He had died- honorably, he'd like to think, despite living as a villain and an assassin for over half a century- and that, as far as Xanxus had ever figured, would be the end of that. No heaven. No hell. Just life when you were breathing and nothingness when you stopped. Except that it didn't, quite, turn out that way. Except he came back as the son of the kindest, sometimes saddest father in the world. In both worlds. A father that he knew, without a doubt, to be his flesh and blood. All at once, Xanxus had everything he'd wanted as a child. A home. A family. Stability. And he was going to fight like hell and beat down anyone who tried to take it from him, no matter what his age. (In which Sakumo raises a son who speaks multiple languages from birth, all of them gibberish to the poor single father jounin, spits vulgarity with the same ease as he does his praise and burns with an unshakable determination to build himself a family that will not fall, no matter who or what is thrown against it.)

From the beginning, there was something odd about Namimori. In a world where every city had its own method of dealing with the bane of humanity that were ghouls, Namimori was the first place Reborn had ever been that felt safe to him. People were calm and unafraid on the streets, even after dark. It was remarkable and at first he thought it was due to the fact that Namimori's police force had some sort of foolproof guard against ghouls. But then he noticed the distinct lack of graveyards. By the time Reborn really understood what kept Namimori safe, it was too late to do anything about it. After all, the successor was being tutored, the guardians were chosen, and Xanxus was bearing down on them with half the Vongola rings and all of his wrath. All there was left to do was wait and see.