The living room hums with warm light and low chatter. A tower of board games sits on the coffee table—Jenga, Scrabble, Monopoly, each a promise of chaos. Two whiteboards for charades lean in the corner, abandoned but not forgotten. A bowl of popcorn, half-eaten, rests in the center. Four people lounge across couches and floor cushions like warriors resting between battles.

  Lilian beams, sitting cross-legged with a notepad still in her lap. “Now that there are four of us, I must say, double charades is far more enjoyable.”

  Chris groans dramatically, leaning back against the couch. “I still prefer singles.”

  Akio, sprawled across the rug, flicks a stray popcorn kernel at him. “What are you even complaining about? It’s not like you can’t draw, Mr. Billionaire Tech Inventor.”

  Chris points an accusing finger. “My drawings aren’t the problem. The problem,” he turns to Lilian with mock accusation, “is that my darling wife can’t guess for scat.”

  “Language, Chris,” Lilian warns.

  “I said scat.” he defends.

  Lilian huffs. “It’s not my fault that car looked like a giant wheel of cheese.”

  Chris looks like he’s just suffered a personal tragedy. “It had wheels, Lilian.”

  She shrugs, deadpan. “I know. Four wheels of cheese.”

  Alex snorts. Akio bursts out laughing. Chris glares at them both, wounded.

  “Okay,” Alex announces, lifting off her sprawl and clapping her hands together. “New game. Let’s play History of the World.”

  Chris groans, already anticipating his defeat. “You mean, Let’s Hustle Chris, because—” He slips into a truly offensive British accent. “‘I’ve lived through everything and Chris hasn’t.’”

  “Hey!” Alex protests. “I’m not British or Australian or—whatever that was supposed to be.”

  Akio flops over onto his stomach. “Not this again.”

  “British,” Chris insists, waving a finger in the air. “That was totally British. I was channeling my inner James Bond.”

  “Bond is smooth,” Akio counters. “Yours sounded like a raccoon in a blender. It should be a bit guttural, kinda like when Alex says ‘No.’”

  Chris nods in agreement with Akio, clearing his throat loudly before trying again. “No.”

  Akio mimics him, equally terrible. “No.”

  Chris stares. “No?”

  Alex watches, equal parts amused and horrified. “I might not be British,” she mutters, “but I am deeply offended on their behalf.”

  “You’re not getting the pitch right,” Lilian joins in, ever the teacher. “It’s all in the ‘oh.’ There’s supposed to be a lilt.”

  Alex squints perturbed at the absurdity unfolding before her. “What is happening?”

  “Alex,” Lilian says sweetly. “Why don’t you just show them how it’s done?”

  “No,” Alex says without thinking.

  A beat.

  Her eyes close in self-defeat, realizing she walked right into Lilian's trap. Chris and Akio burst into cackles.

  “Neow,” Chris mimics.

  “Neoh,” Akio joins.

  Lilian claps her hands. “Alright, boys. That’s enough making fun of Alex for one night.”

  Akio leans back, thoughtful. “Honestly, the word ‘no’ is beginning to lose all meaning to me.”

  “So,” Lilian says, nudging the topic back to Game Night related discussions. “History of the World, then?”

  Chris crosses his arms. “I never agreed to that.”

  “Too bad,” Alex says with a grin. “It’s happening.”

  “Fret not, Chris,” Akio says, bestowing an assuring pat on Chris’ knee. “I was born in the 1600s. So, I’m probably not going to be as dire a threat as Alex.”

  “Not many interesting things have happened since then, huh?” Chris snorts.

  Lilian raises an eyebrow. “World Wars One and Two weep for that statement.”

  “The American Revolution?” Alex offers. “Salem Witch Trials?”

  Chris waves his hands like a man swatting flies. “Either way, I’m not taking my chances against either of you.”

  Akio shrugs. “We could draft teams? You and Lilian get to pick between us?”

  “I call Alex!” Lilian declares immediately.

  Alex points at her. “Oh yeah.”

  Chris sputters. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Lilian confirms.

  Chris sighs. “So what, I’m stuck with Akio?”

  Akio, deadpan, doesn’t even look at him, focused on piecing together a discarded puzzle board. “I am sitting right here.”

  “I know stuff,” he adds petulantly.

  Chris isn’t convinced. “You just said you didn’t know as much as Alex.”

  “Naturally. She’s been around, what—two millennia? I’ve only got four and a half centuries under my belt.”

  Chris groans again. “Then why bother playing? We’re going to lose.”

  Chris hated losing, the only thing more amusing than watching Chris tear into people, was watching Chris be a sore loser.

  Akio straightens. “We’re not going to lose. I’ve witnessed some groundbreaking events. And what I didn’t live through, I read about.”

  Chris looks horrified. “Reading? Wonderful. Now I really don’t want to play.”

  “Aww, Chris,” Alex mocks. “Where’s your can-do attitude?”

  “I lost it at my Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Babe,” Lilian sighs. “You’re killing the vibe.”

  “I’m not playing History of the World, that’s it.”

  “Then what do you want to play?” Lilian asks.

  Chris reaches confidently for the Monopoly box. “How about this? I’ll show you how I built my company from the ground up, with nothing but my sheer will and ten dollars.”

  Everyone groans in unison.

  “Sheer will and ten dollars,” they chorus.

  Akio slumps dramatically. “We know.”

  Chris grins, undeterred. “Oh good, you’re familiar with the story already. This shouldn’t be difficult at all.”

  He rolls the dice with a flourish.

  “Helloooo,” Chris says, snapping his fingers with exaggerated flair. “Earth to Spock.”

  Alex blinks hard, like surfacing from deep underwater. “What?”

  The quiet hum of hospital machinery buzzes beneath the surface of the moment—a sterile lullaby punctuated by fluorescent flickers overhead. The light paints tired shadows beneath her eyes. Chris lies propped up against stiff hospital pillows, a thin blanket pulled over him like a reluctant afterthought, one arm slung lazily behind his head.

  “If you were human just now,” he says, eyeing her, “I’d have thought you were stroking out.”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes flick around the room like she’s trying to place herself in the scene—like the present hasn’t fully caught up to her mind yet.

  “Where’s the nurse?” she asks, voice thinner than she means it to be.

  “She left,” Chris replies, grinning like a teenager who just got away with something. “But not before I convinced her to smuggle me solid food later.”

  Alex levels a flat look at him. “You’re aware there’s a reason they don’t allow that, right?”

  “A well-placed donation says they’ll allow anything,” he says with a smug shrug, practically glowing with mischief.

  She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my God.”

  A beat passes—long, stretching—and the air between them shifts. Not tense, exactly. Just... heavy. Weighted with things neither of them are ready to say out loud. Chris watches her. Watches the way her eyes drift toward the floor. The way her hands twitch like they want something to hold on to. The way she folds in on herself without meaning to.

  “You still haven’t said what’s going on in that overclocked brain of yours,” he says.

  “Consciously or unconsciously?” she mutters, dry as sandpaper.

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Dealer’s choice. Let’s start with tonight’s bombshell.”

  Alex She hesitates, jaw clenching like she’s physically chewing through the thought. Then finally, “Rick said he’d take me to see my parents. If I helped.”

  Chris raises a brow. “And Rick is...?”

  “Henry’s dad. The one from—”

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  “Right, Spaceville. Got it.” He sits forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “And?”

  “I’m... confused.”

  Chris nods once. Waits.

  “He sounded desperate about it,” she says, brow furrowing. “Like he offered it because he didn’t know what else to say. Like it was his last card.”

  “The problem being...?” he prompts.

  She looks at him, frustrated. “The problem is he sounded desperate, Chris. Like the promise wasn’t real. Like maybe it never was.”

  Chris exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “People tend to make promises they can’t keep when they’re drowning.”

  “Exactly. What if he can’t take me to them? What if there are no parents? What if I was just—left here?” Her voice dips at the end, small. Unprotected.

  He watches her a moment. Doesn’t say anything right away. Just lets her spiral.

  She shakes her head, voice sharper now, like she’s trying to cut through her own noise. “It’s not just that. It’s the idea that maybe everything I thought I was—everything I believed—was wrong. That maybe it wasn’t magic. That maybe it was just… alien tech. Cold science. What if I was just a cosmic accident, dumped here and forgotten?”

  She trails off, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

  There’s a pause. Then—

  “You know,” Chris says quietly, “it really doesn’t matter.”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “I said it doesn’t matter.” His voice is firm now, serious in a way that cuts through her panic like a scalpel. “Not to me. Not to Akio. Not to Lilian, back when she was still with us. We love you whether you were sculpted from celestial dust or shot out of a flying saucer. I mean, granted, the flying saucer thing would be sick—but that’s not the point.”

  He shifts upright with a wince, then fixes her with a look that’s all-in, no escape hatch.

  “You always talk like your value’s a receipt. Like it’s this thing you have to prove—through action, through sacrifice, through some kind of unending apology tour. But you’re part of this chaos, part of this weird, messy, sarcastic little family we’ve built. And that’s enough. You’re enough. No cosmic backstory required.””

  She doesn’t speak. Her jaw works once, then tightens. Her eyes glisten, but not in a soft, sentimental way. It’s the kind of glisten that signals a storm’s trying to fight its way down.

  For a second, he thinks she’s about to bite back, to say something sarcastic or scathing. But instead, she just exhales.

  “Damn it.”

  Chris leans back with a satisfied grin.

  He knows that look.

  That look always comes right before she does something wildly reckless.

  “I take it you’re convinced, then?”

  Alex sighs, shooting him a sideways glare. “I hate how nice associating with you has made me.”

  Chris beams. “That’s the spirit.”

  ~~~

  Flames spiral into the sky like they're trying to reach the stars. Choppers circle overhead, their searchlights cutting through thick columns of black smoke. The remains of the facility lie in a molten crater, concrete still glowing red-hot.

  Emergency crews try to keep a perimeter, but nothing makes sense.

  A shaky handheld camcorder—clearly not standard government issue—zooms in on a scorched slab of metal half-sunken into the earth. A giant smoking handprint is imprinted in its surface, fingers splayed wide as if something enormous had slammed it down mid-rampage.

  A handful of agents in suits are scattered around the site, all looking equally useless. Jackets read FBI, CIA, NSA—pick a three-letter agency, they’re here and completely out of their depth.

  One agent clutches a walkie-talkie like it’s a life vest. “We’ve got zero confirmation on what those two things were. One eyewitness said ‘lava man.’ Another said ‘urban Cthulhu.’”

  “I think one of them was lava,” another mumbles, staring dumbly at the cracked ground still hissing steam.

  Farther in, a survivor screams at the feds, wild-eyed and rambling. “He looked at me and my skin started peeling! And the tentacles—they came out of his chest! Like a dozen snakes—snakes with claws!”

  Nelzux had walked through the front entrance like a wrecking ball wrapped in a man’s shape. Heat vision had sliced through reinforced steel as if it were paper. Then came the blast—raw energy, erupting from his body in a shockwave that shattered glass and spines in a two-block radius.

  Nod had followed behind, slow and smiling, chest blooming open like a nightmare. The tentacles came out fast—thick, veiny things that twisted mid-air and grabbed whatever moved. They didn’t just destroy—they studied before smashing. Like they enjoyed it.

  Now, there was no sign of them. Just residual heat, twitching wreckage, and the kind of silence that says they’re not gone, just waiting.

  A rookie agent turns to his superior, face pale. “Sir… what the hell are we dealing with?”

  The man works his jaw for a couple of seconds before striding away from the scene.

  “I need to make a call.”

  ~~~

  The flicker of a TV screen casts a blue pallor over the room. A news broadcast blares, footage replaying the aftermath of a recent supernatural skirmish. The General lowers the phone, the hum of the dial tone lingering longer in his head than it should. He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that tries to leave something behind. No luck.

  “Bastards move fast,” he mutters, two fingers massaging the side of his temple.

  His jaw clenches so tight it looks like his teeth might snap. His fingers dig into the phone still in his grasp, glass creaking under the pressure. Rage simmers beneath his skin.

  His assistant lingers near the corner, too well-trained to speak, but not immune to the tension. Her eyes dart between the TV and her superior, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.

  The CIA had sounded too calm. Too prepared. Like they’d been waiting for this particular crisis to land in their lap. Rogue aliens, unexplained tech spikes, compromised military assets—it was a recipe for overreach. For buried files. For "necessary disappearances.”

  Without warning, the door bursts open with a bang. Two privates march in, dragging a man between them—Clifford. His jacket is torn, glasses askew, face flushed with exertion. He looks like he’s been running through hell and didn’t make it all the way out.

  The General rises slowly, eyes narrowing as he clicks off the TV. The remote clatters onto the desk as he turns his full attention to the new arrival.

  “Professor,” he says, his voice like gravel underfoot. “Nice of you to finally show up to work.”

  “Caught him trying to skip town, sir,” says one of the privates, tightening his grip on the professor’s arm.

  The General doesn’t look at them—his eyes are locked on the disheveled man now trembling before him.

  “And all without filing the proper paperwork,” the General says, voice laced with venom.

  He steps around the desk with the calm menace of a predator, stopping mere inches from the professor. The man flinches as the General leans in, his breath hot and heavy.

  “I-I wasn’t trying to—” the man stammers, voice shaking.

  The General cuts him off with a whisper that somehow feels louder than a shout.

  “Where’s my crystal?”

  ~~~

  The café is nearly empty, save for the soft hum of the television and the tense, rapid breaths of two men seated near the counter. Chairs remain upturned on tables, the kitchen dark behind the pass-through window. The only source of light spills from the TV mounted high on the wall, bathing the place in cold blue hues.

  Onscreen, flames dance atop a mountain of twisted steel and shattered glass. What used to be a biotech facility now lies in smoldering ruin, its skeletal remains sagging under the weight of destruction. Emergency responders swarm the area, neon vests lit by the inferno as they drag wounded bodies from the rubble.

  A news anchor narrates over the carnage. “...completely leveled. Witnesses describe two figures—one cloaked in shadows, the other with skin like molten stone—appearing moments before the explosion.”

  Cut to shaky phone footage: a blur of movement, followed by a man screaming, “They didn’t use weapons! The shadow guy just looked at the wall and it disintegrated!” Another woman, face streaked with ash and panic, chimes in, “And the other one tore through the walls—like actual tentacles— I swear to God!”

  Henry rubs a hand down his face, eyes wide, jaw tight. The footage replays. Again. And again. Heat vision carving a perfect line through reinforced concrete. A hulking shape erupting with writhing limbs from its chest like something out of a nightmare. The camera shakes violently before it cuts to black.

  “This is seriously getting out of hand, they just keep hitting random Biotech Facilities.” Henry mutters, almost to himself.

  Rick stands beside him, arms crossed, features unreadable as he watches the destruction on screen. His face barely moves as he replies, “We need to change our approach,” he says. “Our next course of action should be to threaten Chris. Maybe that would force Alex to comply.”

  Henry jerks his head toward him, appalled. “A-Are you trying to get us killed?”

  Rick doesn’t flinch. “We need her help, Henry. The both of us alone can’t do what needs to be done.”

  “Gee, Dad, maybe you should’ve thought of that before pissing her off!” Henry snaps, exasperation finally boiling over. He waves toward the TV. “You think threatening probably the only person who can assist us in stopping this is a good idea? That’s your plan?”

  “All I did was tell her the truth,” Rick says calmly, as if stating the weather.

  Henry throws up his hands. “And look how marvelous that turned out.”

  Rick exhales through his nose, slow and measured. But for once, he doesn’t have a rebuttal.

  Henry slumps into one of the booths, raking a hand through his hair. The TV flickers—another shaky clip of Nod turning a security drone to ash with a wave of his hand.

  “We need to think of something fast.” Henry mutters.

  Outside, police sirens wail like a dirge echoing into the night. Inside the cafe, the only sound is the flicker of flames on-screen and the steady unraveling of whatever order they had left.

  ~~~

  The news plays quietly on the corner-mounted television, but it feels louder than a bomb. Each word, each flashing image, punches through the silence of the hospital room like a drumbeat. There's no escaping it—not even in the sterile calm of recovery.

  Alex sits cross-legged in the vinyl chair by the window, arms folded tightly across her chest. The blue glow of the screen paints shadows on her face. She stares up at it, unmoving, unreadable. Something about her seems smaller now. Like the weight of the day has finally settled on her shoulders and started to crush her just a little.

  Chris is the one lying in the bed, tubes trailing from his arms, a beeping machine to his right monitoring every heartbeat—but his attention is fixed entirely on her.

  “They are so going to whoop my ass,” Alex mutters.

  Chris raises an eyebrow. It’s an expression of disbelief, and maybe a little amusement, like she’s completely lost her mind.

  “You’re Alex Jordan,” he says with mock-seriousness. “Nobody whoops your ass.”

  Alex doesn’t respond right away. Then she exhales sharply, the breath catching at the edge of a laugh. “Oh, you should’ve seen me running for my life.”

  Chris shrugs, a casual motion that says so what? “We all have our off days.”

  For a moment, silence settles between them again. Heavy, but not unwelcome. Chris glances toward the button beside his bed, the one the nurse told him to press if anything felt wrong.

  “You know I’ll be fine, right?” he says, pointing. “If I have any problem, the cute nurse told me to push this.”

  Alex finally turns her head, just a little, giving him a weary, grateful smile. But her eyes are somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

  “It’s not so much you,” she says quietly. “The problem is me.”

  Chris doesn’t miss a beat. “You got issues. So what? We all do. It’s what puts the whew! in human.”

  Alex lets out a chuckle, dry and faintly incredulous. “That was terrible.”

  Chris just grins wider.

  “Come on,” she says. “What are you gonna do? Mope around and watch me eat green Jell-O all day? Or save the world so the nice nurse lady can find me some chicken afterward?”

  She leans forward slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing, she’s about to say something, but Chris cuts in.

  He raises a finger like he’s about to make a grand philosophical point. “Before you decide—do note you need to have a world to stay retired in.”

  “You know, I’m almost certain pep talks don’t go this way.”

  Chris waves a hand. “How would you know? Your last pep talk was probably from Genghis Khan.”

  She smirks. “He was surprisingly good at it, too.”

  Chris scoffs. “Please. I know for a fact I’m better.”

  That gets a real smile out of her—tired, but genuine. Then she stands, stretching out the stiffness in her limbs. Chris watches her closely now. He senses it. Something’s shifting.

  “I’m going to go look for Henry,” she says.

  Chris lights up like a kid at Christmas. He throws his arms up in triumph—then winces as the IV line rattles dangerously.

  “Yes!” he yells, grinning like an idiot.

  Alex laughs, shaking her head.

  He swats her out of the room like an annoying gnat. “Go on. Go fight some aliens-slash-rogue war generals. I’ll be right here eating what might be brain matter and waiting.”

  She heads toward the door, muttering under her breath. “Unless, of course, you die and I have to come get you instead, but let’s not do that.”

  Her hand is on the door when she stops. She lingers, obviously wrestling with something. Chris watches her, eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Uh, Chris—?” she says without turning.

  “Yeah?”

  Alex hesitates. “About the Jaguar…”

  Chris immediately straightens up in bed, alert. “What about the Jaguar?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but whatever thought crosses her mind—she buries it. Shrugs.

  “Never mind,” she says with a small wave. “It’s fine.”

  He doesn’t push. She looks back at him one last time before walking through the door.

  Chris watches her go, eyes softening. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though he hides it beneath a long, dramatic sigh.

  “Don’t die, alright?”

  The door clicks shut behind her. The room is suddenly quieter. The buzz of the television returns, filling the void she leaves behind.

  Chris stares at the call button again. His fingers hover over it.