Phoenix Force

I had taken lives without a second thought, watched the light fade from a man's eyes as my bullets tore through flesh, and left entire hideouts reduced to smoldering ruins. I had walked through blood-soaked battlefields, my boots treading over bodies both friend and foe, and I had danced through raging infernos as if they were nothing more than fleeting specters in my path. I had faced the horrors of war head-on, stared into the abyss with a grin, and dared death itself to claim me, knowing all too well that I could slip through its grasp like smoke on the wind.

I had fought mercenaries, assassins, warlords—men who would sell their own souls for a fistful of power. I had been hunted, cornered, and outnumbered, yet I had always emerged victorious, my hands steady, my mind sharp, my will unshaken. Torture, pain, exhaustion—none of it had ever been enough to break me. I had survived betrayal, endured the bitter sting of loss, and carved my name into the annals of history through sheer, unrelenting force of will.

But for all the horrors I had seen, for all the blood I had spilled and the nightmares I had lived through, nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for the soul-crushing, sanity-destroying, sleep-deprived torment that was raising a baby.

"Alright, kid, let's get this over with," I muttered, holding Auzra at arm's length as I grimly examined the absolute catastrophe in his diaper. I had seen explosions less destructive than this.

Auzra blinked up at me with those unnervingly bright emerald eyes, completely unbothered by the biohazard he had just unleashed upon the world. His white hair stuck up in messy tufts, giving him an almost angelic appearance—almost. But I knew better. This tiny creature, this pint-sized menace, was nothing short of a walking disaster wrapped in deceptively soft skin.

I had faced Infernals, their fiery wrath turning entire cities into charred wastelands. I had stood against monsters that burned hotter than the depths of hell itself. And yet, here I was, utterly and completely defeated by the merciless forces of a baby's digestive system.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" I accused, narrowing my eyes at him.

Auzra merely cooed, his little fists flailing excitedly, as if mocking me.

I sighed, rolling my shoulders like a man about to step into battle. Fine. If I could handle firefights, I could handle this. Pinching my cigarette between my lips, I grabbed a fresh diaper and prepared for what should have been a simple, straightforward task.

It was not.

Five minutes later, I sat slumped on the floor, utterly defeated. The battlefield was a disaster zone. Baby powder clung to my hair like the ashes of a ruined city. Auzra's diaper—somehow—was strapped upside-down to his back, making him look like he was wearing a tiny, ridiculous cape. My dignity? Gone. My confidence? Shattered. The supposed ease of diaper-changing? A lie.

Auzra giggled, clapping his hands in victory.

Demon.

Feeding Auzra was less of a routine task and more of an ongoing battle for survival—one that I had not trained for.

I had spent years scraping by in the underworld, scavenging for whatever scraps I could find, stealing rations when I had to, forcing down meals that were barely fit for human consumption. I had learned how to eat whatever kept me alive—charred meat, stale bread, things that no sane person would dare put in their mouth. Survival had been my only concern. Cooking, on the other hand? Actually making something edible?

Yeah. That was an entirely different battlefield.

But a baby needed food—actual food, not whatever questionable substances came packed in Black Market rations. And I wasn't about to let Auzra grow up with the same kind of half-rotten, barely-nutritious garbage I had survived on. So, I tried. And tried.

The first attempt was an unmitigated disaster. I had followed the instructions—more or less—but somehow, the porridge had turned into an unholy sludge that burned so badly, the pot itself started melting. I wasn't even sure that was possible.

The second attempt? Worse. I had created something that had the consistency of cement. No, scratch that—it was cement. I had to chisel it out of the pot, and I was fairly certain I could use it to patch up cracks in the wall.

By the third attempt, I had finally managed to make something that at least looked edible. It wasn't pretty, but it didn't immediately try to solidify into an industrial-strength adhesive, so I considered it a victory. Setting the bowl down in front of Auzra, I exhaled sharply.

"Alright, kid, this is the best you're gonna get," I announced, arms crossed, watching him carefully.

Auzra didn't move. He just stared at the bowl. Then at me. Then back at the bowl.

I narrowed my eyes. "...Don't look at me like that," I muttered.

Without hesitation, he shoved a tiny fist into the mush, grabbed a handful, and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his little brows furrowing as he processed the taste. For a moment, there was silence. Then, to my absolute horror—he smiled.

A bright, happy, innocent smile.

Something in my chest twisted—hard.

I scoffed, looking away, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "...Tch. Stop that," I muttered. "You'll turn soft if you trust food made by me."

Auzra just laughed, his tiny hands smacking against the table as if he had just tasted the finest meal in existence.

Damn kid.

There were times when I had to leave for a job—usually something bloody, something messy, something that involved making sure some poor bastard didn't see the sunrise. Other times, it was intel gathering, sneaking into places I wasn't supposed to be, listening in on conversations that could get me killed. Whatever the case, I couldn't exactly take a baby along for the ride.

Which meant I had to leave Auzra with someone.

Unfortunately, my list of trustworthy people was very short. And at the top of that very short, very questionable list was Victor Licht—a mad scientist with the survival instincts of a drunk pigeon and the social awareness of a brick. Not exactly prime babysitting material, but at least he wasn't the type to sell Auzra to the highest bidder.

That was enough.

"Watch him," I said, shoving the baby into his arms with no further explanation.

Victor blinked, awkwardly holding Auzra as if he had just been handed a live grenade. "And what happens if he, I don't know… spontaneously combusts?"

I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a slow, deliberate drawl. "Then I'll make sure you combust first."

Victor chuckled, but it came out strained and slightly panicked. "Haha. Right. Babysitting. Love it."

Meanwhile, Auzra—completely unaware of the thinly veiled threats being exchanged over his tiny head—tilted his gaze up at Victor, blinked once, then reached out with chubby fingers and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

And yanked.

Victor screamed.

I grinned, turning for the door. "He likes you."

It didn't take long to notice that Auzra wasn't… normal.

At first, it was subtle—little things that could be dismissed as quirks. He never got sick, not even a sniffle. His body was always warm, like he carried a fire under his skin. I figured it was just genetics, some strange biological advantage he had over other kids. Nothing too alarming.

But then came the night that changed everything.

I had just returned from a mission—exhausted, sore, and half-covered in blood. Some of it was mine, most of it wasn't. My body ached from the usual assortment of cuts, bruises, and bullet grazes, but I'd survived worse. All I wanted was to collapse into bed, ignore the pain, and deal with it in the morning.

Then Auzra reached for me.

The moment his tiny fingers brushed against my skin, a warmth spread through me—deep, searing, alive. I watched in silent disbelief as my wounds closed up, the pain dissolving as if it had never been there at all.

I froze.

The kid just blinked up at me, his bright emerald eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, completely unaware of what he'd just done.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down my face. "...Huh," I muttered. "Well, that's new."

Auzra tilted his head, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

I reached into my coat, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of my finger. My body felt light, my exhaustion slipping away as if he had peeled it off me piece by piece. It was… unsettling.

"Looks like you're special, kid," I said, taking a slow drag. "Not sure if that's good or bad yet."

Auzra didn't respond, just reached out again, his tiny hands grabbing onto my coat, holding on with that quiet stubbornness he always had.

I sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Bedtime. Let's go."

I carried him to the old, patched-up mattress in the corner, setting him down carefully. Almost immediately, he latched onto my sleeve, gripping it like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I should've been annoyed. I should've pulled away, muttered something about personal space, about how attachment was a weakness.

But instead…

I just let him be.

Time passed. Days bled into weeks. Weeks blurred into months.

Somehow—against all logic, against all odds—Auzra survived. He survived my catastrophic attempts at cooking, Victor's panic-ridden babysitting, and the unrelenting chaos of the underground.

And he didn't just survive.

He grew.

Stronger. Smarter. More aware.

At first, he was just a kid. A stray. Someone I had picked up on a whim, another responsibility I didn't ask for. But somewhere along the way, that changed.

Somewhere along the way… he became mine.

I didn't believe in gods. Didn't believe in fate. The universe wasn't some grand design—it was chaos, pure and simple, and I had learned the hard way that it didn't hand out miracles.

But as I sat there, cigarette between my lips, watching Auzra drool onto my sleeve, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric like he never wanted to let go…

I thought—

Maybe… just maybe… this kid was meant to be here.

And if anyone tried to take him from me?

I'd burn them all down.