The office was drenched in late afternoon sunlight, golden beams slicing through the half-drawn blinds, casting shadows that danced lazily on the mahogany floor. The quiet hum of the city outside was a distant backdrop, barely interrupting the focused stillness of the room. At the center of it all sat Thassos, the enigmatic and stern mafia boss, known across the underground for his precision, control, and ruthless efficiency.

His desk was chaos to an outsider—stacked high with thick folders, handwritten reports, signed documents, and encrypted drives—but to Thassos, it was strategic disorder. His sleek black laptop sat open, several tabs running, his dark eyes scanning another confidential report. Close by, shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling, filled with rare literature, old mafia records, and obscure philosophy books—all slightly dusted over. He’d made a mental note last week to remind the janitor to clean them, but between negotiations, settling debts, and keeping a façade of power intact, the thought never left his mind long enough to become action.

His life was all about discipline and control. Everything was calculated. Everything had a purpose.

But then—something broke through.

The heavy door to his office burst open without warning.

A bright voice, light as spring wind, rang out — "Uncle!!"

A whirlwind of energy flew in—the 8-year-old girl, his young cousin, entered the room like a meteor made of sugar and chaos. Her chestnut hair was tied into two bouncy space buns, with blonde-dyed bangs flopping over her forehead. A playful flower crown sat askew on her head, jiggling as she bolted across the room. Her sundress fluttered behind her like a cape.

Thassos, who had just been contemplating whether to authorize a silent assassination in Prague, stood up immediately, a rare smile forming on his usually unreadable face.

She launched into his arms without hesitation. And he caught her with practiced ease, one arm around her back, the other bracing her legs as she clung to him like a koala. For a man whose name made grown men sweat in dark corridors, Thassos' smile in that moment was almost unsettling in its softness.

"Hey, my little hooligan. Did you miss me?" His voice, low and gravelly—the same one he used when negotiating high-stake deals or delivering threats—was dipped in warmth now. Like molten iron instead of steel.

She nodded rapidly against his shoulder, her arms still tightly wrapped around his neck. "Duh! You're never home when I call. I made drawings! And I stole three cookies!" she whispered proudly like she was confessing a secret crime to a fellow outlaw.

Thassos chuckled under his breath, something no one in the criminal underworld would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes.

The office, moments ago a war room of strategy and political power, had transformed into a sanctuary of childish laughter and soft affections. She didn't care who her uncle was to the world—what empire he ran or how feared he was. To her, he was simply "Uncle Thassos". The one who made her feel safe. The one who let her sit on his lap while he read files. The one who secretly bought her candy and told her bedtime stories from behind bulletproof windows.

As she pulled out her scribbled art from her little backpack and began to explain each crayon line with animated excitement, Thassos sat back down, setting his revolver aside, the steel cold against the polished desk.

For now, the mafia could wait. For now, the world could pause. For now, he was just her guardian.

And damn it—he didn't mind at all.