The Strongest's Babysitter

"How's retirement, Rafael?" Mr. Smith continued.

Without even flinching Bob turns around, the whole mood changing, the intensity of his gaze so powerful that even the air was hard to breathe.

"I'm asking again—why are you here? I didn't do anything," Bob said, his gaze piercing through Mr. Smith's camouflage as if it weren't even there. "And drop the camouflage. It's useless against me." Bob kept his expression blank, a mask to hide the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

After a moment, Mr. Smith pressed a button, deactivating the camouflage. "We need your help," he said, gesturing to the now-visible twelve soldiers surrounding them.

"Why would you need my help? Why would you need the assistance of an average retired villain?" Bob replied, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

After a long pause, Mr. Smith spoke again, his voice heavy. "Hope is dead…"

Jack Smith was a forty-year-old stoic man with blond hair, always impeccably dressed and rarely showing emotion. But now, his face was etched with devastation. Hope had been his best friend.

"Wha—sorry, wa—what do you mean Rick is dead?" Bob stammered, his composure shattering. His voice cracked, and his face betrayed the shock and disbelief he could no longer conceal. In that moment, he didn't care that no one else in the room—besides him and Jack—knew Hope's true identity.

"It's true… he's dead…" Mr. Smith said, his voice hollow as he stared at the floor, unable to meet Bob's gaze.

"You mean to tell me that the strongest hero was… killed?" Bob exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief.

"Yes… he was…" Mr. Smith mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"Don't lie to me, Jack… I swear to God, if you're lying to me, I will—" Bob began to shout, jabbing a finger toward Mr. Smith, completely ignoring the twelve soldiers with their guns trained on him.

"HE'S DEAD! What don't you understand? Do you think I 'want' to ask you for help? No!" Mr. Smith roared, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I hate you more than anything for what you did five years ago… and yet, here I am. That's how desperate I am."

Bob's shoulders slumped. He looked down, clutching his jaw, and stumbled over to the nearby couch, sinking into it. "He's… dead? No, no, no… he can't be. He visited me three days ago…" Bob muttered as he sat down, his eyes fixed on the ground. He ran both hands through his hair, trembling as he fought back tears, determined not to show too much weakness.

Bob sensed that Mr. Smith wasn't lying—his heartbeat gave him away.

"Who did it?" Bob murmured, still staring at the floor.

"We don't know…" Mr. Smith lied, a slight jump in his heartbeat betraying him. Bob's head snapped up, his glare piercing through Smith. "Ugh," Smith mumbled, the intensity in the room shifting once again. "It was… The Order…"

"So… what do you want me to do? Go after them?" Bob scoffed. "If they killed… Rick, what are my chances?" Bob continued, his voice heavy with defeat.

"It's not that… we need you to protect someone," Mr. Smith said, stepping closer to Bob.

"Huh?" Bob mumbled, finally looking up at Smith. "Why would I protect—"

"We need you to protect his son," Smith interrupted.

"Whose son?" Bob asked, standing up.

"Rick's," Smith answered, holding out a picture of a boy no older than twelve. The child had bright blue eyes, just like his father, and a mop of golden blonde hair.

"No fucking way…" Bob scoffed again. "He never told me he had a son." If Smith hadn't shown the picture, Bob might have thought it was a lie… but the boy was the spitting image of a younger Rick. "Why?"

"Because he inherited his father's power—reality manipulation. And The Order is after him," Smith explained. "You're the only one who's even remotely close to Rick in strength. No one else is capable of protecting him… or training him."

"Protect him? Train him? Me? No… I can't," Bob said, his eyes locking onto Smith's. "Do you really think I'm capable of that? You know what I've done… you know I'm… a monster. Do you really think I'd be a good role model?"

Without responding, Smith looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "You already knew how this conversation would go down… fucking brat…"

He turned back to Bob and said, "Read this," handing him a letter.

Bob's breath caught as he recognized the handwriting—it was Rick's. He took the letter and read it, his eyes scanning the words. It took him about forty seconds to finish, and by the end, he was on the verge of tears. A single tear escaped, which he quickly wiped away before looking Smith in the eyes and saying, "I'll do it…"