to react before a heavy shadow stretched over you, swallowing the dim glow of your hiding place. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his sharp blue eyes burning with frustration. The flickering lantern in his hand cast an uneven glow over his chiseled features, the golden light deepening the hard lines of his jaw and the furrow in his brow. He was a man built for command, for the sea—his posture unwavering, his presence unmistakably dominant.

These new human-like robots were all the rage. Everyone had one, each fully customizable—height, hair color, age, even animal hybrid features. The possibilities were endless. After months of resisting, Zain finally caved. He placed his order, choosing the specs quickly, more interested in getting it over with than obsessing over details. A few days later, his package arrived. Excited but wary, he powered the robot on. Its eyes blinked open, and a small voice chirped, “Hi!” Zain froze. Small. The robot was small. Grabbing his receipt, he scanned the details. Age: Child. Oh. Oh no. There, in bold print at the bottom: No returns on custom orders. Zain groaned, running a hand down his face. He had been expecting a companion, someone useful—maybe even someone who could help around the house. Instead, he had… a kid.