We’re here for “kindness gifts.” I figured if I’m going to sell the idea of Intergalactic Empathy to a bunch of sugar-fueled kindergartners, I might as well go all in. It doesn’t matter if these toys are terrifying. They’re colorful, they make noise, and most of them are nontoxic. Close enough.
“We could be watching the docks,” Garkin grumbles. “You know the League’s been sniffin’ near the Dorsa Lane shipments.”
I pause with a jar of holographic slime in my claws. “We’ve got eyes there. I want Kindness Week airtight. No distractions. You think Ben’s gonna forget the guy who gave him a singing slug plushie?”
Garkin looks unimpressed. “That’s your strategy? Creep your way into fatherhood through bribery and mildly cursed toys?”
I grin. “I prefer the term ‘emotional investment.’”
He groans. “Boss, you’re risking your entire reputation to… impress a preschooler and his ex.”
“No,” I correct him, grabbing a handful of scented sticker packs. “I’m proving I can be part of somethinggood. And if Kairo happens to notice? Even better.”
We arriveat the school with arms full of plastic bags and synthetic joy. The building’s quieter than usual, like it’s bracing for the storm of glitter and well-meaning chaos we’re about to unleash.
The hallway smells like paste, hot paper, and desperation.
I step over a glitter spill by the art room and head toward the multipurpose space where the “Empathy Lounge” will be set up. My shoes stick slightly with every step—someone’s overzealous with the glue again.
Ben’s there already, crouched near a corner reading nook, trying to arrange a circle of mismatched cushions into something resembling intentional design. He turns when he hears me and waves so enthusiastically I think his arm might detach.
“Mr. K! You brought the stuff?”
“Got the whole shipment,” I say, lifting the bags like a conquering hero.
He runs over to grab a bag and peers inside. His eyes light up like it’s harvest festival morning. “These areso weird! I love them!”
“You’ve got good taste.”
We dive into setup. He lines up the alien plushies like a tiny general assembling his troops. I set out the glitter eggs and try not to crush the stack of empathy scrolls with motivational messages likeYOU’RE A STAR, EVEN IF YOU SMELL!
Ben hums while he works. Not a tune I recognize—probably something he made up. It’s off-key and perfect.
He asks me to help hang the “Kindness is Contagious!” banner. I lift him on my shoulders so he can tape one end up high, and he laughs the whole time, his small hands clutching my horns for balance.
Then, just as I lower him back to the ground, he says it.
“I wish you were my dad.”
Soft.
Careless.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My world stops.
I freeze, banner still half-hanging behind me, tape in one hand, time forgotten.
He’s already back to organizing the plushies, chattering about which ones look like they eat feelings and which ones should have names like “Captain Hugface.”
I press a hand to the wall to steady myself.
My breath feels thick, like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. My heart’s hammering. My mouth’s dry.
I can’t answer.
Not truthfully.
