Day 406. 04:00 hours.
The hospital.
Marie's former mansion.
Four delivery rooms.
Four contractions, simultaneous.
Carmen in Room One—the first wife, the first contraction, the first baby.
Marco.
The boy.
The name Paolo had chosen thirty-five days ago in the ultrasound room, when the screen revealed the tiny face and Paolo's voice turned rough yet steady, the name leaving him like a stone dropped into still water.
Carmen was eight days overdue, her belly the heaviest, the labor the hardest.
The first of the four to begin.
The first of the four to scream.
Esperanza in Room Two—the second wife, the second contraction, the second baby.
Mara.
The girl.
The name that had belonged to Paolo's older sister, the sister who had died of leukemia, the sister who never had the chance to become a mother, the sister whose name Paolo had given to his daughter in the ultrasound room while his voice broke and the tears came anyway.
Esperanza was eight days overdue, her belly heavy, the labor hard.
The second of the four to begin.
The second of the four to scream.
Sofia in Room Three—the third wife, the third contraction, the third baby.
Diego.
The boy.
The name Paolo had spoken with the steady voice he used whenever grief was absent from the moment, a name that carried no memory, no mourning.
Just a strong name.
Sofia was eight days overdue, her belly heavy, the labor hard.
The third of the four to begin.
The third of the four to scream.
Lina in Room Four—the fourth wife, the fourth contraction, the fourth baby.
Bella.
The girl.
The softest name of the four, the final name, the one that completed the set.
Lina was eight days overdue, her belly heavy, the labor hard.
The fourth of the four to begin.
The fourth of the four to scream.
Four women. Four rooms. Four contractions. Four babies. All at once.
All on Day 406.
The day the household had been counting down to since the ultrasound.
The day Paolo had been dreading since the ultrasound.
The day the four wives had been carrying toward for eight months.
The day arrived at four in the morning with four screams echoing through the hospital corridor, Paolo Villanueva standing in the hallway with his Sailor Moon doll clutched against his chest, his face as pale as the snow outside.
"Boss." Paolo stammered, the word coming out broken, the way it always did whenever Paolo was overwhelmed, the word that belonged to Jae-min, the word that meant the man Paolo idolized, the man Paolo needed, the man Paolo wanted beside him at four in the morning while his four wives screamed in four different rooms and his four babies fought their way into the world.
The ice-and-snow user from Pasay stood in the hospital corridor clutching a Sailor Moon doll, trying very hard not to faint.
Jae-min was there.
He had been there since the first scream, since Chocho's ears had perked up on the Command Deck, since Mei had pinged the hospital and the hospital reported four simultaneous admissions.
Jae-min had walked from the central mansion to the hospital through the falling snow at three-thirty in the morning because Paolo's four were coming...
...and Paolo would need him.
"Boss." Paolo repeated, his hands trembling.
The Sailor Moon doll—Usagi, the doll Paolo had carried since his sister Mara died, the relic, the anchor, the one thing he always held whenever the world became too much—shook in his grip because Paolo's hands were shaking.
Because Paolo was about to become a father.
Four times.
In one day.
The ice and snow user who could freeze a river and raise a wall of ice was shaking in a hospital corridor because the ice did not help with this.
The ice did not help with four wives screaming.
The ice did not help with the fact that, in the next few hours, Paolo was going to meet his four children, and the four children were going to meet their father.
The father was terrified.
"I'm here." Jae-min reassured, his hand settling on Paolo's shoulder, the same hand that had held Elaine's through twelve hours of labor, the same hand that had let Eun-hae wrap tiny fingers around it in the nursery, now resting on the shoulder of a twenty-year-old ice and snow user who was about to become a father four times and who needed it the way Paolo had always needed it.
"I'm here, Paolo." Jae-min assured, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze.
"Breathe." Jae-min instructed, his dark eyes never leaving Paolo.
"Breathing." Paolo confirmed, though the breathing was not breathing.
The breathing was hyperventilation, the sound of a man who had rehearsed this moment in his head for eight months only to discover that rehearsal meant nothing because rehearsal never included four women screaming in four different rooms.
The sound was...
A lot.
The sound was a fucking lot.
"Paolo." Jae-min commanded, his voice dropping into the captain's register, the voice that had ended wars, commanded Frames, and redirected fireballs, the voice Paolo had followed since the day they met and would have followed into a frozen sea.
"Sit down."
"Sit—" Paolo started, his eyes darting from one delivery-room door to another.
"Sit down." Jae-min repeated, guiding Paolo toward the corridor chair, the same chair Haitao had occupied eight days earlier while waiting for Elena, the same chair where the household had waited through three births and would now wait through four more.
"Sit." Jae-min ordered, easing Paolo into the seat.
"Breathe." Jae-min instructed, keeping one hand on Paolo's shoulder.
"Hold the doll." Jae-min urged, nodding toward the Sailor Moon plush clutched against Paolo's chest.
"The wives are in good hands." Jae-min reassured, his voice steady.
"The nurses are with them." Jae-min continued calmly.
"Alessia is supervising." Jae-min reminded, letting the certainty settle.
"You are not delivering these babies." Jae-min declared, locking eyes with Paolo.
"You are waiting." Jae-min emphasized, refusing to let Paolo spiral.
"Waiting is the job." Jae-min stated with quiet authority.
"Do the job." Jae-min concluded, squeezing Paolo's shoulder one last time.
"Waiting is the job." Paolo repeated, and the repetition was the repetition of a man who needed an anchor, the repetition of a man who had been given a task by the man he idolized, the repetition that was the closest thing to calm Paolo would achieve in the next eight hours.
"Waiting is the job." Jae-min confirmed, squeezing Paolo's shoulder once. "Hold the doll. Breathe. I'll be here."
"You'll be here." Paolo confirmed, and his grip on the Sailor Moon doll tightened, and the shaking slowed — not stopped, but slowed, because the boss was here and the boss had told him to sit and breathe and hold the doll and the boss was the anchor and the anchor held.
The household arrived.
They arrived the way the household always arrived — in pieces, in the snow, in the dark, the household that had been through three births and was now walking into four.
Marie arrived first with Little Jae-min — thirty-nine days old, ten point nine pounds, Rico's son, sleeping through the chaos the way he slept through everything.
Marie took one look at Paolo in the corridor chair and took the chair beside him, because Marie was the auntie and the auntie had held the first child and the auntie knew what the corridor was like.
Rico arrived behind Marie, his hand on her shoulder, the man who had held the wall and held his wife and held his son and was now standing in a hospital corridor for the fourth time in thirty-nine days because the household kept having babies and the uncle kept showing up because that was what uncles did.
Elaine arrived with Elena — eight days old, three point two kilograms, Jae-min's daughter, the spy's child, sleeping in Elaine's arms.
Elaine walked past Paolo and touched his shoulder as she passed — the spy's touch, brief and warm, the touch of a woman who had been in a delivery room eight days ago and who knew what the four women in the four rooms were going through.
"He's shaking. The doll. The glasses. The boy who arrived with nothing and is about to have everything." Elaine observed silently, filing the moment the way she filed everything — permanently, non-deletably, the spy's brain cataloging Paolo's terror with the clinical precision of a woman who understood terror because she had felt it eight days ago in the same hospital.
Hua arrived with Eun-hae — eighteen days old, three point six kilograms, sleeping in the sling — and Hua took one look at the four delivery room doors, and her jaw tightened because Hua knew what could go wrong in a delivery room, Hua knew it in her body, in the fifteen minutes of clinical death, in the superhuman strength that had come back with her.
Hua walked to the nearest door — Room One, Carmen — and stood outside it and waited, because Hua was Hua and Hua did not stop for death or for life or for anything, and if Carmen needed her, Hua would be there.
Alessia was already inside — the doctor, the fundamental, the Life Sense humming, the woman who had supervised Eun-hae's birth and Elena's birth and was now supervising four births simultaneously, moving between rooms, the glow shifting between clinical white and warm amber as she checked dilations and monitored heartbeats and counted contractions.
The math of four labors progressing at four different rates, the math of which wife was closest, the math of which room she needed to be in at which moment — the math that was the doctor's math and the doctor's math was the math that kept the women alive.
Ji-yoo arrived with the ramyeon.
Of course Ji-yoo arrived with the ramyeon.
Ji-yoo was one hundred and sixty-three days from delivering the tenth — Min-joo's baby — and the craving did not respect quadruple births or hospital corridors or the fact that four women were screaming in four rooms.
Ji-yoo sat on the floor in the corridor, cross-legged, the ramyeon bowl in her lap, the chopsticks moving, the dark eyes sharp, and ate, because the ramyeon was the constant and the ramyeon was the anchor and the ramyeon was — Ji-yoo.
"Oppa." Ji-yoo noted between bites, her dark eyes on Paolo in the corridor chair, the chopsticks pausing. "He's shaking."
"He's shaking." Jae-min confirmed, his hand still on Paolo's shoulder.
"He's holding the Sailor Moon doll." Ji-yoo observed, tilting her head, studying Paolo the way she studied everything — with the forensic precision of a twin who could read people the way other people read books. "He's holding it the way you hold a rifle. Like it's going to save his life."
"The doll is his sister." Jae-min murmured, the voice that was not for the corridor but for the twin, the voice that carried the explanation Paolo would not give. "The doll was his sister's. Mara. The one who died of leukemia. Paolo carries it because the doll is his sister's. The doll is the anchor."
"The doll is the anchor." Ji-yoo repeated, and the ramyeon paused, the chopsticks still, the dark eyes softening the way they softened when the twin-bond carried something that was not humor but grief. "The daughter in Room Two. Mara. Named after the sister."
"Named after the sister." Jae-min confirmed.
"He's going to meet his sister again." Ji-yoo realized, and the ramyeon was forgotten, the bowl resting in her lap. "Not the same sister. But the same name. The name lives. The name — oppa. He's going to cry."
"He's going to cry." Jae-min confirmed.
"He's going to cry the way you cried." Ji-yoo pressed, and the observation was not mockery but recognition, the recognition of a twin who had watched her brother's eyes go bright in a delivery room eight days ago. "The way you cried when Elena was born. The way you cried when Eun-hae was born. The way you cry when the names become real. He's going to cry when Mara is born. Because Mara is the sister. And the sister is — back."
"Back." Jae-min confirmed, and his hand tightened on Paolo's shoulder — the hand that was not just the boss's hand now but the hand of a man who understood what was about to happen in Room Two, the hand that knew what a name could carry.
Yue arrived — silent, the jian on her hip, the marble eyes calm, the swordswoman who appeared and struck and vanished between blinks now standing in a hospital corridor for the fourth time because the household kept having babies and the woman with the marble eyes kept showing up because that was what family did.
Yue took a position at the end of the corridor, the sentinel, the guard, the woman who would hold the interior if the world tried to interrupt the births.
Mark Jordan arrived — the engineer, the man who had built the HERACLES Frames and was now standing in a hospital corridor at four in the morning because the household was having babies and the engineer showed up because that was what household meant.
Mark Jordan took a position by the door, the amber eyes scanning the perimeter.
Gabby arrived — Ji-yoo's apprentice, the gravity user, the REAPER pilot — and took a position by Room Four, Lina, the last wife, the last baby, Bella, and stood guard because Gabby was the proxy and the proxy guarded.
"He's been in this corridor since three-thirty. He walked here in the snow. For Paolo. For a boy with a Sailor Moon doll and four pregnant wives. He walked through minus seventy at three-thirty in the morning because the boy needed him." Gabby catalogued from her position by Room Four, her dark eyes tracking Jae-min's silhouette in the corridor light, the heat climbing her neck in that traitorous way that happened every time she watched him be the man he was. "File it. The way he stands behind Paolo. The hand on the shoulder. The captain who is also the father who is also the boss who is also — everything. Permanent."
Min-joo arrived — the Asura captain, the shadow user, Ji-yoo's partner, the father of the tenth — and sat beside Ji-yoo on the corridor floor and shared the ramyeon because the ramyeon was shared and the sharing was the partnership.
Haitao arrived — the restored captain, the grandfather — and took a chair and waited because waiting was the job and the grandfather knew the job.
James Panganiban stood behind Haitao's chair, the vice captain, because that was what vice captains did.
And Paolo sat in the corridor chair and held the Sailor Moon doll and shook and breathed and waited, because the boss had told him to wait and waiting was the job and the four women in the four rooms were his wives and the four babies were his children and the four names — Marco, Mara, Diego, Bella — were about to become real.
— • • • —
Day 406. 06:14 hours.
Room One.
The first cry.
Marco.
Three point four kilograms. Fifty-one centimeters. The firstborn of the four. Carmen's son. Paolo's son. The boy.
Paolo was in the room because Alessia had guided him there when the dilation hit ten, because the boss had told him to go, because the waiting was over for Room One and the waiting had become the being-present.
Paolo stood beside Carmen's bed, the Sailor Moon doll in one hand, Carmen's hand in the other, and the ice and snow user who could freeze a river was crying — the tears freezing on his cheeks because the ice did not stop for joy, the ice happened anyway, the tears and the ice both, because Paolo was Paolo and Paolo did not do anything halfway.
"Marco." Paolo whispered, and the name came out broken — the name that was thirty-five days old, the name that had been a sound in the ultrasound room and was now a pair of lungs crying. "Marco. Marco Villanueva. I'm — I'm your father."
"You're his father." Carmen confirmed from the bed, the sweat and the tears and the exhaustion and the joy, the wife who had carried the boy for eight months and had pushed him into the world at six-fourteen in the morning while her husband held her hand and a Sailor Moon doll and cried. "Paolo. You're his father."
Paolo looked up, the dark eyes finding Jae-min in the doorway, the eyes wet, the tears freezing on his cheeks.
"Boss." Paolo choked, his voice cracking, the Sailor Moon doll clutched against his chest. "He's here. Marco's here."
"He's here." Jae-min confirmed from the doorway, and the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile, the rare smile, the one that the household earned by being themselves. "He's here, Paolo. You did it."
"I did it." Paolo breathed, and the tears froze, and the Sailor Moon doll was in one hand, and Carmen's hand was in the other, and Marco was on Carmen's chest, three point four kilograms of dark hair and wrinkled face and clenched fists and the first of the four.
One down.
Three to go.
— • • • —
Day 406. 07:31 hours.
Room Two.
The second cry.
Mara.
Three point zero kilograms. Forty-nine centimeters. The secondborn of the four. Esperanza's daughter. Paolo's daughter. The girl was named after her sister.
Paolo walked into Room Two and the walk was different from the walk into Room One — the walk into Room Two was the walk into the name, the name that was the sister, the name that was Mara, and the walk was heavy with the weight of a sister who had died of leukemia and a daughter who was about to be born and the same name on both of them.
Paolo was the bridge.
Paolo carried the sister's name in his memory and was about to give it to his daughter, and the giving was the grief and the defiance and the love all at once.
Esperanza was on the bed, the labor at its peak, the wife who was bringing the sister back.
Paolo took her hand, Sailor Moon doll clutched tight in his other, plastic worn smooth and hair faded, his sister's doll, Mara's doll, the one he'd carried since she died, now in the room when her name became his daughter's.
"Push." Alessia instructed, her glow shifting to clinical white as she monitored the heartbeat.
Esperanza pushed, and the cry came — high, thin, the sound of a pair of lungs that had never breathed air discovering that air was cold and loud and full of the smell of antiseptic and the sound of a father crying.
"Mara." Paolo breathed, and the name came out not broken but whole — the name that was his sister's name, the name that was his daughter's name, the name that was the same, and the name was a prayer and a memorial and a resurrection all at once. "Mara. Mara Villanueva. I'm — I'm your father. And you're — you're my sister. You're both. You're the same name. You're —"
He could not finish.
The tears came, and the tears froze, and the Sailor Moon doll was in his hand, and the daughter was on Esperanza's chest, and the daughter was Mara, and the sister was Mara, and the name was Mara, and the name lived.
The name lived again — the name that had died with the sister in a hospital bed in Pasay before the freeze, the name that was now crying in a hospital bed in Manila after the freeze, the name that death had tried to take and that Paolo had given to his daughter because the name did not belong to death, the name belonged to the living.
"Mara." Esperanza whispered from the bed, her hand finding Paolo's, the wife who had carried the daughter for eight months, the wife who had known the name was his sister's name and had carried the grief and the love and the defiance in her belly for eight months. "Mara. Our daughter. Your sister. The same name."
"The same name." Paolo confirmed, and the tears froze, and the daughter was on the chest, three point zero kilograms of dark hair and wrinkled face and the name that was the sister's, the name that was alive.
"The name lives. The sister lives. Not the same sister — but the same name, and the name is the bridge, and the bridge is the boy with the doll, and the boy is a father now, and the father is crying, and the tears are freezing on his face because the ice does not stop for grief and the ice does not stop for joy and the boy is both at once." Jae-min observed from the doorway, his dark eyes bright, the brightness that was the cry the void captain did not shed, four names becoming real, and one of them was a ghost's name given to a living girl, and the brightness was — a lot.
Two down.
Two to go.
— • • • —
Day 406. 09:48 hours.
Room Three.
The third cry.
Diego.
Three point two kilograms. Fifty centimeters. The thirdborn of the four. Sofia's son. Paolo's son. The boy.
Paolo walked into Room Three with the Sailor Moon doll and the tears that had not stopped freezing on his cheeks since six-fourteen and the hand that had held Carmen's hand and Esperanza's hand and was now reaching for Sofia's.
The hand was steady now, steadier than it had been, because two births had taught the hands what to do, and the hands learned fast because Paolo was Paolo.
Sofia was on the bed, the labor at its peak, the wife who was the third, and Sofia's dark eyes were fierce because Sofia was fierce — Sofia was the wife who had been a fisherman's daughter before the freeze and who had survived the freeze by being harder than the freeze, and the labor was hard and Sofia was harder.
"Push." Alessia commanded, her glow steady.
Sofia pushed, and the baby came, and the cry came.
"Diego." Paolo declared, and the name came out steady — the name that was just a name, the name that was not the sister's name, the name that was not the grief, the name that was the boy's name, the strong name. "Diego. Diego Villanueva. I'm your father."
"You're his father." Sofia confirmed from the bed, the fierceness softening into the warmth that Sofia showed only to Paolo and only to the children. "Paolo. You're his father."
Paolo looked up, the dark eyes finding Jae-min in the doorway again, the eyes wet but steady, the tears still freezing but the shaking stopped.
"Boss." Paolo announced, his voice rough but firm. "Three. Three down. One to go."
"One to go." Jae-min confirmed, nodding once. "Bella. Room Four. Lina."
"Bella." Paolo confirmed, and the name was the last name, the name that was soft, the name that completed the set, and the set was almost complete, and the completion was one room away.
Three down.
One to go.
— • • • —
Day 406. 11:23 hours.
Room Four.
The fourth cry.
Bella.
Two point nine kilograms. Forty-eight centimeters. The lastborn of the four. Lina's daughter. Paolo's daughter. The girl. The last.
Paolo walked into Room Four with the Sailor Moon doll and the tears and the hand that had held three hands and was now reaching for the fourth.
The walk was the last, the walk that would complete the four, the walk that would make Paolo a father four times in one morning, and the walk was heavy and light at the same time — heavy with the weight of four children and light with the lightness of a man who was about to be done, about to have all four, about to have the set.
Lina was on the bed, the labor at its peak, the wife who was the fourth, the wife who was the last.
Lina was the youngest of the four wives, the quietest, the one who had said the least during the eight months of pregnancy, the one who had carried Bella with the particular stillness of a woman who was paying attention to everything and saying nothing.
"Push." Alessia instructed, her glow warm amber now, the doctor steady after hours of moving between rooms.
Lina pushed, and the cry came — high, thin, the last cry, the fourth cry, the sound of the last pair of lungs discovering air — and the cry was Bella, and Bella was the last, and the last was here.
"Bella." Paolo murmured, and the name came out soft, the way the name was meant to come out, the soft name, the last name, the name that completed the set. "Bella. Bella Villanueva. I'm — I'm your father. You're the last. You're the fourth. You're —"
He stopped.
Because the set was complete.
Four children. Four rooms. Four names. Marco. Mara. Diego. Bella. All here. All crying. All alive.
All Villanueva.
All — his.
Paolo sat on the edge of Lina's bed, the Sailor Moon doll in his lap, the doll that was Mara's, the doll that was the sister's, and the doll was in the lap of the father who had just become a father four times.
The father was crying, the tears freezing on his cheeks, the ice and snow user from Pasay who had arrived at the compound with a Sailor Moon doll and cracked glasses and a dead sister's memory, and who was now sitting in a hospital room with four children in four rooms and the sister's name on his daughter's face and the sister's doll in his lap.
The set was complete, and the completion was — everything.
"Boss." Paolo whispered, and the word was the word of the father, the word that was the last word Paolo would say as a man who was not a father, because after this word Paolo was a father, Paolo was four-times-a-father. "Boss. They're here. All four. They're here."
"They're here." Jae-min confirmed from the doorway, and the void captain's eyes were bright, the brightness that was the cry the void captain did not shed, the brightness that came when the names became real. Four names had just become real in one morning. "They're here, Paolo. All four. You did it."
"I did it." Paolo breathed, and the tears froze, and the Sailor Moon doll was in his lap, and the four children were in four rooms, and the ice and snow user who had been a boy eight months ago was a father now, four times, and the father was — Paolo.
And Paolo was enough.
— • • • —
Day 406. 14:00 hours.
The hospital.
The corridor.
The household gathered in the corridor the way the household gathered after every birth — in pieces, in the warmth, in the particular lightness of people who had been holding their breath and could now exhale.
Four babies.
Four mothers.
Four names.
One morning.
The household that had been through three births in thirty-nine days had just been through four in one morning, and the household was tired and happy and full.
The corridor was full of the household and the children and the snow falling against the windows and the warmth of the geothermal heating and the smell of Hua's rice that someone had brought from the central mansion because the household ate even when the household was having four babies — especially when the household was having four babies.
Paolo sat in the corridor chair, the same chair where he had shaken at four in the morning, and the shaking was gone now, replaced by the particular stillness of a man who had been through the most intense morning of his life and was now sitting in the aftermath holding his Sailor Moon doll and looking at nothing and processing everything.
"Boss." Paolo murmured, his voice quiet, the word that meant the man Paolo idolized and the man Paolo needed in the corridor at two in the afternoon when the four children were in four rooms, and the four mothers were sleeping. "Boss. I'm a father."
"You're a father." Jae-min confirmed from the chair beside him, the void captain who had been there since four in the morning, who had stood in four doorways, who had watched four names become real. "Four times. Marco. Mara. Diego. Bella. You're a father four times."
"Four times." Paolo repeated, and the nothing in his eyes became something — the something that was wonder, the particular wonder of a man who had just met his four children and was realizing, slowly, that the four children were his, that the four children were forever. "Four times. Boss. I — I have four kids."
"You have four kids." Jae-min confirmed.
"I have four kids and a Sailor Moon doll." Paolo declared, and the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile, the first smile since the shaking, the smile that meant the processing was done, and the man was back. "And four wives. And a compound. And a wall. And a boss who is very proud of me."
"Proud." Paolo whispered, and the word hit him the way the word always hit him — the word that was the boss's approval, the word that Paolo had been chasing since the day he arrived, the word that was enough. "Boss. You're — proud."
"I'm proud." Jae-min confirmed, his voice dropping to the register that was not the captain's but the brother's, the register that Paolo had earned by being irredeemably himself for eight months. "Now go to sleep. You've been up since four. The wives are sleeping. The babies are sleeping. You sleep. That's an order."
"An order." Paolo confirmed, and the smile became the real smile, small and tired and warm, the smile of a man who had been given permission to sleep by the man he idolized. Paolo stood, the Sailor Moon doll in his hand, and walked toward the room where Carmen was sleeping with Marco, and the walk was the walk of a father going to sleep beside his wife and his son.
The household watched him go.
"Four kids." Ji-yoo observed from the corridor floor, the ramyeon finished, the bowl empty, the dark eyes tracking Paolo's retreating back. "Oppa. He has four kids. The boy who arrived with a Sailor Moon doll and cracked glasses has four kids. The boy who idolizes you has four kids. The boy is — a father. Four times."
"Four times." Jae-min confirmed.
"We're old." Ji-yoo declared, and the words came out with the particular weight of a twin who had just watched a boy younger than her become a father four times while she was still one hundred and sixty-three days from her first. "Oppa. We're old. The boy who was a kid is a father. We're — old."
"We're thirty-four." Jae-min countered, his eyebrow rising.
"Old." Ji-yoo repeated, gesturing with the empty chopsticks. "Thirty-four is old. Thirty-four is — Paolo has four kids and I have ramyeon and a kicking baby and no kids. Thirty-four is — oppa. I want my baby."
"Soon." Jae-min promised, his voice dropping to the twin's register, the word that was not the captain's word but the brother's word. "Soon. One hundred and sixty-three days. The baby comes. Min-joo is ready. You're ready. The ramyeon is — ready."
"The ramyeon is ready." Ji-yoo confirmed, and the dark eyes went soft, the way they went soft when the twin-bond carried the love and the anticipation and the one hundred and sixty-three days that stood between her and the baby. "One hundred and sixty-three days. The baby. Min-joo's baby. Our baby."
"Our baby." Min-joo confirmed from beside her, his hand finding hers, the shadow user, the Asura captain, the man who had been sitting on the corridor floor eating ramyeon and waiting because waiting was the job. "One hundred and sixty-three days. I'm counting."
"You're counting." Ji-yoo realized, her dark eyes finding his, the partner's eyes meeting.
"I'm counting the days." Min-joo confirmed, squeezing her hand. "The way your brother counted your shin-kicks. Permanent. Non-deletable. The file is one hundred and sixty-three days long and getting shorter."
"Getting shorter." Ji-yoo confirmed, and the ramyeon bowl was empty and the corridor was warm and the household was around her and the twin was beside her and the partner was beside her and the baby was one hundred and sixty-three days away and the days were counting down and the counting held.
The snow fell against the hospital windows.
The geothermal warmth held.
The compound held.
The ten children — seven born now, three growing — held.
Little Jae-min, thirty-nine days old, in Marie's arms.
Eun-hae, eighteen days old, in Hua's sling.
Elena, eight days old, in Elaine's arms.
Marco, hours old, in Room One.
Mara, hours old, in Room Two.
Diego, hours old, in Room Three.
Bella, hours old, in Room Four.
Jin, seventy-six days from birth, in Alessia's belly.
The tenth, one hundred and sixty-three days from birth, in Ji-yoo's belly.
The ten.
Seven born.
Three growing.
The reason for everything, behind the wall, growing in the peace that the household had purchased with presence instead of blood, growing in the hospital where four babies had just been born in one morning because a boy with a Sailor Moon doll had become a father four times and the father was enough and the father was — Paolo.
And Paolo was enough.
And the household held. And the snow fell. And Olympus grew. And the children — the ten, the reason, the everything — grew.
Forever. For the ten. For the reason.
For everything.