Chapter Text
In a world without Valentino, Anthony had no stage name that mattered. No celebrity persona to hide behind. No spotlight to soften—all or distract from—what he really was.
Just Anthony.
A fucked-up sinner like everyone else.
At least he wasn’t at the end of a chain. That counted for something. But freedom without resources was just another kind of prison, and Hell had no mercy for those who brought nothing to the table. He owned nothing. Had nothing. Was nothing—just another soul trying to survive in a city that devoured the weak and spit out their bones.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He’d died trying to escape his family. Trying to be something other than what his father had shaped him into.
And what had Hell given him in return?
The same goddamn choice.
Starve and disappear for good, or crawl back to the family business.
The Famiglia was still here. Of course they were. Evil never really died—it just changed addresses.
His father ran things exactly as he always had, operating throughout Pride with the same iron grip: protection rackets, smuggling routes, contract enforcement. The kind of work that kept sinners obedient and streets slick with blood.
Anthony had tried. God, he had tried.
For years after his death, he’d scraped by on stubborn pride and sheer refusal—sleeping in alleys, taking humiliating stage gigs for pocket change, selling himself in dark corners when hunger clawed too hard to ignore. Years of telling himself he was better than what he’d been in life.
Then reality caught up with him.
One bad Extermination wiped out his last hiding place, his last scrap of safety. With nowhere left to go and no illusions remaining, he showed up at his brother Arackniss’s door with his pride in tatters and survival as his only goal.
Arackniss took one look at him.
“You look like shit,” he said flatly—then grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside before anyone else could see. “Pop’s been asking about you.”
His brother wasn’t cruel. Never had been. Just practical. Cold in the way you had to be to survive their father’s world.
That night, Arackniss fed him. Gave him a couch. Then, once Anthony’s hands had stopped shaking, sat him down for the conversation neither of them wanted.
“You can’t make it out there alone,” Arackniss said, voice level with hard-earned experience. “Not in Hell. Not without power or connections. You keep trying, you’ll end up erased—or worse. At least here, you eat. You have a roof. You survive.”
Anthony wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that he’d rather die than go back.
But desperation had a way of turning principles into luxuries.
“Pop’s getting senile,” Arackniss went on. “He won’t be around forever. One day, he’ll make a bad call. End up on the wrong end of a deal. Maybe the sharp end of an exorcist’s blade.”
He paused, finally meeting Anthony’s eyes.
“Just stick it out. Learn the business. Maybe things change. But right now?” His voice softened—not with kindness, but certainty. “This is how you stay alive.”
It wasn’t mercy.
It was survival.
And in Arackniss’s world, that was the closest thing to love he knew how to offer.
Now Anthony did what he’d always done.
The dirty work.
Collections, mostly. Shaking down demons who thought debts were optional. Roughing up the ones who needed reminding. Cleaning up crime scenes, wiping blood and shell casings and fingerprints until nothing pointed back to the family. Making witnesses disappear—one way or another.
Sometimes worse, when the Famiglia needed to send a message. When they needed a honeypot, a pretty face and a soft voice to lure someone into a mistake they wouldn’t survive.
Anthony was good at it.
He’d always been good at it, even when it made his stomach twist and his hands shake afterward.
The worst part wasn’t the violence.
It was how easy it still was.
How his body remembered the motions without hesitation. How his mind slipped back into cold, efficient calculations like it had never left—angles, leverage, pressure points, how far he could push before something broke for good.
He told himself he was just doing what he had to do. Everyone in Hell was. Survival demanded compromises. Blood was just another currency.
But late at night, alone in his shitty apartment, the lies wore thin.
He felt the weight of every punch thrown. Every threat whispered too close to someone’s ear. Every body he’d cleaned up before it had time to regenerate. Every line crossed that could never be uncrossed.
This was survival.
This was Hell.
And some nights, when the silence pressed in too tight, Anthony couldn’t help but think—
This was all he deserved.
Charlie hummed softly as she pushed Alastor’s stroller through the crowded street, grocery bags hooked over the handles and swaying with each step. It was a rare solo outing—Vaggie was back at the hotel dealing with a plumbing crisis (the pipes were literally fighting back), and Charlie had insisted she could handle a quick supply run on her own.
“We just need a few things, sweetie,” she murmured, glancing down at Alastor. He was happily gnawing on his rice crispies, utterly unconcerned with the world. “Then we’ll go home and make cookies. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Alastor babbled in response—something bubbly and indistinct that Charlie chose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement.
The shopping district was busy, but not dangerous. Midday was safest: fewer desperate sinners, more legitimate businesses open and operating. Charlie had done this dozens of times without incident.
She should have known better than to relax.
The store was small but well-stocked, run by an older imp who recognized Charlie on sight and always slipped Alastor a free candy when she wasn’t looking. Charlie stood at the counter, fishing through her purse for payment, chatting absently as she counted bills.
She’d parked the stroller only a few steps away. Close. Well within her peripheral vision.
She looked away for maybe ten seconds.
When she turned back, the stroller was moving.
Her heart stopped.
A demon she didn’t recognize—gaunt and twitchy, with too many teeth and wild, starving eyes—had his hands on the stroller’s handle, already wheeling it toward the door.
“HEY!” Charlie’s voice cracked as she dropped everything. Bills fluttered uselessly across the counter. “STOP!”
The demon bolted.
He shoved past startled customers, knocking shoulders aside as he ran. Charlie lunged after him, panic detonating in her chest, drowning out thought and reason alike.
Her son.
Someone was taking her son—
The demon made it three steps outside the door before a single gunshot split the air.
Sharp. Deafening. Final.
Anthony was already having a shit day.
He’d spent the morning collecting on a debt for his brother—some lowlife who’d borrowed from the family and then had the audacity to skip town. Anthony had tracked him down, delivered the message, and collected what was owed.
A few broken fingers had helped jog the debtor’s memory.
Business as usual. Routine violence. Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before.
It still left him feeling like garbage.
He was cutting through the shopping district on his way back to report in when movement caught his eye—too fast, too wrong. A demon lunged for a stroller and took off at a dead run.
Anthony didn’t think.
He reacted.
Years of muscle memory snapped into place. His hand was already on his gun as he turned, the shot cracking through the air before his brain could fully catch up. One clean pull of the trigger. Precision born of repetition.
The bullet hit. The would-be kidnapper crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.
The stroller lurched, wheels skidding toward the street.
Anthony lunged forward and caught the handle before it could roll into traffic, steadying it with the same practiced ease he used for everything else these days.
He stepped over the fallen demon and spat down at the body, disgust curling his lip.
“You don’t touch kids,” he snarled. “I don’t give a fuck what Hell you’re in.”
The sinner didn’t move—dead for now. In Hell, that never lasted. They’d regenerate in a few hours, hopefully with the lesson burned deep enough to stick.
Anthony exhaled, breath coming fast, one hand still clenched around the stroller.
Inside sat a toddler. Couldn’t have been more than two.
Big eyes. Bright. Curious.
Not crying. Not screaming. Just blinking up at him like this was mildly interesting—like gunshots and collapsing demons were an everyday inconvenience.
Anthony froze.
“…Hey,” he said, voice suddenly unsure, painfully gentle by comparison. “Uh. You okay, kid?”
The toddler beamed at him.
Then giggled.
And something in Anthony’s chest twisted in a way violence never managed to touch.
“ALASTOR!”
Anthony looked up just in time to see a blonde woman sprinting toward him, her face stricken with pure, unfiltered terror. She was dressed simply, hair coming loose from its pins, but something about her presence made his spine straighten on instinct.
Power clung to her. Heavy. Restrained. Like a storm held behind glass.
Then he noticed the horns. The faint red glow in her irises. The way the air around her seemed to warp, reality bending just slightly at her edges.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Princess Charlotte Morningstar reached the stroller and all but collapsed against it, her hands moving with frantic precision as she checked her child for injuries that weren’t there.
“Baby—baby, are you okay? You’re okay. Mama’s here. You’re safe—” Her voice cracked halfway through the words, fingers trembling as she fumbled with the straps and pulled him into her arms.
Anthony stepped back at once, palms lifting slightly as he gave her space. He’d just saved the Princess of Hell’s kid.
That was either the best or the worst thing he’d done all month.
He genuinely couldn’t tell which.
For a long moment, Charlie didn’t seem to remember anyone else existed. She held Alastor tight, rocking him, burying her face in his hair as her breathing slowly steadied.
When she finally looked up, tears were still tracking down her cheeks.
Anthony braced himself.
Orders. Accusations. Guards swarming in out of nowhere. Maybe a polite-but-deadly interrogation about why a known mob enforcer was holding her kidnapped kid’s stroller.
Instead, she said, “Thank you.”
Just that.
Two words, quiet and raw and devastatingly sincere.
It hit harder than any punch he’d thrown that day.
“Don’t mention it,” Anthony said quickly, already edging backward. “Seriously. Don’t. I just—uh—you should be more careful, Your Highness. This district ain’t as safe as it pretends to be.”
“I know, I just—” Charlie swallowed, tightening her hold on Alastor as she took a shaky breath. “I only looked away for a second.” She looked back at Anthony, eyes shining. “Thank you so much for stopping them. Is there—can I repay you somehow? Anything you need—”
“Nah. I’m good.” He waved it off, unease crawling up his spine. Gratitude made him itch. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t do good things. This was just instinct. Reflex. A fluke.
And asking anything of a mother who’d just watched someone try to steal her child—Princess or not—felt wrong in a way he couldn’t rationalize away. The fear on her face had been real. Stripped bare. Human, in a way that erased the distance between Hell’s royalty and its lowest sinners.
Anthony turned to leave, melting back toward the crowd where people like him belonged.
Then he felt it.
A small, warm hand curled around his finger.
Anthony froze.
He then slowly looked down.
Alastor had reached out from his mother’s arms and wrapped his tiny hand around one of Anthony’s fingers. It was so small—soft, barely big enough to curl properly—but his grip was firm, stubborn in the way toddlers were about everything they decided belonged to them.
And he was smiling.
Not crying. Not frightened. Just… happy. Like Anthony was someone worth smiling at.
The toddler giggled and shook Anthony’s finger up and down, an uncoordinated little motion, like they were sharing a secret handshake. Like they were friends.
Anthony couldn’t move.
He stared at the small hand clasping his own. His hand—scrubbed clean an hour ago, yet still stained in ways no water could touch. The same hand that had broken bones that morning. The same hand that had pulled a trigger minutes ago. The same hand that had done terrible things for terrible people, in life and in death.
And this child—this innocent, fragile little thing—held it like it was something precious.
“He likes you,” Charlie said softly. Her voice was still rough with tears, but there was wonder there too, fragile and sincere. “He doesn’t usually reach for strangers.”
Anthony tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
His throat closed around words he didn’t have.
His whole existence had been defined for him—by his father, by the Famiglia, by Hell itself. A weapon. A tool. A fuck-up. Something meant to be used, then discarded when it dulled. He’d believed it for so long he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be anything else.
But this child didn’t know any of that.
Alastor just saw… what? Someone who helped. Someone safe.
Or maybe toddlers were simply too trusting to recognize a monster when they grabbed one.
Anthony swallowed hard, afraid to breathe—afraid that if he moved, the moment would break.
And some quiet, terrifying part of him wondered what it meant that, for the first time in his existence, someone looked at him like he was good.
“I should go,” Anthony managed, carefully trying to ease his finger free. “I got places to be—”
Alastor did not let go.
If anything, his grip tightened, and he made a small, indignant sound of protest.
“Fuff!” the toddler declared, pointing at Anthony with his free hand.
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“He’s saying fluff,” Charlie translated, a faint smile breaking through her tear-streaked face. “I think he likes your… um. Your fur.”
Anthony glanced down at himself—at the pink-and-white fluff covering most of his body.
Right.
Spider demon.
He forgot sometimes that to a toddler, he probably looked like a giant stuffed animal rather than a killer.
He snorted quietly. “Kid’s got weird taste.”
“He’s got good instincts.” Charlie’s voice was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. She studied Anthony with eyes that felt uncomfortably perceptive, like she was seeing straight through every wall he’d spent a lifetime building. “I can tell you’re a good person. Maybe you don’t believe that—but my son does. And he’s usually right about people.”
“Lady—Your Highness—you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anthony finally managed to slip his finger free and took a step back. “I ain’t a good person. Trust me.”
“Then why did you save my son?”
“Because—” He faltered, frustration creeping into his voice. “Because grabbing kids is a line you don’t cross. That’s just basic decency. That don’t make me good.”
“It makes you better than a lot of demons I’ve met.”
Charlie shifted Alastor on her hip, and the toddler immediately reached for Anthony again, little hands opening and closing, a soft whine of protest escaping him.
“Look,” Charlie continued, quieter now, “I know this is sudden. And you don’t owe me anything—you already saved Alastor. But I want you to know something.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, holding it out between them.
“I run a hotel,” she said. “The Happy Hotel. It’s for sinners who want to change. Who want a second chance at being better. But it’s also just… a place to stay. A safe place. Somewhere nobody judges you for your past or asks questions you don’t want to answer.”
Anthony stared at the card like it might bite him.
“I’m not asking you to commit to anything,” Charlie added quickly. “I’m just saying—if you ever need somewhere to sleep. To heal. Or just to feel safe for a while—you’d be welcome. No strings. No payment. Just… a place to breathe.”
Before he could refuse, she pressed the card into his hand.
Anthony looked down at it.
Simple design. Cheerful colors bordering on aggressively optimistic. An address in a district most of Hell treated like a punchline.
The Happy Hotel.
Redemption for sinners.
It was the most naive, doomed, stupid idea he’d ever heard.
“I’ll… think about it,” he heard himself say.
Charlie’s smile could’ve lit up the entire Pride Ring. “That’s all I ask. And—thank you. For everything.”
She turned to leave, Alastor waving enthusiastically over her shoulder, utterly unconcerned with the weight of what had just happened. The toddler kept waving until they disappeared around the corner, clearly delighted by his new fluffy friend.
Anthony stood there long after they were gone, the card clenched tight in his hand, his thoughts spiraling.
A place to stay.
A place to heal.
A place to feel safe.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any of those things.
Three days later, Anthony was still thinking about it.
He told himself it was stupid. He had a job—shit as it was, it kept him fed and under a roof. He had his family’s “protection,” thin and conditional though it might be. He didn’t need some redemption hotel run by a naive princess who probably had no real understanding of how Hell worked.
And yet.
He kept the card.
Tucked into his wallet, slid behind his ID where he’d see it every time he paid for something. He never took it out. Never looked at it for long. Just enough to remind himself it existed.
“You been distracted lately,” Arackniss noted during their weekly family dinner—which was less a dinner and more a business meeting with pasta. “Something on your mind?”
“Nah.” Anthony pushed noodles around his plate. “Just tired.”
His brother watched him for a second longer than necessary.
“Pop’s got a job for you next week,” Arackniss said finally. “Important client. Needs someone with a gentle touch.”
Anthony didn’t miss the emphasis.
“Gentle meaning,” Arackniss continued, calm as ever, “you break enough bones to make the point without killing anyone. You handle that?”
Anthony swallowed, bile burning his throat. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good.” Arackniss’s hand landed on his shoulder—brief, awkward, the closest thing to affection he knew how to offer. “You’re getting better at this. More controlled than you used to be.”
It should’ve felt like praise.
Instead, it landed like a death sentence.
That night, Anthony sat alone in his apartment, the card laid flat on the table in front of him.
A place to feel safe.
When was the last time he’d felt that?
When was the last time he’d woken up without dread coiled in his chest? Gone to sleep without nightmares gnawing at him? Looked in the mirror and seen anything other than his father’s weapon staring back?
He thought about the toddler’s hand wrapped around his finger. The unthinking trust. The smile.
Like Anthony was someone worth smiling at.
He thought about the Princess’s eyes—sad, but stubbornly hopeful. Like she genuinely believed people could be more than the worst things they’d done.
“This is stupid,” he muttered to the empty room. “It’s a fantasy. Redemption ain’t real. People like me don’t get second chances.”
The card stayed where it was.
Untouched.
Unthrown away.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Anthony wondered—just for a moment—what it would mean to be wrong.
Two weeks later, Anthony stood in an alley with blood on his hands again.
This time, it wasn’t just metaphorical.
The demon at his feet was gasping, clutching their ribs where something had cracked wrong. They’d owed money. They’d begged. They’d promised—next week, next month, just give them time—
Anthony’s brother had said no.
Make it hurt. Make it memorable.
So Anthony had.
He’d done his job. Like always. Like a good little soldier.
The demon was crying now, curled in on themselves, shaking. “Please,” they sobbed. “Please—no more—”
Anthony stood over them, fist still raised, ready to deliver another blow.
And suddenly, he couldn’t.
Couldn’t swing again. Couldn’t follow the order. Couldn’t be this anymore.
His arm trembled as he lowered it.
“You got three days,” Anthony said quietly. “Three days to get the money. After that, I can’t help you.” He swallowed. “Disappear if you got any sense.”
He turned and walked away while the demon was still staring at him, torn between terror and disbelief.
Anthony made it two blocks before his body betrayed him.
The shaking hit hard and fast. He ducked into an abandoned doorway and slid down the wall, breath hitching into sharp, uneven gasps—too fast, too shallow, the edge of a panic attack scraping at him.
What the hell was he doing?
That demon would talk. Word would get back to Arackniss, who could only do so much. To their father. There would be consequences. There were always consequences.
His hand found his wallet without him thinking about it.
Found the card.
The Happy Hotel.
A place to heal. A place to feel safe.
Anthony pressed his forehead to the cool brick and laughed weakly.
“Fuck it,” he whispered to the empty air. “What’ve I got to lose?”
Everything.
He had everything to lose.
But when he looked honestly at what his life was—at what he’d let himself become—Anthony realized that whatever “everything” was supposed to be, it wasn’t worth keeping.
And for the first time, walking away didn’t feel like running.
It felt like choosing.
Charlie was knee-deep in the hotel’s accounts—depressing as always—when Vaggie called her down to the lobby.
“We’ve got someone at the door,” Vaggie said carefully. “He says… he says you invited him.”
Charlie was on her feet instantly.
She hurried downstairs to find a tall spider demon standing just inside the entrance, posture tense, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He looked one wrong word away from bolting. In his hand, he clutched a familiar card—her card—creased and worn like it had been handled too often.
It took her a second to place him.
Then it clicked.
“You’re the one who saved Alastor!”
Anthony visibly flinched at her volume. “Yeah—yeah, that’s… that’s me.” He swallowed, words tangling as he gestured awkwardly with the card. “You said—the card said—look, if this is a bad time, I can just—”
“No.” Charlie crossed the lobby in three quick steps. “No, absolutely not. You’re welcome here. I’m really, really glad you came.”
She reached for his hands without thinking.
Anthony jerked back on instinct.
That was when she noticed the bandages—hastily wrapped, already spotted with red. Recent. The knuckles looked swollen, bruised badly beneath the gauze.
Charlie’s expression softened immediately.
“Why don’t we get you settled in?” she said gently. “I can give you a room on the second floor—it’s quieter up there. And if you’d like, we can have Remedy take a look at your hands.”
“I—I don’t…” Anthony hesitated, shoulders curling inward. “I can’t pay.”
“I told you.” Charlie smiled, warm and unguarded. “No payment required. You saved my son’s life. And even if you hadn’t, you’d still be welcome. That’s what this place is for.”
Anthony hesitated, then slowly let his gaze wander around the lobby.
The mismatched furniture, clearly salvaged from half a dozen places. The overly earnest décor. At least one Hang in there, you matter! poster on every wall. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t intimidating. It looked like someone had tried very hard to make Hell feel like a home—and only sort of succeeded.
But it felt… warm.
Real.
And for the first time since he could remember, Anthony didn’t feel like he was standing somewhere he had to earn the right to exist.
He just stood there, card still clenched in his hand, and breathed.
“I gotta tell you something,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I ain’t a good person. I’ve done bad things. Real bad things. For bad people. I’m probably gonna be a terrible guest, and I don’t know if I can—if I can actually change, or whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”
“That’s okay,” Charlie said simply. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You just have to want to try.”
“I don’t even know if I want to try,” Anthony admitted, the words tasting bitter. “I just… I couldn’t do it anymore. What I was doing. I couldn’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.
Charlie didn’t push. She just waited—patient, steady, kind in a way that made his chest ache with the realization that not everyone in Hell wanted to use him.
“I just need somewhere to breathe,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a bit. Figure out what happens next.”
“Then that’s what you’ll have. Somewhere to breathe.” Charlie gestured toward the stairs. “Come on. Let me show you to your room. Fair warning—we have a toddler in residence, so it gets loud sometimes. And a few staff members who are… unique. But it’s home.”
As they climbed the stairs, a small head peeked around the corner. Alastor was toddling around with the confident, wobbly gait of a child who had just mastered walking. The moment he spotted Anthony, his face lit up.
“Fuff!” he exclaimed, pointing eagerly at him.
Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the crushing weight of a lifetime of bad choices—Anthony felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Maybe a smile. Maybe the closest he’d come in years.
“Hey, kid. Remember me?” he said softly.
Alastor waddled over without hesitation, fearless, unshaken by the dangers the world might hold. He reached up and grabbed Anthony’s hand with both of his tiny ones.
This time, Anthony didn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” he said quietly to Charlie, voice almost reverent. “For this. Whatever this is.”
“It’s a chance,” she replied. “Everyone deserves at least one.”
As they continued up the stairs, Alastor chattering in his rapid toddler-speak and holding tight to Anthony’s hand, Anthony let himself hope—just a little—that maybe she was right.
Maybe even someone like him could have a place to breathe.
Maybe that’s what redemption really was: finding somewhere safe enough to stop running long enough to heal.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what he’d found.
Anthony’s room was small but clean, a rare slice of order in a life that had long since forgotten it. A window framed the city’s neon-soaked skyline, flickering in blues, pinks, and greens. Someone—probably that manic cleaning demon he’d glimpsed zooming through the halls—had left fresh towels and a welcome basket with basic supplies.
He sat on the bed, testing its firmness, half-convinced this was some elaborate trap or joke.
Hours passed. No one demanded payment. No one asked invasive questions. Charlie checked in once to make sure he had everything he needed, then left him alone when he said he was tired.
Vaggie stopped by later, dropping off a first-aid kit and a small dinner. She gave him a wary glance.
“Charlie sees the good in everyone,” she said bluntly. “I’m more skeptical. But you saved our kid, so you get the benefit of the doubt. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Fair enough,” Anthony muttered, and she left, the door clicking softly behind her.
The hotel settled into quiet. The hum of distant chatter, the shuffle of other residents getting ready for bed, the faint clatter of dishes—all soft, domestic, alien. Anthony lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, bracing for the other shoe to drop.
It didn’t.
Instead, a gentle knock at the door.
He opened it to find Alastor, pajamas dotted with little radio symbols, clutching a stuffed duck threadbare from love.
“Lost?” Anthony asked, scanning for a guardian.
“Story?” Alastor requested, the two-year-old clarity in his voice impossible to resist, holding up a picture book.
“Kid, I don’t—where’s your mom?”
“Pwease?” The toddler unleashed the most devastating puppy-dog eyes Anthony had ever seen, complete with a pout that probably got him anything he wanted.
Anthony sighed, smirking despite himself. “Alright, alright. One story. But then you gotta go back to bed, capisce?”
Alastor climbed into his lap without hesitation, settling with the casual confidence of a toddler claiming his favorite spot. Anthony fumbled with the book, stumbling over words he hadn’t read aloud in decades, let alone at kindergarten level.
Halfway through, Charlie appeared in the doorway. “There you are! Alastor, you can’t just wander off—” She stopped, taking in the scene. Her smile softened, warm and gentle as always. “Oh.”
“Sorry,” Anthony said quickly. “He just showed up. I was gonna bring him back after the story—”
“No, it’s… it’s fine.” Charlie’s gaze lingered on them. “He likes you. He doesn’t usually sit still for anyone except me and Vaggie. Toddlers have very strong opinions about people.”
Alastor yawned, snuggling deeper into Anthony’s fluff.
“I think you’ve been adopted,” Charlie said softly, laughing. “That’s how it works here. We don’t do formal anything. We just… become family, one story at a time.”
Family. The word should have terrified him. Should have made him run.
Instead, it felt… possible.
“One story at a time,” Anthony echoed quietly, letting the words sink in.
Maybe that’s how redemption worked too—not some grand, impossible transformation, but small moments. Small choices. Small chances to be something other than what he’d always been.
One story at a time. One day at a time. One breath at a time.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Anthony fell asleep without nightmares, a tiny two-year-old curled against his chest like a warm, trusting anchor, the faint hum of hope threading through the walls.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
And maybe… just maybe… it was the beginning.