Chapter Text

Night's Heir

The Hyde Within

Chapter 1: One Night Survives

Jericho, Autumn of 1990

Leaves drift in gold and copper swirls across the courtyard of Nevermore Academy on this crisp autumn afternoon. Isaac Night stands hunched over a drafting table in his well-used lab in Iago Tower, dim light from a single lamp illuminating blueprints sprawled in front of him. His clockwork heart beating with a soft tick tick tick having outlived everyone’s expectations of his death four years ago. Francoise enters quietly, her footsteps muffled on wooden floorboards. She holds two mugs of cocoa.

“Still at it?” she asks, setting one down beside Isaac. Steam curls into the air.

Isaac glances up, a faint smile. “You know me — I’ve got designs to finish.”

His fingers trace the outline of a big engine – his chance to cure his sister of her curse.

Francoise watches him, admiration and worry in her dark eyes. “Do you think it will work?”

He pauses, pencil hovering. “I do.”

In another life he would leave it at that. Would promise his sister to finally cure her of the monster inside of her. To keep the secret of the cost as his burden to carry. But in this one he straightens and looks at Francoise again.

“I fear there will be a heavy price to pay, Francoise.”

His sister’s eyes widened in concern. “What is the price? Will it harm you?”

A short humorless laugh escapes Isaac. “Not me. The machine needs a very strong power source. There is nothing strong enough I can think of besides… the power of a Spark.”

Francoise looks at him, trying to follow her brothers line of thought. She couldn’t think of a reason why that would be a problem yet.

“But you know a Spark. Gomez is one, isn’t he? And he is your best friend. He would help you.”

Her younger brother sighs again, his eyes now downcast. “The machine would need all of his power. I fear he wouldn’t survive, Franny…”

She gasps, staring down at the blueprint of her only hope in fear. Of course she would love to be cured, to finally be rid of the curse that haunts her so relentlessly. But could she do it at the cost of another’s life?

“No… Isaac… we can’t do that. Not to Gomez, not to anyone. If that is the cost I don’t want it. Maybe you will find another way one day…”

Isaac looks at her, the sadness in his gaze obvious. “I know I promised you, Franny… I will try to find another way.”

He takes her hand in his and presses it firmly. Over the next years, Isaac works tirelessly. Late-nights, whispered lectures with sympathetic professors, experiments that almost go wrong (a blown fuse here, overheating core there). Nevermore alumni begin to speak of him: the boy who repaired broken things — hearts, machines, even broken scientific laws. By 2002, he’s published a paper on bio-mechanical heart augmentations that draws attention from medical researchers worldwide. He sets up a modest lab in Boston, gains funding, wins awards. Yet he makes no new progress in regard to what matters most to him – finding another way of curing his sister’s Hyde side.

Jericho, Summer of 2004

A lush garden with tulips and cherry blossoms in bloom waits just outside of Jericho for the special event planned for today. Isaac — in a tailored dark suit, crisp shirt, tie just dark violet — stands near a trellis draped in white roses. He’s cleaner than the Nevermore lab boy of old; the hands that once tinkered under flickering lamps are now steady, confident. His clockwork heart, upgraded twice, hidden beneath the chest, ticks in a quiet harmony with his own pulse.

Francoise walks down the aisle in a soft gown, her eyes shining. Donovan Galpin — Francoise’s longtime partner and new sheriff of Jericho — waits at the altar. Isaac’s chest tightens — proud, protective, hopeful. He gives Francoise a small nod, as though their shared past, all the secret nights of invention and worry, have led here. He has his doubts regarding his sister’s wish to marry a Normie who knows nothing about her inner beast. But what kind of brother would he be to deny her the wish for normalcy that he himself is not able to fulfill yet.

He watches his sister and her fiancé taking their vows, staring love-struck into each other’s eyes until they are finally pronounced husband and wife followed by loud applause.

At the reception guests talk in low hums: colleagues of Donovan, friends, and a scattering of Isaac’s scientific peers who came to congratulate. Isaac is approached by a distinguished researcher from Geneva, Dr. Aurelia Weber, who compliments him on his latest publication.

“You’ve done remarkable work, Isaac. The augmentation design for synaptic regenerative tissue — it’s remarkable.”

She raises her glass. Isaac smiles, lifting his own.

“Thank you. None of it would be possible without Francoise’s early encouragement... or the many nights in Nevermore when ‘fragile’ meant fight.”

Francoise comes up behind them, slipping her hand into his. Isaac turns; she gives him a knowing smile. People laugh, dance, soft jazz in the background. For a moment, Isaac catches Donovan’s eye; they nod in mutual respect — Donovan, grateful Isaac was there; Isaac, grateful to see his sister so happy.

Outside, lanterns glow, the air scented with flowers. Isaac steps onto the terrace, looking up at the sky. He pulls a small notebook from his pocket — scribbled ideas. Always the mind of the future, even in celebration. Francoise joins him.

“You’ve built more than machines, Isaac,” she says softly. “You’ve built trust, healed wounds.” Isaac closes the notebook.

“I only ever wanted to make things right. You deserve that.&rdquo They stand there, amid laughter and music, while Isaac lets himself believe perhaps the future will be kinder, that knowledge can be a safeguard, not a danger.

Jericho, Spring of 2006

The hospital smells faintly of antiseptic and fresh paint. Rain taps lightly against the tall windows as Isaac steps into the small maternity ward room, carrying a bouquet of pale lilies. Francoise is propped up against crisp white pillows, hair messy but glowing with exhaustion and pride. In her arms, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, lies her son — Tyler.

Isaac hesitates at the door. His clockwork heart ticks faintly, audible only to him, like a reminder of all the battles he’s fought to survive. Francoise spots him instantly, smiling wearily.

“About time, Professor Night. Come meet your nephew.” Isaac crosses the room, setting the flowers on a side table before leaning closer. Tyler’s tiny face is peaceful, fists balled up like he’s already ready to fight the world.

“He looks… impossibly small”, he says softly but Francoise only smiles.

“He’s strong. Stronger than I ever was.”

Half-smiling Isaac looks to her again, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Francoise glances up sharply, reading his tone. “Isaac… don’t.”

“We both know what runs in our blood. You’ve managed it — mostly. But what if—” He gestures at the baby, “—he doesn’t?”

Francoise shifts Tyler protectively against her chest. “He’s not me. And he won’t be you either. He’ll be his own person. Donovan and I will raise him right, give him stability, love. That matters more than… genes.”

“Love doesn’t change biology, Francoise. A Hyde is a Hyde. You know that better than anyone.”

Her jaw tightens, but her voice stays calm, almost pleading, “You don’t understand, brother. I control it. I’ve lived with it, I’ve chosen not to give in. You think I’m broken, something to be ‘fixed,’ but maybe I’m just… me.”

Isaac looks away, his hand tightening around the edge of his coat. He still hasn’t found a way to cure her. And now there might be another little part of Francoise facing the same burden.

“I don’t think you’re broken. I think you deserve peace. I’ve spent years proving machines can heal, that blood and gears can coexist. If I could stabilize the heart in my chest, why shouldn’t I find a way to cure what twists yours?”

Francoise exhales, tired but resolute. “Because it’s not just a disease, Isaac. It’s a choice. My Hyde isn’t some infection — it’s part of me. I choose not to let it control me. Tyler will have that same choice, if it even comes to him.”

Isaac studies the child again. Tyler stirs, tiny eyelids flickering. Isaac’s voice softens.

“And what if he doesn’t? What if one day he wakes up and there’s no choice, only the monster?”

Francoise’s eyes harden, protective fire flashing in them.

“Then he’ll have me. And he’ll have Donovan. And if the worst comes to pass… he’ll have you too. Not as a scientist trying to ‘cure’ him. As his uncle. Promise me that, Isaac.”

The ticking in Isaac’s chest grows louder to his ears. He meets her gaze, torn between conviction and love. After he pause he finally answers.

“I promise… I’ll be whatever he needs.”

Francoise relaxes slightly, resting her cheek against Tyler’s head. The baby lets out a tiny sigh, as if sealing the vow between them.

“Good. Because I don’t want him growing up thinking he’s some experiment waiting to happen.”

Isaac smiles faintly, despite himself.“He’ll grow up thinking he’s the most stubborn Night in the family. And that’s saying something.”

They both laugh quietly, though the weight of their words lingers in the sterile air. Isaac watches Tyler one last time before stepping back. Deep down, though he promised his sister, his mind is already working — calculations, theories, possibilities. The cure isn’t abandoned. Not yet.

Jericho, Spring of 2010

The church in Jericho was small, tucked between the rolling hills and the riverbank, its stone walls weathered by centuries of wind. Black ribbons hung heavy against the white doors. Inside, the pews were filled with familiar faces: townsfolk whispering condolences, Nevermore alumni who remembered Francoise as both brilliant and haunted. Isaac sat near the front, hands clasped together, the faint whir of his clockwork heart betraying his tension.

He had buried himself in journals and machines when the news first came — Francoise, gone at only thirty-six. Her body had simply given out, weakened by the constant strain of living with a Hyde’s curse. Isaac had seen it coming, but he had not been ready. He doubted he ever would have been.

Tyler sat beside him, too small for his dark suit, eyes wide and glassy. Donovan Galpin stood at the lectern, reading words that sounded more like obligation than grief. His voice was steady but hollow, as though his duty as sheriff had bled into his role as husband and father.

Isaac looked at Tyler, who stared at the floor with the detached gaze of a child who didn’t yet understand permanence at only four years of age. After the service, when the casket was carried out under the gray sky, Isaac stayed behind with his nephew.

“Tyler,” he said gently, kneeling down so they were eye level.

The boy’s eyes flicked to him, uncertain, wary.

“She’s not coming back, is she?” Tyler asked, his voice small and almost swallowed by the murmurs of the crowd outside.

Isaac swallowed hard. “No. But she’s not gone either. She’s here.” He tapped Tyler’s chest softly. “Every time you laugh like her, or get that stubborn frown she always wore when she was right — and she usually was — she’ll be there.”

Tyler frowned, chewing his lip. “Dad doesn’t talk about her. He just… works.”

Isaac’s jaw tightened. He glanced through the open doorway, where Donovan shook hands with townsfolk without looking at his son.

“Your father grieves differently. Sometimes… people hide from pain by burying themselves in other things.”

“But I don’t want to hide,” Tyler said, his voice cracking. “I just want Mom.”

Isaac pulled him into his arms, holding him tighter than he thought his fragile body would allow. The ticking in his chest steadied, a mechanical lullaby against the boy’s ear.

“I made your mother a promise,” Isaac whispered into his nephew’s hair. “That I’d be here for you. I won’t let you be lost, Tyler. Not while I still breathe.”

Tyler clung to him then, silent sobs shaking his small shoulders. Isaac closed his eyes, grief crashing down in waves. He had failed his sister’s fragile body, but he would not fail her son. When they stepped back into the pale light of the graveyard, Isaac placed a hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

"You and I,” he said quietly, “we’re Nights. And Nights don’t disappear. We endure.” Tyler nodded faintly, his face streaked with tears, and for the first time since the casket had closed, Isaac thought he saw a spark of his sister in the boy’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Fracture

Jericho, Late Summer of 2010

At first, Isaac convinced himself that visits were enough. He would drive down from Boston every weekend, his trunk full of small gifts — a book about machines, a clockwork puzzle, sometimes just a pack of crayons because Tyler liked to draw when he thought no one was watching. They’d sit in the corner of the Galpin living room, Tyler quietly sketching while Isaac explained the basics of gears and levers.

But as the months passed, Isaac noticed what filled the spaces between his visits: silence. The house was too neat, too cold. Donovan was either absent on patrol or locked in his office with a bottle tucked inside the desk drawer. When father and son were in the same room, their conversations were clipped, awkward. Donovan tried, Isaac could see that, but grief had carved a canyon between him and the boy.

One rainy afternoon, Isaac arrived to find Tyler sitting on the porch steps, his small shoulders hunched.

“Your dad home?” Isaac asked, setting down his satchel.

Tyler shook his head. “He said he’d be back before dark. It’s already dinner time.” His voice was flat, practiced, like he’d gotten used to explaining these absences.

Isaac felt the old ache in his chest — not just the faulty heart but something deeper. He crouched down. “What did you eat today?”

“Cereal. For lunch too.” Tyler’s eyes darted away, ashamed as if it were his fault.

That night Isaac stayed until Donovan returned, uniform jacket soaked from the rain. The sheriff looked surprised to find him there.

“You don’t have to play babysitter, Isaac,” Donovan said, pulling off his boots. His tone was weary, but there was an edge beneath it.

Isaac kept his voice steady. “I’m not babysitting. I’m here because Tyler needs more than cereal and silence.”

Donovan’s jaw tightened. “I’m doing the best I can. My job—”

“Your job isn’t the only thing that needs you,” Isaac cut in. “Francoise would never have wanted him to grow up like this.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air heavy with things neither wanted to say. Finally Donovan looked away. “Don’t you dare tell me what she would’ve wanted.”

Isaac said nothing more that night, but as he tucked Tyler into bed, he made his decision. His sister’s promise echoed in his mind, louder than the ticking of his clockwork heart: If the worst comes to pass… he’ll have you too.

                                                                                         ***

In the weeks that followed, Isaac began documenting everything — missed pre-school pickups, unattended meals, nights Tyler spent at neighbors’ houses when Donovan was on late shifts. At the lab in Boston, his colleagues noticed the growing stacks of paper he carried with him, the distracted look in his eyes.

One evening, his mentor, Dr. Weber, confronted him. “You’re burning yourself thin, Isaac. This isn’t about research anymore, is it?”

Isaac exhaled, staring at the half-finished schematic on his desk. “It’s about a boy who’s going to grow up believing he’s unwanted if I don’t step in. My nephew deserves more than being left behind.”

When the custody papers were finally drawn up, Isaac felt both fear and resolve knotting in his chest. He knew Jericho would rally around their sheriff. He knew the whispers would rise — that Isaac was a recluse, a man of machines, not fit to raise a child.

But he also knew what loneliness looked like in a child’s eyes, and he would not let Tyler carry it any longer.

                                                                                         ***

The first real change came in small, ordinary ways. Isaac started picking Tyler up from school on Fridays — at first with Donovan’s grudging permission, then later without asking. He’d bring him back to Boston some weekends, introducing him to the workshop where polished gears clicked and hummed like a heartbeat of their own. Tyler would sit on a stool, legs swinging, eyes wide as Isaac explained how a coil spring worked or let him assemble a simple model.

“You’re better at this than I was at your age,” Isaac told him one Saturday, after Tyler managed to fit the tiny cogs together without a single slip.

Tyler’s cheeks flushed. “Do you think Mom would’ve liked it?”

Isaac swallowed. “She would’ve loved it. She’d say you had the patience she never did.”

Moments like that steeled Isaac’s resolve. He began cooking proper meals for Tyler when he stayed over, tucking him in at night with stories about the constellations his mother used to watch. At times, Isaac almost felt whole again — until Sunday evening came, and he had to drive the boy back to Jericho, back to Donovan’s silence.

The conflict finally boiled over one evening when Donovan came to Isaac’s workshop unannounced. His sheriff’s uniform was immaculate, but his eyes were bloodshot.

“You’re overstepping,” Donovan said flatly, standing between Isaac and the glowing furnace. “Tyler’s my son. Not yours.”

Isaac set down his tools, wiping his hands on a rag. “And what kind of father leaves a child to neighbors while he drowns himself in whiskey?”

Donovan’s jaw clenched. “You think you can do better? With your weak heart, your obsession with machines, your… your lab rats? You can’t raise a boy, Isaac. You can barely take care of yourself.”

The words cut deep, but Isaac held Donovan’s gaze. “I made her a promise. And unlike you, I intend to keep it.”

                                                                                         ***

The courtroom was a world apart — no gears, no machines, just oak benches and the cold weight of judgment. Jericho’s townsfolk filled the back rows, their sheriff seated stiffly beside his lawyer. Isaac sat across from them, papers and affidavits neatly stacked, his suit pressed as if the precision of his appearance might compensate for the flutter in his chest.

The judge listened as witnesses spoke. A teacher testified about Tyler’s frequent absences. A neighbor described the boy waiting outside until dusk for his father to come home. Then came Isaac’s turn.

“I don’t claim to be perfect,” he said, voice steady despite the faint tremor in his hands. “My heart is fragile. Always has been. But that fragility taught me what it means to value every moment, every life. Tyler is not a burden — he’s a boy who deserves to know he is wanted, every single day.”

Donovan’s lawyer countered, painting Isaac as unstable, too consumed by his inventions to provide a stable home. Donovan himself, when asked to speak, said simply, “I love my son. I don’t always show it well, but I’m his father. And blood should matter.”

Isaac met Tyler’s eyes as the court recessed. The boy was sitting quietly beside a social worker, hands clenched together. When Isaac gave him a small smile, Tyler’s expression softened just slightly — like a door cracked open in the dark.

That night, Isaac returned to his workshop, exhaustion weighing on him heavier than any machine part. He sat at the drafting table, staring at Francoise’s old photo pinned above it.

“I don’t know if I can win this,” he whispered to the still air. “But I won’t stop trying. Not for him.”

The ticking of his clockwork heart echoed in the silence, steady and relentless.

Boston, Autumn of 2010

It was late, the night before another court session. Isaac sat with Tyler in the small kitchen of his Boston apartment. A pot of hot chocolate steamed between them, the marshmallows already half-melted. Tyler swung his legs from the chair, not quite reaching the floor.

“You’re mad at Dad,” Tyler said suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was careful, almost testing.

Isaac set his mug down. “I’m not mad at him, Tyler. I’m… worried. About you.”

“But Dad says you’re trying to take me away from him,” Tyler muttered. He pushed a marshmallow against the rim of his cup, watching it smear. “He says you don’t understand.”

Isaac’s chest tightened. “He’s your father. He’ll always be your father. Nothing I do changes that. But I see how lonely you are, how much you need someone there for you. Every day, not just sometimes.”

Tyler looked up, his brown eyes wide and conflicted. “But if I live with you… doesn’t that mean I can’t live with him?”

Isaac reached across the table, covering the boy’s small hand with his own. The faint ticking of his mechanical heart filled the pause. “It means you’ll live with me most of the time. But you’ll still see him. You’ll still love him. Loving me doesn’t mean you stop loving your dad.”

Tyler’s lip trembled. “I don’t wanna make him sad.”

Isaac’s throat tightened, but he forced his voice to stay calm. “You’re not responsible for his sadness. That’s too heavy for you to carry. You’re just a boy, Tyler. Your only job is to be a kid — to laugh, to play, to grow. Let the adults carry their own pain.”

For a moment, Tyler didn’t answer. Then he whispered, “Mom would want us all together.”

Isaac closed his eyes, Francoise’s voice echoing in his memory. If the worst comes to pass… he’ll have you too. When he opened them again, he smiled faintly. “She would. But sometimes families look different than we imagine. What matters is that you’re safe. That you’re loved. That’s what your mom would want most.”

Tyler finally leaned forward, resting his head against Isaac’s chest. The mechanical heart ticked steady beneath his ear. “It’s loud,” he murmured.

Isaac chuckled softly, stroking his nephew’s hair. “It’s stubborn. Like you. Like your mom. It keeps me going. And it’ll never let you down.”

Jericho, Winter of 2010

The courtroom smelled faintly of old wood and dust, the air thick with tension. Isaac sat upright, Tyler beside the social worker again. Donovan stared straight ahead, jaw set, uniform crisp as if sheer discipline could win the day.

The judge shuffled papers, her expression grave. “This case has been difficult. Both parties care for the child. But care is not the same as presence. What a child needs most, especially at this age, is stability.”

Isaac’s fingers dug into the armrest.

The judge continued, “Sheriff Galpin, it is clear that your professional obligations and personal struggles have interfered with providing that stability. Professor Night, despite your health challenges, has demonstrated consistent involvement, emotional support, and a safe environment for Tyler.”

There was a pause, heavy as a storm about to break. Then the gavel came down.

“Custody is hereby granted to Isaac Night.”

The words hit Isaac like a rush of air after drowning. Across the room, Donovan’s face tightened, a mixture of anger and defeat, but he said nothing. Tyler looked between them, confusion flickering in his eyes until Isaac gave him a small nod — calm, reassuring.

When court adjourned, Isaac knelt in the hallway, eye level with his nephew. “You’re coming home with me now,” he said softly.

Tyler hesitated. “But… Dad?”

“You’ll still see him,” Isaac promised. “This isn’t about taking him away. It’s about making sure you always have someone there when you need them. Someone who won’t disappear.”

Tyler studied him for a long moment, then reached out and wrapped his arms around Isaac’s neck. The ticking in Isaac’s chest echoed in the empty hall, steady and strong.

For the first time since Francoise’s death, Isaac felt like he had finally kept his promise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Becoming a Parent

Boston, Winter 2011

Isaac had never realized how sterile his apartment looked until Tyler arrived with his small suitcase and a stuffed bear missing one ear. The guest room, where Tyler usually slept on visits, had pale gray walls, a single bed, and stacks of Isaac’s old journals piled in the corner. It was a place for temporary stays, not a home. On their first evening together, Isaac stood in the doorway with his nephew, feeling suddenly unsure.

“It’s not much,” he admitted. “But we can change it. Make it yours.”

Tyler tilted his head. “How?”

“Paint. Posters. A desk for drawing. Whatever you want.” Isaac crouched so they were eye level. “This room should feel like you, not like me.”

For the first time in days, Tyler’s eyes sparked with curiosity. “Can we make it blue? Like the sky?”

“Sky blue it is,” Isaac said, smiling.

The following Saturday, they covered the floor with old sheets and cracked open cans of paint. Tyler dipped the roller clumsily, streaking bright color across the wall. He giggled when some splattered on Isaac’s shirt. Isaac laughed too, the sound rough with disuse, then dabbed a streak of blue on Tyler’s nose. By evening, the walls glowed like morning skies. They assembled a bookshelf together, Tyler holding screws steady while Isaac guided the screwdriver with patient hands. At last, the room no longer looked borrowed — it belonged.

When Isaac tucked him in that night, Tyler whispered, “It feels like home now.”

Isaac kissed the boy’s hair. “That’s because it is.”

***

The next week, Isaac took time off from the lab to enroll Tyler in a nearby elementary school. They sat in the principal’s office while Isaac filled out forms, his elegant handwriting looping steadily across the pages. Tyler sat stiffly, clutching his bear.

“Do I have to tell people about Mom?” he asked quietly as they walked out.

“Only if you want to,” Isaac replied. “People might ask, but you get to choose what you say. Some things belong just to you.”

Tyler nodded, but his shoulders stayed tense.

At home, Isaac tried to create routines: breakfast together before school, evenings spent with homework or small projects in the workshop. Sometimes, Tyler’s drawings were of gears and machines, other times just of a woman with long hair standing under a tree. Isaac never asked — he knew.

One night, as Isaac was cleaning up, he found Tyler sitting cross-legged on the bed, the bear pressed tight against his chest. Tears streaked his face.

“She left me,” Tyler choked out. “Why’d she have to go? Why didn’t Dad stop her? Why doesn’t he even… want me?”

Isaac sat beside him, pulling him into his arms. The ticking of his clockwork heart filled the silence.

“She didn’t leave you,” Isaac said softly. “Her body gave out, but not her love. That’s still here.” He touched Tyler’s chest gently. “As for your father… sometimes people love in ways that don’t feel like love. Sometimes they’re too broken to show it.”

“But I don’t feel it,” Tyler whispered. Isaac held him tighter.

“That’s why I’m here. To make sure you never have to wonder if you’re loved. You are, Tyler. You always will be.”

The boy sobbed until sleep took him, curled against his uncle’s side. Isaac stayed awake, staring at the blue walls they had painted together. For all his inventions, for all his science, nothing in the world mattered more than keeping this promise alive.

***

The January air in Boston was sharp, the kind that hinted at snow long before it started to fall. Isaac walked Tyler to his new school, the boy’s backpack hanging too big on his shoulders. The building loomed, filled with chatter and the bright squeal of sneakers on tile floors. Tyler clutched Isaac’s hand so tightly the gears in his uncle’s wrist brace clicked faintly.

“What if they don’t like me?” he whispered. Isaac bent down.

“You’re not here to make everyone like you. You’re here to learn, to grow, and maybe find one or two friends who see you for who you are. That’s enough.”

But Tyler’s first days were rough. At recess, other children laughed when he kept to himself or when he snapped at questions about his “mommy and daddy.” He came home quiet, his shoulders sagging, drawings crumpled at the bottom of his bag.

Isaac tried to help, but balancing fatherhood with his work was brutal. He would rise at dawn to pack Tyler’s lunch, walk him to school, then rush to the lab where deadlines and funding meetings stacked higher than blueprints. Some nights he returned home late, still wearing his lab coat, to find Tyler half-asleep at the table, homework untouched.

One evening, Isaac dropped heavily into a chair, rubbing his eyes. Tyler sat across from him, arms crossed.

“You’re always tired,” Tyler muttered.

Isaac sighed. “Because I’m trying to be two things at once — the scientist I’ve always been, and the guardian you need.”

“I don’t want a scientist,” Tyler snapped. “I just want you.”

The words cut deep. Isaac pushed his work aside. “Then you’ll have me. The rest can wait.”

He meant it, but later, in the still of his workshop, he felt the crushing weight of promises stretching in two directions at once.

***

By court order, Tyler was allowed weekend visits with his father. The first came on a chilly Saturday. Donovan arrived at Isaac’s apartment with his cruiser, leaning on the doorframe like a man already bracing for failure.

“Bag packed?” he asked Tyler, voice awkwardly cheerful.

Tyler nodded, but when the door shut behind them, Isaac felt the boy’s reluctance like a shadow.

That evening, Isaac waited by the phone. When it finally rang, it wasn’t Donovan but Tyler’s small voice on the line.

“Uncle Isaac?”

Isaac’s chest tightened. “Tyler? What’s wrong?”

There was a pause, then a sniffle. “Dad didn’t talk to me. He just… sat in his chair. He fell asleep. I tried to show him my picture from school, but he didn’t look.”

Isaac closed his eyes, anger simmering beneath his ribs. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Tyler whispered. “He just… didn’t see me.”

“I see you,” Isaac said firmly. “I’ll come get you in the morning, all right? Just one night. You can do that.”

Tyler sniffled again. “I want to come home now.”

Isaac gripped the phone tighter, hearing the steady tick of his mechanical heart. “I know. But we’ll follow the rules, for now. Tomorrow, I’ll be there first thing.”

When he hung up, Isaac’s hands shook with rage — not at Tyler’s sadness, but at Donovan’s absence, sharper than any cruelty. He had fought for custody to protect the boy from neglect, and now the system forced him back into it.

The next morning, Tyler ran into Isaac’s arms outside the Galpin house. He clung so tightly Isaac could feel the boy’s heartbeat racing against his chest.

“Did you miss me?” Isaac asked gently.

Tyler’s voice was muffled against his coat. “More than anything.”

Isaac kissed the top of his head. “Then that’s all that matters.”

As Donovan watched from the porch, silent and hollow-eyed, Isaac carried his nephew to the car. He had promised Francoise he’d never let Tyler be lost — and he meant to keep that vow, even if it meant fighting again and again.

Boston, Late Winter of 2011

Boston was still overwhelming for Tyler, but slowly, small pieces began to fit. At school, he sat alone at first, sketching in the margins of his notebooks. Then one afternoon, a girl with a messy ponytail plopped down beside him during lunch.

“What’re you drawing?” she asked through a mouthful of apple.

Tyler hesitated, shielding the paper. “It’s… a machine. For flying.”

She leaned closer, unconcerned by his shyness. “Cool. My brother says only planes can fly, but he’s stupid.”

She extended a hand. “I’m Chloe.”

From that day on, Chloe sat with him at lunch. They traded crayons, argued about whether dragons could be real, and once built a lopsided paper tower in the library until the teacher shooed them out.

For the first time since moving to Boston, Tyler came home with laughter lingering in his voice. Isaac noticed. He hung Tyler’s drawings on the fridge, even the messy ones, and started leaving notes in his lunchbox: You’ve got this. Proud of you. — I. The boy’s world was still fragile, but there were cracks of light now, and Isaac treasured every one.

***

Boston winter pressed against the windows, but inside Isaac’s apartment the air was warm, smelling faintly of machine oil and the cinnamon rolls Isaac had attempted (and only half-burned). The guest room had long since transformed into Tyler’s sanctuary: blue walls, shelves filled with drawings and little models, books stacked haphazardly. Isaac had begun to settle into rhythms of fatherhood — or at least something close to it. Breakfast at seven, school drop-off, the lab until late afternoon, then home to dinner and homework. Sometimes Tyler resisted, testing how far he could push.

“I don’t want broccoli,” the boy declared one evening, arms crossed at the dinner table.

Isaac folded his hands, steady but calm. “It’s part of the meal.”

“Mom didn’t make me eat it,” Tyler retorted.

The words struck like a blade, but Isaac kept his tone even. “Your mom isn’t here. I am. And I need you strong. Even broccoli makes a difference.”

Tyler’s lips wobbled, torn between defiance and grief.

Isaac reached across the table, brushing his hair back gently. “One bite. Then we’ll talk about dessert.”

Tyler scowled, but he took the bite. Isaac smiled faintly, hiding the ache behind his ribs. Parenthood, he was learning, was as much about small victories as grand promises.

***

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Isaac’s phone rang at the lab. The school wanted him to come in. When he arrived, Tyler sat outside the principal’s office, chin tucked to his chest. Inside, the teacher explained: Tyler had pushed another boy after being teased about “not having a real family.”

Isaac sat down, folding his hands in his lap.

“Did you?” he asked gently when they were alone.

Tyler’s eyes brimmed. “He said Mom was dead and Dad didn’t want me. I told him to shut up, but he wouldn’t.”

Isaac’s chest tightened, the faint whir of his heart loud in the silence. “So you pushed him.”

Tyler nodded, ashamed.

Isaac exhaled slowly. “I understand why you’re angry. But hurting someone isn’t the way. Next time, use your words. Or walk away. Do you think your mom would want you fighting?”

“No,” Tyler whispered.

Isaac crouched so their eyes met. “Then let’s honor her by being stronger than that. We’ll figure out better ways together.”

The boy nodded reluctantly.

Later that night, Isaac wrote in his journal: Parenthood isn’t about preventing pain. It’s about teaching how to carry it.

***

The weekend visits with Donovan didn’t improve. Tyler came back quieter each time, eyes downcast. Once, he muttered that his dad had spent the whole day cleaning his gun. Another time, he admitted Donovan had dropped him at a diner with a deputy for hours. Isaac’s patience frayed.

One Sunday evening, after picking Tyler up, he left the in the car and went straight back to the Galpin house.

Donovan answered the door in his undershirt, surprise flickering across his face before it hardened. “What do you want?”

Isaac’s voice was low but sharp. “To know why my nephew comes back emptier every time he sees you. To know why you keep asking for visits when you can’t even look at him.”

Donovan bristled. “Don’t you dare tell me how to be a father. You’re not one. You’re just his uncle, playing house with machines and notebooks.”

Isaac stepped closer, his mechanical heart ticking loud enough he swore Donovan could hear it. “You’re right — I’m not his father. But I’m the one who listens when he cries for his mother. I’m the one who makes sure he eats more than cereal. I’m the one who shows up. Tell me, Sheriff, what exactly do you think you’re giving him?”

For a moment, Donovan’s mask cracked. His eyes burned with something Isaac recognized — grief, guilt, maybe both. But it hardened again just as quickly.

“I’m giving him his blood,” Donovan snapped. “Something you’ll never understand.”

Isaac’s voice softened, though it carried more weight. “Blood doesn’t raise a child. Love does.”

The silence stretched. Finally, Donovan looked away, shoulders sagging. “Take him, then. Raise him however you think is best. But don’t expect me to thank you.”

Isaac turned to leave, his jaw tight. He didn’t need thanks. He only needed to keep his promise.

That night, when he tucked Tyler into his blue-walled room, the boy whispered, “You spoke with Dad.”

Isaac nodded. “Yes.”

“Was he mad?”

“No,” Isaac said, brushing the boy’s hair back. “Just lost. But that’s not your fault.”

Tyler’s small hand gripped his uncle’s wrist. “You won’t leave me, right?”

The clockwork heart ticked steady in the quiet room.

“Never,” Isaac promised. “You’re the reason it keeps going.”

Tyler’s breathing slowed as he drifted to sleep, but Isaac stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. He had fought hard for custody, but now he realized the real battle was just beginning: not against Donovan, not against the courts, but against the shadows of grief and abandonment that haunted the boy he loved like a son.