In the shadowy underbelly of Louisiana politics, Dario Cross walks a razor's edge.
A master assassin bound by ancient oaths to the Fraternity, he now finds himself the reluctant sword of a corrupt governor with a racist past.
Cross knows he's playing a dangerous game, taking blood money from a man who once courted the KKK.
But in this deadly dance of power, one wrong move—or one wrong word—could turn the hunter into the hunted.
Even though Cross's job was considered illegal and immoral at worst, that's just how the cookie crumbles.
Killing was all he knew, especially considering his mother, a drug addict, had sold him to the Fraternity as a child, not even caring what they would do to him.
This dark origin made the things he did just easier.
Dario's fingers danced across the polished surface of his custom-made rifle, muscle memory taking over as he assembled it with practiced ease.
The weight of the weapon in his hands was more familiar than any embrace he'd ever known.
As he peered through the scope, adjusting it with micro-movements, his mind drifted to the target file he'd memorized and burned.
Another corrupt official, another loose end for the governor to tie up.
Cross almost smiled at the irony. Here he was, cleaning up Foster's messes, while the man himself had once courted the very people who would see Cross as less than human.
The Fraternity had molded him into the perfect instrument of death, honing his skills and burying his conscience beneath layers of duty and detachment.
Yet, as he settled into position, waiting for his mark to appear, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps?—ghosted across his mind.
He pushed it aside. In this world of shadows and secrets, hesitation meant death.
And if there was one thing Dario Cross excelled at, it was survival.
He'd outlived his mother's betrayal, the Fraternity's brutal training, and countless targets.
He'd be damned if he'd let a corrupt governor with a questionable past be his undoing.
As the target's car pulled into view, Cross took a deep breath.
At this moment, he wasn't a pawn in someone else's game. He was the harbinger of fate, the ultimate arbiter.
And as his finger tensed on the trigger, he knew that in this deadly dance, he was still calling the shots—at least for now.
Cross stepped into the hospital, the sterile environment a stark contrast to the world he usually inhabited.
The weight of his recent job still clung to him like a shadow, but as he approached the baby nursery, a different kind of tension filled his chest.
Through the glass, he spotted her—his newborn daughter.
The sight of her tiny form, swaddled in a soft pink blanket, made his breath catch.
Without hesitation, he entered the nursery, his usual predatory grace giving way to an almost reverent caution as he approached her crib.
Gently, he lifted the small bundle into his arms.
A smile, rare and genuine, softened his features as he gazed down at her sleeping face.
In this moment, the irony wasn't lost on him. Here he was, a man who had taken countless lives, now cradling a new one he had helped create.
"Out of all the things in this world," he thought, "I'm happy that I created life instead of taking it away."
His reverie was interrupted by the need to find Maria. Spotting a doctor nearby, he called out, "Say, doc, where is Maria?"
The doctor's face fell, and Cross felt a chill run down his spine before the man even spoke.
"Unfortunately, Miss Fraser died during childbirth," the doctor said softly. "But she told us to contact you right after the baby was born so you can take her home."
The news hit Cross like a physical blow.
He and Maria had never really gotten along, their relationship little more than a one-night stand that had unexpected consequences.
But he had been willing to try, to be the father figure this child needed—something he never had himself.
A complex mix of emotions swirled within him. Sadness for Maria's death, regret for the possibilities now lost, and a touch of bitterness.
"She was a bitch," he thought to himself, remembering how she had threatened to put him on child support despite his desire to be present, "but... she didn't deserve this."
Looking down at his daughter's peaceful face, Cross felt a fierce surge of protectiveness.
His world of shadows and violence seemed far away, yet closer than ever.
He knew at that moment that everything had changed. The assassin, the member of the Fraternity, the reluctant pawn in a corrupt governor's game—none of that mattered now. He was a father.
"Looks like it's just you and me, little one," he whispered to the sleeping infant.
The path ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges he'd never faced before.
But as he held his daughter close, Dario Cross made a silent vow.
He would find a way to balance his dangerous life with his new role as a father.
He would give this child the love and protection he never had, no matter the cost.
As he prepared to take his daughter home, Cross knew that his life had irrevocably changed.
The game he'd been playing had new stakes now, and failure was not an option.
With one last look at the hospital room, he stepped out into the night, ready to face a future he never expected—one where his deadliest weapon might just be his love for this tiny, innocent life in his arms.
Months passed, and Cross found himself walking a tightrope between his deadly profession and his new role as a father.
During the day, he continued his work, his hands still steady on the trigger, his mind still sharp in the game of death.
But his thoughts would often drift to the small apartment where his daughter slept, watched over by a carefully vetted babysitter.
Nights became sacred. As soon as he'd cross the threshold, he'd shed the persona of the assassin and become simply a father.
He'd scoop up his little girl, marveling at how she seemed to grow with each passing day.
But a pang of sadness would hit him as he noticed her drooping eyelids, her tiny body already yearning for sleep just as he arrived home.
One evening, as Cross cradled his daughter, singing softly to her in the dim light of her nursery, a knock at the door broke the peaceful moment.
He tensed, old instincts kicking in, before recognizing the pattern of the knock.
Byron, his right-hand man from the Fraternity.
Carefully laying the baby in her crib, Cross moved to the door, opening it with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
Byron's face was grim as he spoke. "Mr. Cross, it's time for the chosen selection."
The words hung heavy in the air. The chosen selection—a euphemism for the Fraternity's most controversial practice.
Over 100 infant children, collected and raised from birth to become the next generation of elite assassins.
Cross had been through it himself, though he'd been an exception—abandoned, not chosen.
"I know," Cross replied, his voice low. "I'll see if I can get the governor to do the usual cover-up and provide us the children."
Byron's eyes drifted past Cross, landing on the crib visible in the other room. "Are you going to put your daughter in the program?"
The question hit Cross like a physical blow. He felt a surge of anger, his eyes turning cold as he stared at Byron.
"Of course not," he said, his voice laced with barely contained fury. "I'm not willing to put my baby girl in that hell hole."
But even as the words left his mouth, a conflicting thought arose.
Cross's gaze softened as he looked back at his sleeping daughter. "But then again..." he murmured, gently stroking her cheek, "I have been thinking about giving her away."
The admission felt like a betrayal, but he pressed on. "As much as I love her—and God, I do love her so much—this schedule I have is just not good for her. Hell, most of the day I'm gone. I only get to play with her at night when she's already sleepy. I can't keep doing that to her."
The weight of his words settled in the room. Cross felt torn between his love for his daughter and the harsh reality of his life.
He knew the dangers that surrounded him, the enemies he'd made. Every moment she spent in his care was a moment she could be used against him.
Byron remained silent, understanding the gravity of Cross's dilemma. After a long moment, he spoke. "Whatever you decide, the Fraternity will support you. But remember, Cross, once you make this choice, there's no going back."
Cross nodded, his eyes never leaving his daughter's sleeping form.
The chosen selection loomed ahead, a grim reminder of the world he inhabited.
As Byron left, Cross remained by the crib, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and impossible choices.
He had faced death countless times, and had dealt it out just as often.
But this—the decision of his daughter's fate—was the hardest challenge he'd ever encountered.
As the night deepened, Dario Cross stood vigil over his sleeping child, torn between the love of a father and the harsh realities of the life he'd chosen.
One week later, Cross found himself standing in a nondescript building, his heart heavier than it had ever been.
The decision to give away his daughter had been agonizing, but he's convinced himself it was for the best.
For the first time since his own mother had abandoned him, Cross felt tears threatening to spill.
But assassins never cry. He pushed the emotions down, quickly wiping away the few rebellious tears that escaped.
As he finished the paperwork, ready to make a quick exit, a worker at the front desk called out to him. "Wait, sir! Wouldn't you like to name her? Her paperwork says she didn't have a name after leaving the hospital."
Cross paused, a wave of guilt washing over him. He'd never even named his own daughter.
After a few minutes of contemplation, he spoke softly, "Her name is Lishcelle. You can leave her last name to whoever adopts her."
A small smile tugged at his lips, a bittersweet feeling of happiness that he'd at least given her this one thing before leaving her behind.
Hours later, Cross found himself in the opulent surroundings of the governor's mansion.
The contrast between the sterile adoption agency and the lavish decor was stark, a reminder of the two worlds he straddled.
Governor Mike Foster looked uneasy as Cross made his request. "Do you really need all of these children for this thing? You're asking quite a lot to put under the rug here."
Cross's face remained impassive. "You requested the Fraternity to do all of your dirty work. This is to replenish our ranks. This is the least you can do."
Foster couldn't argue with that logic. The thought of crossing the Fraternity sent a chill down his spine.
They could probably decimate the entire city's police force if they wanted to.
"Okay, I'll give you the children," Foster conceded, reaching for the necessary paperwork. "Just make sure you kill any reporters who get too close to figuring out what's going on."
"Don't worry," Cross assured him, his voice cold and professional. "As the head, I'll make sure everything stays under wraps. Just do me one little favor."
He leaned in, his eyes boring into Foster's. "That place on the east side of Baton Rouge, the Foster agency? Stay away from the children there. My little girl, Lishcelle, is there. I want her far away from this, got it?" His tone was calm but carried an unmistakable threat.
Foster nodded quickly, understanding the implied consequences if he were to disregard this request.
As Cross left the governor's mansion, he felt a strange mix of emotions.
He'd secured the children for the Fraternity's chosen selection, fulfilling his duty.
But he'd also taken steps to protect Lishcelle, keeping her away from the life that had been forced upon him.
Walking into the night, Cross couldn't help but wonder about the future.
Would Lishcelle find a loving family? Would she ever know about her real father, the assassin who gave her up to protect her?
And what of the children who would be taken for the Fraternity's program?
The weight of his choices hung heavy on him. He was a man caught between worlds - the deadly realm of the Fraternity and the normal life he'd glimpsed with his daughter.
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As he disappeared into the shadows, Dario Cross knew that his path forward would be more complex than ever before.
The assassin had become a father, and now, even as he returned to his life of secrets and violence, a part of him would always be with that little girl he'd named Lishcelle.
After his meeting with Governor Foster, Cross felt the weight of his decisions bearing down on him.
He needed a drink, and not just any drink. He needed the sanctuary and anonymity that only the International Hotel could provide.
Without hesitation, he directed his car towards the outskirts of Baton Rouge, where the famous establishment stood.
As Cross approached the grand, antebellum-style structure of the Baton Rouge International Hotel, he felt a familiar sense of both comfort and unease wash over him.
The ornate ironwork balconies and towering columns loomed against the twilight sky, a stark contrast to the surrounding bayou.
He handed his keys to the valet, a young man with knowing eyes that belied his age.
The lobby was a study in opulence, with crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the marble floors.
Cross nodded to the concierge, who recognized him immediately. No words were exchanged; none were needed.
Making his way to the bar, Cross couldn't help but feel the weight of the hotel's history.
He knew that beneath the polished surfaces and genteel Southern charm lay a labyrinth of secrets - hidden passages and underground chambers that had seen countless clandestine meetings and deals struck in shadow.
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur of conversations in various languages.
Cross took a seat at the far end, where he could observe the room while keeping his back to the wall - old habits die hard.
"Sazerac," he muttered to the bartender, a tall, slender woman with eyes that seemed to glow in the low light.
She nodded, her movements fluid and practiced as she prepared the classic New Orleans cocktail.
As he sipped his drink, Cross let his eyes wander.
He spotted faces he recognized from various corners of the underworld - a Japanese Yakuza boss, a Russian arms dealer, and even a few fellow assassins from rival organizations.
Yet here, in the neutral territory of the International Hotel, they all coexisted in an uneasy peace.
The air was thick with more than just cigar smoke and whispered deals.
There was an undercurrent of something... else. Cross had always been aware of the hotel's connection to the local occult practices, but tonight it felt more palpable than ever.
Perhaps it was his own tumultuous emotions making him more sensitive to the arcane energies that were said to permeate the place.
From the corner of his eye, Cross caught a glimpse of a figure moving through the crowd - the enigmatic Bayou King.
The hotel's manager moved with a quiet authority, his presence causing a ripple of deference among even the most hardened criminals.
Cross had never spoken directly to the Bayou King, but he'd heard the rumors of his mystical powers and ruthless protection of the hotel's neutrality.
As he nursed his Sazerac, Cross found his thoughts drifting back to Lishcelle.
He wondered if he'd made the right choice, if she would be safe, if she would ever know the truth about her father.
The weight of his decision pressed down on him, heavier than any weapon he'd ever carried.
But here, in the International Hotel, surrounded by the world's most dangerous individuals and whispers of supernatural forces, Cross allowed himself a moment of vulnerability.
In this strange oasis of neutrality, where the lines between the mundane and the mystical blurred, he could acknowledge the pain of his choice without fear of showing weakness.
As the night wore on, Cross ordered another drink, letting the unique atmosphere of the Baton Rouge International Hotel wash over him.
Tomorrow, he would return to his life as an assassin, to the brutal world of the Fraternity.
But for now, in this liminal space between worlds, Dario Cross allowed himself to simply be a man - a father grappling with an impossible choice in a world that offered no easy answers.
As Cross nursed his second Sazerac, lost in thoughts of Lishcelle and the weight of his recent decisions, a familiar presence approached.
Without looking up, Cross knew it was Cormac O'Connor, the assistant manager of the International Hotel and one of the few people he considered a friend in this shadowy world.
"Dario," Cormac said, his Nigerian accent softening the edges of the name. "Mind if I join you?"
Cross gestured to the empty stool beside him, a silent invitation.
Cormac sat down, his movements smooth and controlled, betraying his hidden capabilities beneath the polished exterior of a hotel manager.
"Rough day?" Cormac asked, signaling the bartender for his usual drink.
Cross let out a humorless chuckle. "You could say that."
Cormac nodded, understanding the weight behind those simple words.
He was one of the few people who knew about Lishcelle, about the impossible choice Cross had made.
"I heard about the chosen selection," Cormac said quietly, his voice barely audible above the low hum of the bar. "I assume everything is... taken care of?"
Cross nodded, taking another sip of his drink. "The governor's on board. It'll happen soon."
A moment of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken understanding.
Cormac, ever the professional, rarely showed emotion or personal investment in the affairs of the hotel's guests.
But with Cross, there was a different dynamic, a friendship forged in the crucible of shared danger and mutual respect.
"You did what you thought was best," Cormac said finally, his voice gentle but firm. "For her."
Cross looked up, meeting Cormac's steady gaze. In those dark eyes, he saw no judgment, only understanding and a hint of concern.
"Did I?" Cross asked, the question hanging in the air between them.
Cormac didn't immediately answer. Instead, he took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the room out of habit, always alert for potential threats or disturbances.
"The world we live in," Cormac began, choosing his words carefully, "it's not kind to innocence. You've given her a chance at a life outside of all this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the hotel, the underworld it represented, and the life they both led.
Cross nodded slowly, feeling a small measure of the tension in his shoulders.
Cormac's words, simple as they were, carried weight. Here was a man who understood the complexities of their world, who had seen the toll it could take.
"I appreciate that, Cormac," Cross said, his voice low. "And I appreciate you coming over here. I know you're not one for... fraternizing with the guests."
A small smile tugged at the corner of Cormac's mouth. "You're not just any guest, Dario. We've been through too much for that."
As the night wore on, the two men sat in companionable silence, occasionally exchanging words about past missions or the latest gossip from the underworld.
Cormac's presence was a balm to Cross's troubled mind, a reminder that even in this world of shadows and violence, friendship and understanding could still exist.
When it was time for Cross to leave, Cormac walked him to the door.
As they reached the hotel's ornate entrance, Cormac placed a hand on Cross's shoulder.
"Whatever comes next, my friend," he said, his voice firm, "you know you have an ally here."
Cross nodded, grateful for the support and the unspoken promise of sanctuary should he ever need it. As he stepped out into the Louisiana night, the weight of his decisions still pressed upon him, but it felt a little lighter now.
Cross followed Cormac through the labyrinthine corridors of the International Hotel, descending deeper into its hidden recesses.
The air grew cooler and damper as they made their way to the basement, the elegant decor of the upper floors giving way to bare concrete and flickering fluorescent lights.
Finally, they came to a stop in front of a massive, cylindrical container.
Cross's eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. Inside the container, suspended in a clear liquid, floated what appeared to be a newborn child.
"What the fuck is that?" Cross asked, his voice a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
Cormac's hand rested on the cool surface of the container, his eyes fixed on the floating form within. "I don't know if this thing has been here since the International was built, but it's said to be a German super weapon from WWII. The ultimate soldier, made to be the ultimate killing machine and evolution of humanity."
Cross scoffed, his assassin's instincts warring with the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. "Sounds like some sci-fi shit. Ain't no way this thing is even alive for that long."
Cormac turned to him, his face gravely. "That's the thing... it is alive and breathing."
Stunned, Cross watched as Cormac gestured to a nearby monitor.
Sure enough, a steady heartbeat pulsed across the screen, the rhythmic beeping filling the otherwise silent room.
"There's no way this thing is still alive after all these years, bro... it's been 70 years!" Cross exclaimed, struggling to reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew to be possible.
Cormac nodded, understanding Cross's disbelief. "I know it seems impossible, but here it is. The records we have suggest that this... being... was created using a combination of advanced genetic engineering and some form of cryogenic suspension. It's been in a state of suspended animation all this time."
Cross moved closer to the container, studying the infant floating within.
Despite its unnatural origins, it looked remarkably human. "And you're thinking of offering this for the chosen selection?" he asked, his voice low.
Cormac nodded. "I thought it might be of interest to the Fraternity. A being engineered for combat, with who knows what kind of potential... it could be a valuable asset."
Cross considered this, his mind racing with the implications.
On one hand, the idea of introducing this unknown entity into the Fraternity's ranks was risky.
On the other hand, the potential advantages were undeniable.
"How do we even know what this thing is capable of?" Cross asked, his eyes still fixed on the floating infant.
Cormac shrugged. "We don't, not really. But that's part of what makes it so intriguing, isn't it? The Fraternity has always sought to push the boundaries of human capability. This could be the ultimate expression of that goal."
Cross nodded slowly, coming to a decision. "Alright, I'll present it to the Fraternity. But Cormac," he turned to his friend, his expression serious, "this stays between us.
If this goes sideways, I don't want it traced back to you or the hotel."
Cormac nodded, understanding the risk they were both taking. "Of course. As far as anyone else is concerned, this is just another orphan for the chosen selection."
As they began to make arrangements for the transfer of the container, Cross couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation.
He had come to the hotel seeking solace from his decision about Lishcelle, and now he was leaving with something that could potentially change the future of the Fraternity - and perhaps the world of assassins as they knew it.
The weight of his earlier decision still lingered, but now it was joined by the weight of this new secret.
As he and Cormac worked to secure the container for transport, Cross wondered what kind of future they were setting in motion - and whether they would live to see the consequences of their actions.
As they opened the container, a rush of viscous liquid spilled onto the floor.
Cross's reflexes kicked in as he caught the falling baby, but he was immediately caught off guard by its unexpected weight.
"Holy shit!" Cross exclaimed, his arms straining under the burden.
Cormac looked at him, puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"This baby is heavier than a motherfucker! Feels like I'm carrying a damn hundred pounds of steel!" Cross replied, his voice strained.
Cormac, skeptical of Cross's claim, reached out. "You're overreacting. Here, give it to me."
Annoyed, Cross handed over the baby, and Cormac's eyes widened as he felt the true weight. "OH SHIT! This is indeed one heavy baby!"
After struggling for a few minutes, they managed to place the infant on a baby scale. Both men stared in disbelief at the reading.
"99 pounds!?" Cross exclaimed. "He looks like a normal baby. How's that possible?"
Cormac studied the child closely. "Well, maybe the baby has very dense muscles, obviously denser than a normal human by a long shot. But that solidifies that this is superhuman, even as a baby... and he's a boy."
They noticed the baby's shallow breathing and slow heartbeat, almost imperceptible signs of life.
Cross's brow furrowed with concern. "Cormac, are you sure we should even be taking this thing out? It might not even survive. It's screaming about health issues already."
Cormac considered this for a moment. "Whatever was keeping the boy alive was going to run out anyway. It was severely low. At least with the Fraternity, he'll have access to very good doctors."
Cross nodded, still uneasy about the situation. He gently lifted the unnaturally heavy infant, cradling it carefully. "Alright, but we need to move fast. This kid needs medical attention ASAP."
As they prepared to leave, Cross couldn't help but feel a strange connection to the child.
Here was another life, like Lishcelle's, that he was responsible for shaping.
But unlike his daughter, whom he had given up for a chance at a normal life, this child was being thrust into the world of assassins from its very first breath outside the container.
"We'll need to keep this quiet," Cross said as they made their way out of the basement. "If word gets out about what this kid really is, every organization out there will be gunning for him."
Cormac nodded in agreement. "I'll make sure the hotel records are scrubbed. As far as anyone knows, this was just another abandoned child."
As they emerged from the hotel, the Louisiana night air hit them, warm and heavy. Cross looked down at the infant in his arms, it's unnatural weight a constant reminder of its uniqueness.
"What have we gotten ourselves into, Cormac?" he muttered.
Cormac placed a hand on Cross's shoulder. "Something that could change everything, my friend. For better or worse."
As they loaded the child into Cross's car, both men knew that this night would mark a turning point.
The Fraternity was about to receive more than just another recruit for the chosen selection.
They were about to inherit a mystery, a potential weapon, and a responsibility that neither of them fully understood.
Cross started the car, his mind racing with possibilities and potential dangers.
As he drove away from the International Hotel, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was carrying not just a genetically engineered super soldier, but also the key to a future that none of them could predict.
A few minutes later, at the Fraternity's medical facility, Cross and Cormac waited anxiously as the doctors examined the baby.
The medical team, composed of specialists in various fields including pediatrics, emerged from the examination room with looks of astonishment on their faces.
"Well? How's the little guy?" Cross asked, unable to hide his concern.
The lead doctor stood there for a moment, visibly processing what he had just witnessed. Finally, he replied, "The baby is actually... very healthy."
This response shocked both Cross and Cormac. "Are you sure the baby was healthy? Like, the whole entire time?" Cormac pressed, seeking confirmation.
"Yes," the doctor nodded. "Once the baby was warmed up and taken care of, he started breathing normally. It's as if the baby was hibernating, saving every slightest bit of energy he could muster. But I have to say, we've never seen a child like this before. Where did you guys even find him?"
Cross and Cormac exchanged a quick glance, knowing they couldn't reveal the truth about the 70-year-old tube in the hotel basement. Cross quickly improvised a more believable story.
"Sadly, we found him in a garbage can, right before a garbage truck was about to pick it up."
The doctor's face contorted with disgust. "Well, he'll have a better life here. I'm guessing he'll be in the chosen selection?"
Cross nodded. "Yeah, make sure you get him ready and find him a place to sleep. I have some plans for what his training will be like."
As the doctor nodded and returned to check on the baby, Cross and Cormac watched in amusement as it took a team of doctors to carry the unnaturally heavy infant away.
They couldn't help but laugh at the comical sight.
Once they were alone, Cross's tone turned serious. "Do you think we can kill it if it ever actually goes out of control?"
Cormac remained silent for a moment, considering the question. "That, I don't know. It depends on how well trained he'll be. But we have to keep in mind that he's still a child. It's not like any skilled child left the Fraternity after the chosen selection other than you to take on anybody older than you."
Cross nodded, his face pensive. "Let's just keep an eye on him, make sure he won't turn into a monster or something. We owe him that much."
As they stood there, contemplating the future of this extraordinary child, both men felt the weight of their decision.
They had brought something unprecedented into the world of the Fraternity, and now they would have to deal with the consequences.
Cross's mind raced with potential training regimens and safety protocols.
He knew that raising this child within the Fraternity would be unlike anything they had ever done before.
The boy's superhuman strength and density would require specially designed equipment and techniques.
Cormac, ever the pragmatist, was already thinking about the long-term implications. "We'll need to keep this quiet, Dario. If word gets out about what this child really is..."
"I know," Cross interrupted. "Every organization out there would be after him. We'll have to create a cover story, something believable."
As they walked out of the medical facility, both men felt a mix of excitement and trepidation.
They had set something in motion that could change the future of the Fraternity, and possibly the entire world of assassins.
"What are you going to name him?" Cormac asked suddenly.
Cross paused, realizing he hadn't even considered it. After a moment, he said, "Leo. We'll call him Leo for now at least."
Cormac nodded, appreciating the symbolism. "A fitting name for one who might carry the weight of our world on his shoulders."
As they parted ways, Cross couldn't help but think about Lishcelle, the daughter he had given up, and now Leo, the extraordinary child he had brought into the Fraternity. Two children, two very different paths. He hoped that somehow, in some way, he was doing right by both of them.