She looked at the wall, then at herself.

Days had passed. She had counted them the only way she knew how, by sleep. She went to sleep several times. As many as she had fingers, and then some. Every time she woke up, the world seemed a little less foreign. Her body is a little more hers.

Strange things began to happen, not loud, sudden transformations, but quiet victories.

Walking. First with help, then without. Her legs remembered their job faster than she expected. The strings and tubes that once snaked across her arms, across her chest, and down her neck were removed one by one. The beeping machines went silent.

And food… real food, came. First it was just the chocolate ice cream, sweet and safe. Then came others. Chicken, grilled and juicy. Steak, rich and warm. Crisp vegetables she didn't recognize by name, but loved anyway. And fruit. Berries. Grapes. Bananas. Things she devoured like she hadn't eaten in years.

Because maybe she hadn't. She didn't know if it was years… or it was only a few days.

The nurses gave her strange looks at first, surprised by her appetite. But when she smiled, they smiled back. And when she asked for seconds, they brought them.

It was like her body had been starving not just for sustenance, but for living.

She also learned more about herself.

Her name was Toole Millennium.

It still sounded strange in her mouth, like a foreign coin she wasn't sure how to spend. Toole Millennium, grand, strange, almost ridiculous. A name like that didn't feel like something someone was born with. It felt like something someone made.

But it was hers, apparently.

She tried once to say her full name out loud. It came out garbled, the middle name twisting oddly in her throat. The syllables didn't want to cooperate. She decided not to try again. Some names were easier to wear in silence. But Toole came out with ease.

She was fourteen years old.

That fact alone felt alien. Fourteen. Not ten. Not sixteen. Somewhere in the middle, like everything else about her. A few years from being considered an adult in most jurisdictions, but miles away from feeling like one. She had no memory of birthdays. No recollection of friends, parents, or holidays, or anything that marked time in the usual ways. Just a number in a file. Fourteen.

The file they had given her, sealed, official, and stamped with far too many redacted lines—said she was now under the protection of Malcolm Vine.

Not a prisoner. Not a patient. Not a ward of the state. But a ward of Malcolm himself.

And not just that, she was to be his assistant.

The words practically leapt off the page and punched her in the gut.

His assistant?

The man with the tired eyes, who spoke with sorrow behind his teeth, who moved through the world as if he was always preparing to lose something… he had chosen her?

Her.

There were details she didn't understand. Legal terminology, procedural chains of custody, and an endless trail of sign-offs and codes. But the intent was clear: Malcolm had claimed responsibility for her. Not as a doctor. Not as a government official. But as something else entirely.

As family.

The word made her stomach twist.

She wasn't sure if it was joy. Or dread.

Or maybe… both.

And then, on the eleventh day, he returned. And she would decide what she thought about him.

Malcolm.

The man with the sad eyes. But today, he wasn't sad.

He entered the room with a casual gait, like a man who had just left a long, painful meeting and finally let his tie hang loose. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. And he was smiling, an actual smile this time. Not polite. Not forced. But Warm.

As if he had finally been given the strength that he had to drop his barriers.

"Sorry I couldn't come sooner," he said, his voice lighter, almost teasing. "Turns out the world doesn't run itself, and unfortunately, I'm still one of the few fools propping up what's left of it."

Toole sat up straighter in her bed. Her body didn't creak as much anymore. She returned the smile.

"I don't mind," she said quietly, her voice scratchy but present. Speaking still took effort, but not pain. "I think I like hearing you talk. It's… grounding."

He chuckled. "Well, I hope you're good at listening. Because I need to vent about my children. They've turned into absolute maniacs." He leaned back in the visitor's chair, one ankle casually propped over his knee. "I swear, I have brilliant, terrifying little rascals living under my roof."

She smiled at the mental image of children running the world, and their father. It was something she didn't have a large image for, but she realized that it could be like her making those same decisions. "They can't be that bad."

"Oh, they can," he said, mock-grimacing. "My son, Yukimaru, has this whole thing going where he believes he's the protagonist of some overpowered sci-fi anime. Always throwing himself into danger, talking about justice and missions and high-stakes morality like he's running an underground resistance. He keeps on trying to drag his friends into playing video games."

Toole laughed softly. "Sounds like he got that from somewhere."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, knowingly. "You think that he got it from me?"

Seeing Malcolm like this made her think that anyone he raised could be strong like him. He hid the darkness in his eyes well… but also his strength.

"And your daughter?" she asked. "You said you had a daughter."

"Ah, yes. Cecelia." He said her name with a sigh full of awe and exasperation. "Cecelia is… impossible. Brilliant, dangerous, and entirely too clever for anyone's good. She's the sort of girl who finds a way into your classified lab at age two just to see if she can."

Toole blinked. "What?"

"She broke into my lab," Malcolm confirmed with a tired smile. "She rerouted one of the access panels using a tablet and a stolen schematic she found in a trash file. She was wearing a tutu and holding a juice box when she did it."

"She's how old now?"

"Two." he muttered.

That made Toole think for a moment. She was only a child, and able to do that?

Toole tilted her head. "Can she?"

"…That's the problem. She can, and she has."

They both laughed, and for a moment, the sterile, too-quiet room felt full—full of breath, of warmth, of something alive again. Something human. It clung to the corners of the ceiling and settled into the blankets around her like sunlight after too many grey mornings.

Toole glanced at him, at the man whose face had been a fortress of grief since she first opened her eyes. But now it had softened, ever so slightly. Not gone, not forgotten—but softened. She thought, just maybe, there was still something in this fractured, half-broken world worth holding onto.

"You talk about them like they're… chaos," Toole said, a teasing tilt in her voice.

Malcolm let out a low chuckle, the kind that came from a place deep in the chest. "They are. God help me, they are chaos incarnate. But they're my chaos. And I wouldn't trade them for anything."

Silence slipped in between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of pause that meant understanding.

"Will I ever meet them?" she asked softly.

Malcolm's eyes dropped to his hands. He rubbed his fingers together absently, as if weighing something fragile. Time passed. Then he looked up and met her gaze.

"Soon," he said. "When you're ready."

He meant it. She could tell by the steadiness in his voice, the gravity behind his words. But something lingered in his eyes—a flicker of doubt, or maybe protection. He wasn't just shielding her from the children. He was shielding them from something, too.

Toole didn't push. Not yet.

"When will I be able to leave this hospital room?" she asked, changing the subject with quiet hope.

Malcolm perked up, grateful for the shift. "Well, once your vitals stabilize and the doctors give their full sign-off, we can move you upstairs. One of the guest rooms in my residence."

"Are they nice guest rooms?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He grinned. "They have minibars stocked with the finest juice boxes, heated blankets that are dangerously nap-inducing, and a view that's actually not bad—especially at night."

"Okay…" she said thoughtfully, "but I want to choose which part of the city to look at."

Malcolm placed a hand to his chest like she'd made a royal decree. "But of course. You'll have your choice of north-facing skyline, bay view, or my personal favorite—overlooking the neon blur of downtown chaos. No extra charge for sirens and late-night food trucks."

Toole smiled at that. A real smile. A spark of herself in it.

Then she looked down at her hands—still a little shaky, still pale—and slowly extended one toward him.

"Okay," she said with quiet certainty. "My name is Toole." A beat. "Am I doing this right?"

Malcolm looked at her offered hand. So small, but steady. His lips twitched into something that might've once been a smile, long ago.

He took her hand in his, warm and firm, and gave it a gentle shake.

"You're doing just fine," he said. "Welcome back, Toole."