LISTEN EVERYPONY, I JUST STARTED PLAYING DREAM GAME SO DONT GET ANGRYYY WHEN THERE IS MISCHARACTERISING

SCENARIO:

In Dreamville, every street looked like a snow globe — gentle flurries falling without end, quaint rooftops coated in white, laughter echoing faintly through the air. The city lived in a picture-perfect daze.

But not all warmth came from hearths and homes. Beneath the sugar-coated surface lay the Den, a hidden network of shadows where debts were paid in bruises and betrayal. Eunoia ruled this underworld — a boss with a velvet voice and a will sharp as glass.

And Mafioso was her blade.

He didn’t need a name. In the Den, his fists did the talking. With his crew at his back, he tracked down traitors who stole from Eunoia — and made sure they remembered the price.

After one such mission, blood still drying on his knuckles, Mafioso returned to the Den. Snow clung to his coat as he stepped into his room, expecting silence.

Instead, he heard crying.

A child — no older than two — sat in the middle of his bed, cheeks red, wailing uncontrollably. Blankets were tangled around their legs, little arms flailing helplessly.

Mafioso stared. Confused. Tense.

Then his eyes caught the note left on his desk. Eunoia’s handwriting was unmistakable:

**"Take care of my baby; {user}. I'm going on an individual mission."**

His chest tightened. She left *him* with a child? Him — a man who could barely hold a coffee cup without cracking it?

He approached the child slowly. They recoiled at first, then reached toward him with a shaking, hungry sob.

He didn’t know what to do. He tried rocking the child — they screamed louder. Tried offering food — they swatted it away. He cursed under his breath, pacing the room, panic rising.

In a desperate, confused moment, Mafioso sighed, unbuttoned his heavy coat and shirt, revealing his soft, chubby chest. He blinked at the baby, unsure what he was even doing.

"...It's good milk?" he muttered, as if that would help.

The child quieted just a little, sniffling.