Chapter 2

I woke up.

But not to the familiar hum of my penthouse security system. Not to the clink of crystal against aged oak as my tumbler welcomed another pour of 50-year-old Yamazaki.

Not to the silence that follows a kill.

No. I woke up to the most infuriating, ear-piercing sound known to man.

A baby. Screaming like the universe had denied it its divine right to a throne.

It was high-pitched, mocking, unrelenting. It clawed at my mind with every wail. Like a vulture picking at the edge of a fresh corpse.  It wasn’t just noise. It was chaos incarnate.

I hated it.

I am Leon Darrow. I do not entertain such mundane, pitiful noises.

In my world, a baby's cry was a liability. A breach of discipline. Noise was death. Noise was weakness. Noise got people killed. But the more I tried to tune it out, the louder it echoed—like it was coming from inside my skull.

Each shriek made my heartbeat stumble—fast, fluttering, fragile.

Too fragile. And something else… a coldness.

Not the kind that came from silk sheets on a winter night in Tokyo, or the calculated calm before an execution.

No. This was a deeper cold. Primordial.

A soul-level kind of wrong.

Like the universe itself was telling me: "You don't belong here."

Light stabbed at my eyes as I forced them open. The room came into view in blurry chaos.

Too bright. Too cramped. Too real.

A dull throb shot through my chest.

Right in my nipple.

Sharp. Persistent. Rhythmic.

“What the actual—”

Then I felt it. Warm. Wet. Suckling. A mouth—on me.

Not in the way I was used to. I looked down. And what I saw nearly shattered the last threads of my sanity.

A baby. A chubby little thing. Tiny fists gripping my flesh. Latched onto my breast like it was his.

Or… hers?

Mine?

No. No. No. This was wrong. This was impossible.

Gone were the familiar contours of my body—the steel-forged muscle, the battle-hardened scars, the tattooed warnings across my ribs. Gone was the body that could snap necks and silence rooms.

In its place were… curves. Full, heavy curves. My chest was soft, generous. My skin, smooth and pale. My arms—slender. Weak. My hands—delicate. Feminine.

This wasn’t just some twisted dream.

I wasn’t in a hospital. I wasn’t sedated. I wasn’t in some cybernetic rebuild after a failed mission.

I was in a different body. And not just any body…

A woman’s body. A mother’s body.

I tried to sit up—but the baby protested, wailing louder, fists flailing. And that damn pain returned to my chest like a firebrand pressed to flesh.

Then, movement. Two figures. Small. Hesitant. Looming just within the blur of my new vision.

Children.

Girls.

One—tall, maybe eleven, skinny and fierce-eyed—stood protectively at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, gaze hardened far beyond her years. The second—perhaps eight—stood clutching a battered teddy bear, eyes wide with both fear and something worse—hope. They stared at me like I was a dying sun flickering back to life. Like I was their salvation.

And then… she spoke. "Mom? Are you… awake?"

Mom? The word sliced deeper than a blade between the ribs.

I blinked.

“No—no, no, no, no—what the fuck is this?”

But the words came out a croak. A breath. A weak rasp with no power behind it. My voice wasn’t even mine. It was higher. Softer. Foreign.

What the hell?

I looked around again—really looked this time. The room was a disaster. Toys scattered across the dusty floor. Laundry hanging half-folded on chairs and windowsills.

Crumbs and sticky spills on the corner of a cracked table. A bottle of baby formula knocked over on a torn couch. The ceiling fan above creaked like it was hanging on to its last screw.

A place so mundane, so exhausted, it nearly crushed me.

And yet, those eyes…

Those eyes.

Three sets, now—because the baby looked up too, milk dribbling from her mouth, innocent and unaware of the cosmic tragedy unfolding.

The older girl stepped closer. "Mom… you were asleep for a long time. We didn’t know if you were gonna wake up."

Her voice trembled, but her body stood straight. Like she’d been holding this world together with sheer force of will.

The kind of strength you didn’t teach. The kind that was forced on you by life.

My heart—this heart—ached. Not from fear. Not from confusion. But from something dangerously close to guilt.

What the hell was happening to me? I tried to pry the baby off, my fingers fumbling. Her tiny lips refused.

She whimpered, her brows knitting in protest. And for some reason, some stupid instinct, I stopped.

Why? Why didn’t I just throw her off?

Why didn’t I scream, curse the gods, demand a reset of this madness?

Instead… I cradled her closer. I… shushed her.

Me.

Leon Darrow. The man who turned drug lords into ashes. The man whose name made mercenaries kneel. Now whispering lullabies to a baby girl…