Jake hunched his shoulders against the morning chill, fingers trembling as he tried to light a cigarette butt he'd found on the sidewalk. The lighter flickered three times before catching, and he sucked greedily at the half-inch of tobacco remaining. Merchant territory—or what used to be Merchant territory—had gone to shit since the Empire raid. No more easy hookups, no more protection. Just empty warehouses and desperate souls wandering the concrete wasteland.

  His stomach cramped, a familiar pain he'd learned to ignore. Three days since his last meal, unless you counted the half-eaten burger he'd fished from a dumpster behind Fugly Bob's. He'd gotten high that night, too high to remember if he'd actually eaten it or just passed out clutching it.

  Jake shuffled past the abandoned garage that had once housed Squealer's workshop. Where Mush had handed out assignments and skidmark had ranted his deranged poetry of violence and drugs. All gone now. Skidmark, Squealer, Mush—vanished into the Empire machine, or so the rumors said.

  "Hey there, brother! You lookin' hungry this morning!" A voice boomed across the street, clear and strong.

  Jake froze. That voice—he knew that voice, but not like this. Not this... clean.

  He turned slowly toward the voice, cigarette forgotten between his lips. Across the way, a gathering had formed in what had once been an empty lot. Pop-up tents in white and blue stood in neat rows, with tables underneath them. People moved about, some sitting and eating, others serving food.

  And there at the center stood Adam Mustain.

  Skidmark.

  Except... not Skidmark. Not anymore.

  "That's right! Come on over! No one turns away hungry from Adam's table!" The man wore pressed khakis and a button-up shirt the color of summer sky. His teeth—fuck, his teeth were white, not the rotting yellow-black Jake remembered. "We got hot meals, medical attention, and a chance to turn it all around! Come on now!"

  Jake approached cautiously, as if crossing a minefield. This had to be a trap. Had to be. But the smell of food hit him like a physical force, making his knees weak.

  Adam spotted him, recognition dawning in his clear—clear?—eyes. "Jake! Man, look at you! Been a minute, brother. Come get yourself something hot."

  Jake couldn't reconcile this man with the foul-mouthed, drug-addled leader who'd once pissed on a rival gang member's corpse while laughing. This Adam stood straight, his movements deliberate, his smile genuine.

  "Adam?" Jake croaked. "The fuck happened to you, man?"

  Adam clapped him on the shoulder. The touch was firm but not threatening. "Life happened, my friend. Life and a second chance. Come on, let's get some food in you first, then we can talk."

  He guided Jake to a serving table where a line of people—homeless, addicts, former gang members—waited patiently. Adam grabbed a clean plate and handed it to Jake.

  "Sherrel! We need another round of that beautiful stew of yours!"

  A woman emerged from a mobile kitchen trailer, carrying a steaming pot. Her blonde hair was styled in a neat bob, pearl necklace gleaming against her neck. She wore a knee-length dress with a subtle floral pattern, cinched at the waist with a thin belt. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she approached.

  Jake's cigarette fell from his open mouth. "Squealer?"

  The woman winked at him. "It's just Sherrel now, honey. Adam, this pot's heavy, be a dear and take it."

  Adam rushed to relieve her of the burden, setting it on the serving table. "Thank you, sweetheart. Jake here is an old associate. He's joining us for breakfast."

  Sherrel's smile never wavered as she appraised Jake. "Well, he looks like he could use a good meal and a hot shower. Emily and Wendy are bringing more bread."

  As if summoned by her words, two more women appeared from the kitchen trailer. Jake recognized them immediately despite their transformed appearances.

  Emily—once called Burnout—wore a similar dress to Sherrel's, though hers was a darker blue that complemented her pale skin. Her formerly wild and curly brown hair was now neatly styled, framing a face dusted with freckles. She carried a basket of fresh bread.

  Beside her walked Wendy, formerly Whirligig. Her thin frame was clothed in a pale yellow dress, her long dark hair now falling in soft waves. She wore a string of pearls identical to Sherrel's and carried a tray of butter pats.

  "Ladies! Just in time," Adam called out cheerfully. "Jake, you remember Emily and Wendy."

  The women smiled at him in unison. It was the most terrifying thing Jake had ever seen.

  "Have a seat over there," Adam said, ladling a generous portion of stew onto Jake's plate. "Eat up. You look like you need it."

  Jake drifted toward the indicated table, still processing what he was seeing. He sat under one of the white tents, noticing for the first time the elegant emblem embroidered on its corner: a leaping white-tailed deer inside a circular crest. Below it, in flowing script: "Property of the Deer Lodge."

  The stew was rich with chunks of beef, potatoes, and carrots. Jake ate mechanically at first, then with increasing enthusiasm as his body responded to the nourishment. Warmth spread through him, making his eyes water.

  Around him, other down-and-outs ate with similar gratitude. Some chatted quietly, others kept to themselves. Jake noticed a man moving through the crowd with a clipboard, stopping at each table to speak with the diners.

  When the man reached Jake's table, he pulled up a chair without asking. "Good morning. I'm conducting health assessments for everyone here today. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

  Jake shrugged, mouth full of bread. The man was tall and athletic, with intelligent eyes that assessed Jake clinically.

  "Do you have any immediate health concerns? Pain, illness, injuries?"

  Jake swallowed. "My teeth hurt. Back too. Got a cough that won't quit."

  The man made notes on his clipboard. "Any allergies? Current medications? When was your last tetanus shot?"

  Jake answered mechanically, watching the man's practiced movements. Something clicked in his memory.

  "You're Uber," he said suddenly.

  The man paused, pen hovering over paper. A small smile played at his lips. "Just call me Daniel. I work as a medical assistant with the Deer Lodge outreach program."

  "But you were Uber. You and Leet—"

  "We all have pasts," Daniel said evenly. "Some more colorful than others. I'm focused on my future now. As you should be."

  He continued his assessment, noting Jake's dilated pupils, trembling hands, and poor dental condition. Unlike a normal doctor, he offered no immediate remedies or prescriptions.

  "Thank you for your cooperation," Daniel said when he'd finished. "Someone will follow up with you before you leave." He moved on to the next table.

  A microphone squealed, drawing everyone's attention to a small raised platform at the front of the gathering. Adam stood there, adjusting the mic stand.

  "Brothers and sisters," he began, his voice carrying powerfully across the lot. "First, I want to thank y'all for coming out today. Big thanks to the Deer Lodge for providing this space, these resources, and this opportunity."

  A smattering of applause rose from the crowd.

  "Look around you. What do you see?" Adam gestured widely. "I see survivors. I see fighters. I see people who've been knocked down by life but keep getting back up."

  Jake watched, mesmerized by this new Adam. The cadence of his speech flowed like a practiced orator's, nothing like Skidmark's cocaine-fueled rants.

  "Most of you know me. Know my story. I was the worst of the worst, am I right?" Adam chuckled self-deprecatingly. "The things I put in my body would've killed a lesser man. The things I said, the things I did—I'm not proud of that man I was."

  He paced the small stage, hands moving expressively.

  "Addiction is a prison, my friends. A prison without walls because we carry the bars with us wherever we go. We think the drugs give us freedom, but they're just another kind of chains."

  Jake shifted uncomfortably. He'd never heard addiction described so accurately before.

  "I was lost. So lost I couldn't see daylight anymore. My relationship was toxic. My business was destroying lives. I was destroying myself one hit at a time."

  Adam paused, eyes scanning the crowd. They seemed to land directly on Jake.

  "But then I got help. The right kind of help. And now?" He spread his arms. "Now I got purpose. Now I got clarity. Now I'm standing here looking at all of you, knowing you can have the same thing."

  Beside the stage, Sherrel, Emily, and Wendy stood in a neat row, nodding in agreement.

  "The Deer Lodge has a program," Adam continued. "A treatment program like nothing you've ever seen. It works, people. It really works." He tapped his chest. "I'm living proof. Look at me now. Clean. Healthy. Purposeful."

  Jake glanced around, seeing the hope blossoming on faces around him. Some were clearly skeptical, but many looked desperate enough to try anything.

  "We've got openings starting today. No cost. No waiting list. Just a genuine chance to break those chains for good." Adam's voice dropped to an intimate level. "Who here is tired? Tired of the struggle, tired of the pain, tired of watching life pass you by while you chase the next high?"

  Hands rose tentatively throughout the crowd. After a moment, Jake raised his own.

  "Then let us help you. Let us show you another way."

  Adam stepped from the platform as two men in Deer Lodge uniforms began distributing clipboards with forms attached. The crowd murmured, some eagerly reaching for the papers, others hanging back.

  Jake stared at his empty bowl, mind racing. He knew what this was. Had to be Miss Stepford's work. The transformation was too complete, too... perfect. Adam, Sherrel, all of them—brainwashed into these clean-cut, helpful versions of themselves.

  A clipboard appeared before him. The form was simple: name, basic information, and a consent paragraph authorizing "therapeutic intervention."

  Miss Stepford had gotten to the Merchants. Turned Skidmark into this community leader. Turned Squealer into a perfect housewife. The rumors had been right, but nobody had guessed the extent of it.

  Jake should run. Every instinct told him to get the hell out of here before they got him too.

  But then what? Back to the streets? Back to scrounging for food, for drugs, for some semblance of dignity?

  He looked up at Adam, now circulating among the tables, patting shoulders, offering encouragement. The man looked... happy. Genuinely happy. Jake couldn't remember ever feeling that way.

  When the clipboard reached him, Jake stared at it for a long moment. His life was already a wreck. How much worse could being brainwashed really be?

  At least he'd be clean. At least he'd have purpose.

  His hand trembled as he picked up the pen. Across the page, he scrawled his name.

  Adam appeared at his shoulder, that unnervingly perfect smile beaming down at him. "Good choice, brother. Good choice."

  Jake nodded, unable to meet those clear eyes. "Whatever, man. Not like I got anything better going on."

  Adam's hand squeezed his shoulder. "That feeling right there? That resignation? That's the last negative thought you're gonna have for a long, long time."

  Jake looked up sharply, but Adam was already moving away, his voice rising as he called out to others.

  Sherrel approached, carrying a clipboard of her own. "We'll be starting the first session after lunch, honey. Daniel noted your dental issues—we'll address those first thing tomorrow."

  "Just like that? Free dentist?"

  "The Deer Lodge takes care of its own," Sherrel said, her voice melodic, nothing like the raspy growl Jake remembered. "And you're one of us now."

  Jake watched her walk away, heels clicking rhythmically on the pavement. The enormity of what he'd just agreed to washed over him, but with it came something unexpected.

  Relief.

  He was tired of fighting. Tired of scrounging. Tired of the constant chase.

  If this was surrender, maybe surrender wasn't so bad after all.

  The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chatter, but beneath the normal social rhythms ran an undercurrent of tension. At the corner table near the windows, Madison nestled against Greg's side, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. Julia and Charlotte sat across from them, picking at their lunches with less enthusiasm than usual.

  "I still get shivers thinking about it," Charlotte said, setting down her fork. "Like being locked in a glass box, watching yourself move and talk, but you can't control anything."

  Madison nodded, unconsciously pressing closer to Greg. "The worst part was knowing exactly what was happening. If I'd blacked out or something, maybe it wouldn't have been so... violating."

  "At least those losers didn't actually do anything to us," Julia said, her voice hardening with contempt. "Other than that creep Leet staring at Emma like she was a piece of meat."

  Greg's arm tightened around Madison. "Used to think they were just pathetic jokes. Now I know they're dangerous pathetic jokes."

  "Still wish I could've gotten a shot at them," Charlotte muttered. "Watching them control everyone like puppets on strings..."

  "Like Emma did?" Julia grinned, some of her usual spirit returning. "Speaking of..."

  Emma Barnes strode across the cafeteria, her designer bag swinging from her shoulder. Her auburn hair was perfectly styled, and she wore a satisfied smile that hadn't dimmed in the week since the incident.

  "Ladies," she greeted, sliding onto the bench beside Charlotte. "Greg."

  "Here she goes again," Charlotte murmured, but there was fondness in her eye-roll.

  Emma pulled out her lunch container. "What? I didn't even say anything."

  "You didn't have to," Madison giggled. "Your face says 'let me tell you again how I beat up Uber' all on its own."

  Emma pretended to look offended, then broke into a smirk. "Well, since you brought it up... you should have seen his face when he realized I wasn't some helpless damsel. When I threw that first punch—"

  "—his eyes bulged out of his skull," the group finished in unison, then burst into laughter.

  Emma huffed. "Fine, maybe I've mentioned it once or twice."

  "Or seventeen times," Greg said. "Not that I'm counting."

  "We'd probably be more annoyed if we weren't all wishing we could've done the same," Charlotte admitted.

  "Hey, I got my licks in," Greg said, puffing his chest slightly. "When Leet was distracted and Uber hadn't given specific enough commands... BAM!" He pantomimed a punch. "Right in his stupid face."

  Madison beamed up at him. "My hero."

  "Speaking of heroes," Julia lowered her voice, leaning forward, "has anyone heard anything about Sophia?"

  The mood at the table dimmed instantly. Emma's smile vanished.

  "Nothing," she said, pushing food around her container. "She hasn't been home. Her mom's frantic. The police are treating it as a kidnapping, but..." She trailed off, her eyes distant with worry.

  "You don't think Leet would actually..." Madison couldn't finish the thought.

  "I don't know," Emma said, her voice smaller than any of them were used to hearing. "We were both taken to their hideout, but I was... I was fighting Uber when everything went down. I don't know what happened to her after that."

  A heavy silence fell over the table. Whatever their complicated history with Sophia, none of them wanted to contemplate what might have happened to her.

  Emma straightened suddenly, forcing brightness back into her expression. "Oh! There's Taylor."

  Their eyes followed her gaze to see Taylor making her way across the cafeteria, carefully balancing her tray while clutching a book under one arm. Her curly dark hair was neatly styled, and she walked with the poised grace she'd gradually developed over the past year—such a contrast to the awkward, hunched girl she'd once been. She'd been absent for most of the week, and rumors had circulated that she'd been affected worst by Uber and Leet's device despite no one remembering her being at the school at the time.

  he arrived at their table, setting her tray down with meticulous care. "Sorry I'm late. I had to check on something in the library."

  "We were just talking about Sophia," Emma informed her, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

  Taylor's expression fell. "Still nothing?"

  Emma shook her head, and Taylor sighed, sliding into her seat. After a moment, she seemed to remember the book tucked under her arm and extended it toward Madison.

  "Oh, I wanted to give you this. It's the book for your parents we talked about. I finally finished it." The cover was nondescript—a muted blue with an elegant font that read "Partnership Harmony: Rebuilding Connections."

  Madison didn't immediately take it. Her eyes fixed on the book, expression conflicted. A tense silence fell over the table.

  Taylor's hand remained extended, the book hanging in the air between them. After a moment, her brow furrowed in confusion, then understanding dawned in her eyes. Her hand lowered slightly.

  "Oh," she said softly, glancing around at her friends' faces. "I see."

  The realization was clear on her face—they were wary of her now, or at least of the special books she provided. After experiencing Uber and Leet's forced mind control, the line between that violation and Taylor's "study aids" had become uncomfortably blurred.

  Taylor's shoulders slumped minutely, her usual perfect posture faltering. She slowly withdrew the book, careful to keep her expression neutral, though her eyes betrayed her hurt.

  "I understand," she said quietly. "After what happened last week... I should have realized. I can take it back if you'd prefer."

  The pain in Taylor's voice was evident despite her attempt to hide it, and Madison bit her lip, clearly torn. She looked at Greg, who gave a small, supportive nod, then back at Taylor.

  "No," Madison said finally, reaching for the book. "No, I still want it."

  Taylor's eyes widened slightly. "Are you sure? I don't want you to feel—"

  "I'm sure," Madison interrupted, taking the book from Taylor's hands and clutching it to her chest. "What happened with Uber and Leet was completely different. That was... that was violation. Pure and simple." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Just because I had one bad experience doesn't mean I should discard everything good that's come from Winslow's special study aids."

  "I get it," Taylor said quietly. "After what happened, I understand why you'd be hesitant."

  "It's not that we don't trust you," Charlotte said quickly. "It's just..."

  "Made us all think about how easily our minds can be... influenced," Greg finished.

  Taylor nodded, looking down at her tray. The hurt was evident on her face despite her efforts to hide it.

  Madison exchanged glances with the others, then leaned forward. "Hey, the book is great. Really." She gave Greg a peck on the cheek. "And look how well things are working out for us. My parents have been at each other's throats for years. If this helps them find some happiness together instead of just staying together for appearances, I'm all for it."

  Greg smiled, pulling her closer. "Definitely not complaining here."

  Charlotte cleared her throat. "Actually, Taylor, I was thinking... after what happened, a lot of students are still on edge. Maybe you could suggest that some 'calming music' be played during the morning announcements? Something to help everyone feel more... normal again."

  Taylor looked up, surprise and hope flickering across her face. "You think that would help?"

  "I do," Charlotte nodded. "Music therapy is a real thing, right? And if anyone knows what kind of music would be soothing after... well, after that kind of experience, it would be you."

  Taylor's eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "I... yes, I could definitely do that."

  "That's a great idea, Charlotte," Emma said, reaching over to squeeze Taylor's hand. "And Taylor, we're all just processing. Don't take it personally."

  Taylor nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes. "No, I get it. Really. And I'm sorry I wasn't here most of the week. I should have been here for all of you."

  "Group hug?" Madison suggested, already standing up.

  The girls circled around the table, enveloping Taylor in a warm embrace. Greg watched with an indulgent smile.

  When they settled back into their seats, the mood had lightened considerably.

  "So," Julia said, deliberately changing the subject, "midterms are coming up, and then we're practically in the home stretch for the year. Anyone have summer plans yet?"

  "I'm hoping to convince my parents to let me go to computer camp at Brockton Community College," Greg said.

  Madison pouted playfully. "And leave me all alone?"

  "It's only three weeks," he protested. "And I'd come see you every evening."

  "You'd better," she warned, though her eyes were twinkling.

  "What about you, Emma?" Charlotte asked. "Modeling gigs lined up?"

  Emma brightened, smoothing her hair with practiced grace. "Actually, yes. I have a new photoshoot next week. I get to debut Parian's new line."

  "The rogue cape who makes those amazing dresses?" Julia's eyes widened. "That's huge!"

  "I know," Emma preened. "Her work is incredible. So detailed you'd swear it was alive."

  "Will we get to see the photos?" Madison asked.

  "Maybe even better," Emma said. "If the shoot goes well, there's talk of a small runway show at the mall. I could probably get you all passes."

  The conversation flowed more naturally now, turning to fashion and summer plans, the earlier tension mostly dissipated. Taylor participated, but her mind seemed elsewhere, likely already planning the music she would suggest to Principal Blackwell.

  "Did you hear about Mrs. Washington?" Charlotte asked during a lull. "She's been asking some weird questions."

  "What kind of questions?" Taylor asked, attention snapping back to the conversation.

  "About the study guides, the school's improvement, things like that," Charlotte shrugged. "She asked me if I felt different after using them."

  "What did you tell her?" Emma asked, her posture subtly tensing.

  "Just that they helped me focus better," Charlotte said. "Nothing weird about that. Lots of study methods claim to do the same."

  "She asked me if I'd always wanted to be a homemaker," Madison added. "Like it was strange that I'd want to focus on building a family someday."

  Greg squeezed her shoulders. "Nothing wrong with knowing what you want."

  "Exactly what I told her," Madison nodded. "But then she started asking about how many girls at Winslow felt the same way. Like she was looking for some pattern."

  "She cornered me yesterday too," Julia frowned. "Asking if I've noticed changes in myself or my friends over the past year."

  Taylor and Emma exchanged a quick glance.

  "She's new," Taylor said carefully. "Probably just trying to understand the school culture."

  "Maybe," Charlotte didn't sound convinced. "But she seemed more... investigative than curious, if that makes sense."

  "I wouldn't worry about it," Emma waved a dismissive hand. "Substitute teachers always try too hard to connect with students. She'll be gone when Mrs. Johnson comes back from maternity leave."

  The conversation shifted again, but Taylor remained quieter than before, occasionally glancing toward the teacher's table where a slender woman with dark hair sat eating alone, her attention seemingly focused on a book propped open before her.

  "Did you guys decide what you're wearing to the spring formal yet?" Julia asked the table at large.

  "I found the perfect dress last weekend," Madison gushed. "It's this gorgeous pale blue with silver accents. Mom said it was too expensive, but Dad caved immediately."

  "Daddy's little girl," Emma teased.

  Madison didn't deny it. "Greg's going to wear a matching tie."

  "Am I?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

  "You are now," Madison informed him sweetly.

  "Yes, dear," he sighed, but his smile was fond.

  "What about you, Taylor?" Charlotte asked. "Are you and Theo going?"

  Taylor pulled her attention back to the table. "Oh, um, yes. We're going. He's taking me shopping this weekend to find something."

  "Ooh, boyfriend-approved dress shopping," Julia wiggled her eyebrows. "Fancy."

  "It's not like that," Taylor protested, her cheeks coloring slightly. "He just has good taste."

  "Medhall money will buy you good taste," Emma nodded sagely, then ducked as Taylor swatted at her.

  "Theo's not like that and you know it," Taylor said, but she was smiling now.

  "Speaking of money," Madison said, "did you guys see the new Deer Lodge community center they're building downtown? They've already got like three shelters and a food pantry going."

  "My dad says they're doing more for the city than the mayor," Julia added. "He's thinking of joining."

  Taylor's smile grew a touch fixed. "They're certainly making an impact."

  "Better them than the Empire," Greg shrugged. "At least they're helping people rather than beating them up."

  "True," Charlotte nodded. "Though it's weird how so many former Empire guys are part of it now."

  "People can change," Taylor said, her voice quiet but firm. "Sometimes they just need the right motivation."

  The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period. The group gathered their things, splitting up to head to their respective afternoon classes.

  "Taylor, wait up," Emma called as the others moved ahead. She lowered her voice when Taylor paused. "Everything okay? You seem... distracted."

  Taylor glanced around, then sighed. "Just worried about Sophia. And everything else. The Police, the PRT... they've been looking everywhere for her."

  Emma squeezed her arm. "We'll find her. And when we do, we'll help her, okay? Like we always planned."

  Taylor nodded, but her expression remained troubled. "What if... what if she doesn't want our help anymore, Em?"

  "Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Emma said firmly. "One problem at a time, okay?"

  Taylor took a deep breath, then nodded. "You're right. One problem at a time."

  As they headed toward their classes, Taylor cast one last glance back at the cafeteria, where Mrs. Washington was gathering her things, her dark eyes scanning the departing students with what might have been casual interest—or something more calculating.

  Hannah Washington—known to the Protectorate as Miss Militia—scowled at the stack of essays before her. Red pen in hand, she circled another perfectly formed thesis statement, grudgingly adding a "++" in the margin. The paper belonged to Charlotte Wong, who had written a nuanced comparison of Roosevelt's New Deal policies to modern economic interventions.

  "Damn it," she muttered, setting the essay aside in the growing "excellent" pile.

  She'd been hoping to find problems—glaring errors, plagiarism, something, anything to justify the nagging sense that Winslow High School wasn't what it appeared to be. But the students' work was consistently outstanding, their arguments well-reasoned, their citations impeccable.

  It was maddening.

  Hannah leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. A week had passed since Uber and Leet's ill-conceived "dating sim" attack on the school, and she was still seething about it. The timing couldn't have been worse. The moment her phone had buzzed with the alert about the Empire's assault on the Merchants, she'd rushed out—and missed everything that happened at Winslow.

  "Stupid, reckless idiots," she muttered, thinking of the gaming-obsessed villain duo. Targeting a high school crossed every conceivable line. The PRT had seized their base, but both Uber and Leet had vanished without a trace. At least they'd gotten some of Leet's technology out of the deal.

  But the attack had complicated her investigation enormously. If she found anything suspicious in the school now—odd behavior, strange devices, signs of manipulation—the official line would probably be "residual effects from Leet's mind control device." Miss Stepford's fingerprints, if they existed, would be all but impossible to distinguish from the aftermath of the gaming villains' assault.

  A light knock interrupted her brooding. Gladys Knott, the computer science teacher, stood in the doorway with a cheerful smile and a cloth-covered container in her hands.

  "Thought you might like some of my pasta salad," Mrs. Knott said, setting the container on Hannah's desk. "Made far too much for just myself last night."

  Hannah forced a smile. "That's very kind of you, Gladys. Thank you."

  "It's nothing, dear. We can't have you subsisting on takeout and frozen dinners."

  Hannah sighed inwardly. Three weeks ago, she'd made the tactical error of mentioning during a staff meeting that she didn't cook much at home. You'd have thought she'd announced she didn't bathe regularly, from the reactions. Since then, the Winslow faculty had apparently organized some kind of rotating food delivery system to save her from the horrors of an uncooked meal.

  "I appreciate it," Hannah said, patting the container. "I was just thinking I should take a lunch break."

  Mrs. Knott beamed. "Wonderful! Oh, and the guidance office called. A parent is on his way up to see you—something about his daughter missing some assignments."

  Hannah nodded. "Thanks for the heads-up."

  After Mrs. Knott left, Hannah opened the container and found an enormous portion of a delicious-looking pasta salad with grilled chicken, feta cheese, and olives. Her stomach growled appreciatively despite her irritation.

  If she stayed at Winslow much longer, she'd need a new uniform. The teacher version of the "freshman fifteen" was no joke, especially with the constant influx of homemade goodies. Between that and the general physical inactivity of teaching compared to her usual patrol schedule, she was already feeling the difference.

  Hannah had just taken a bite when another knock came at her door. Standing there was a tall, wiry man with thinning dark hair and glasses. Something about his posture—a mixture of authority and awkwardness—immediately identified him as a parent rather than school staff.

  "Mr. Hebert?" she guessed, setting down her fork and wiping her mouth.

  He nodded, his expression brightening slightly with surprise. "Yes. Danny Hebert. You're Ms. Washington? They told me I should speak with you about Taylor."

  "Please, come in." Hannah gestured to the chair across from her desk. "You can close the door if you'd like."

  Danny did so, then settled into the chair with the careful movements of someone used to folding his long limbs into spaces not designed for his height.

  "I hope there's not a problem with Taylor," he said, concern evident in his voice. "The office just said I should check in with you."

  Hannah smiled reassuringly. "There's nothing wrong, exactly. Taylor is one of my best students, actually. But she missed a few days this week, and she's fallen a bit behind on her final history project. I just wanted to touch base and make sure she has the support she needs to catch up."

  Relief washed over his features. "Oh, good. When they called, I was worried... well, Taylor's been through a lot. She's doing so much better this year, though."

  Hannah noted the protective tone in his voice. She knew from the file that Taylor's mother had died about two years ago—killed by a radical feminist who had once been a friend from college. The irony that Taylor had subsequently developed anti-feminist views wasn't lost on Hannah, though it made a sad kind of sense.

  "Taylor is doing exceptionally well," Hannah assured him. "Her analytical skills are impressive, and her writing is college-level. I just wanted to make sure she gets the help she needs with this project since it's worth a significant portion of her final grade."

  Danny nodded, visibly relaxing now. "I appreciate that. Taylor mentioned she's been spending extra time at her internship lately. I should make sure she's balancing everything."

  Hannah's interest piqued. "Internship?"

  "At Medhall," Danny clarified. "They've been very flexible with her school schedule, but I know she's been putting in extra hours there recently. Something about a big project."

  Hannah kept her expression neutral, but internally she was filing this information away. Medhall's connections to the Empire 88 were suspected but never proven—and now Taylor Hebert, one of their prime suspects for Miss Stepford, had an internship there.

  "That's impressive," she said. "Not many sophomores secure corporate internships."

  Danny smiled, pride evident in his expression. "She's a remarkable girl. After her mother died... well, there was a rough patch. But this year, it's like she found her purpose." His expression clouded slightly. "Though I do worry she puts too much pressure on herself sometimes."

  Hannah nodded sympathetically. "Teenagers often do. They're trying to figure out who they are while simultaneously trying to save the world."

  "Exactly," Danny agreed, looking at her with appreciation. "You understand kids well."

  "It comes with the territory," Hannah said. Then, deciding to build rapport, she added, "Though I have to admit, Winslow students are unlike any I've taught before. The focus, the drive—it's unusual."

  "The school has really turned around," Danny agreed. "When Taylor started here, I was worried. Winslow had a reputation, you know? But she's thrived."

  Hannah made a noncommittal sound, then glanced down at her pasta salad. "Would you like some? Mrs. Knott seems to think I'll waste away if left to my own devices in the kitchen."

  Danny chuckled. "The Winslow food brigade struck, huh?"

  "You've heard about it?"

  "Taylor mentioned something about it. Apparently, it's a scandal if you don't cook around here." His eyes crinkled with amusement.

  Hannah remembered the "Christmas cake" comment from her student—the dismissive term for unmarried women over twenty-five. She suddenly felt self-conscious about her single status, then immediately annoyed at herself for feeling that way.

  "I can cook," she said defensively. "I just don't see the point of elaborate meals for one person."

  Danny nodded. "I get that. After Annette died, I lived on sandwiches and cereal for months. Eventually, Taylor started cooking, insisted on family dinners again." His voice softened. "Kids need structure, I guess. And maybe I did too."

  Something in his tone resonated with Hannah. She'd never had that kind of stability—not as a refugee child, not in the Wards program, not in her adult life. The Protectorate provided structure, but not warmth. Not family.

  "That sounds nice," she said, surprised by the wistfulness in her own voice.

  Danny studied her for a moment. "It is. Though I'm hardly a gourmet. Taylor keeps threatening to sign me up for cooking classes."

  Hannah laughed. "Maybe we should both go. Appease the Winslow cooking police."

  "Not a bad idea," Danny said, smiling. Then, seeming to gather his courage, he added, "Speaking of which, I don't suppose you'd like to continue this conversation over coffee sometime? When you're not on the clock, I mean."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hannah blinked, caught off-guard. Was he asking her out? She hadn't expected that turn in the conversation. Professionally speaking, getting involved with a student's parent was problematic at best.

  Though technically, she wasn't really a teacher. And Taylor was only peripherally connected to her investigation. Besides, it was just coffee—not a relationship.

  "I'd like that," she found herself saying before her professional caution could catch up. "Just coffee, though. I'm not sure how appropriate anything more would be, given that I'm Taylor's teacher."

  Danny nodded quickly. "Of course. Just coffee. Maybe this weekend? There's a nice place downtown called Brewed Awakening."

  "Saturday morning?" Hannah suggested. "Around ten?"

  "Perfect." Danny stood, looking pleased and slightly surprised, as if he hadn't expected her to accept. "I should get back to work. The ferry project is heating up, and the mayor's office is actually being cooperative for once."

  Hannah rose as well. "That's the project to reopen the ferry terminal, right? I've heard it mentioned."

  "My white whale," Danny admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "Been fighting for it for years. Finally seeing some movement."

  "That's wonderful," Hannah said sincerely. "The city could use more public transportation options."

  Danny nodded. "That's what I keep telling them. Well, I should let you get back to your grading. Thank you for looking out for Taylor."

  "It's my job," Hannah said. "But you're welcome."

  After Danny left, Hannah sat back down, her irritation from earlier largely dissipated. She glanced at the stack of excellent essays and found herself less annoyed by their quality.

  The coffee date—no, coffee meeting—with Danny Hebert might be unprofessional, but Hannah justified it easily enough. Building rapport with Taylor's father could provide insights into her activities, potentially even yielding information about Miss Stepford if Taylor was indeed involved.

  And if she was looking forward to it for personal reasons as well... well, that was nobody's business but her own.

  Hannah returned to her grading with renewed focus, though her thoughts occasionally drifted to her upcoming coffee with Danny Hebert. Just coffee, she reminded herself firmly. Not a date. Definitely not a date.

  She was midway through another exceptional essay when her phone buzzed with a text from Colin: "Any progress at Winslow?"

  Hannah sighed and typed back: "Nothing concrete. Investigating possible Medhall connection. Will update this weekend."

  She set her phone aside and returned to the papers, trying to focus on her mission rather than the unexpected complication of Danny Hebert's warm smile and kind eyes. It was just coffee, after all. What could possibly go wrong?

  Mrs. Knott knocked again, this time carrying a manila folder. "Quarterly curriculum review forms," she said apologetically. "Principal Blackwell wants them by Friday."

  Hannah accepted the folder with a nod. "Thanks, Gladys."

  "How was your chat with Mr. Hebert?" Mrs. Knott asked, lingering in the doorway. "He's quite involved for a single father. We don't see many dads at the parent-teacher conferences."

  "He seems dedicated to his daughter," Hannah said neutrally, not wanting to encourage gossip.

  "Oh, he is. Such a shame about his wife. The whole thing was just tragic." Mrs. Knott lowered her voice. "Did you know the woman who killed her was one of those radical feminists? Terrible business."

  Hannah kept her expression carefully blank. "I didn't know the details."

  "It affected Taylor deeply, poor thing. She was so withdrawn at the beginning of last year. But she's really blossomed these past few months." Mrs. Knott smiled. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to your grading. Don't forget to eat that pasta before it gets warm!"

  After Mrs. Knott left, Hannah opened the curriculum review forms, but her mind wandered back to Danny Hebert and his daughter. The timeline matched their intelligence on Miss Stepford's emergence—Taylor's mother had died, and a year or so later, Taylor had "blossomed" and Winslow began its remarkable transformation.

  It all fit too neatly. Yet every time they thought they had her, Taylor Hebert slipped through their fingers, appearing to be nothing more than an exceptional student with a part-time internship.

  Hannah pushed the forms aside and reopened Charlotte Wong's essay, determined to find something—anything—that might indicate outside influence. But the paper was just good. Damn good. The kind of work that would earn praise at Arcadia or any other top-tier school.

  If this was the result of mind control, Hannah had to admit it was effective. But there had to be side effects, costs, something she could identify as unnatural.

  By the time the final bell rang, Hannah had made it through most of the stack without finding anything suspicious. She packed up the remaining essays, along with Mrs. Knott's pasta salad, to finish reviewing at home.

  As she walked through the parking lot toward her motorcycle, she spotted Danny Hebert getting into an older-model truck. He noticed her and waved, a small smile lighting his face. Hannah waved back, feeling an unexpected flutter in her stomach.

  Saturday coffee was just part of her investigation, she reminded herself firmly. A chance to gather information. Nothing more.

  Still, as she pulled on her helmet, Hannah found herself looking forward to it more than she should.

  Gerald Glady rubbed his temples as he finished grading the last quiz. The school day had ended an hour ago, but he'd stayed behind to catch up on his work. April was always a challenging month—students looking toward summer while teachers scrambled to prepare them for finals.

  He glanced up at the soft knock on his classroom door, already knowing who he'd find.

  Melody stood in the doorway, her short blonde hair framing her face, a light scarf wrapped around her neck despite the warming spring weather. She wore a denim jacket over a simple blouse and jeans—casual, but he noticed she'd put on makeup.

  "Hey," she said, her raspy voice barely audible from the doorway. "Just finished up?"

  Gerald sighed, setting down his red pen. This marked the fifth consecutive day she'd appeared after school. Monday, she'd brought him coffee. Tuesday, she'd asked about borrowing a book. Wednesday, she'd claimed to be in the neighborhood. Yesterday, she'd helped one of his students with a question while "just passing by."

  Today, she didn't even bother with a pretense.

  "Almost," he answered, gesturing to the stack of completed quizzes. "Just organizing these for tomorrow."

  Melody nodded, entering the room but hovering near the door rather than approaching his desk. Her eyes scanned the windows, lingered on the door to the hallway, glanced toward the emergency exit at the back of the classroom.

  Gerald watched her perform this ritual—the same sequence of checks she'd made every day this week. It wasn't subtle. Melody didn't do subtle. She'd been a cage fighter, and she carried herself with the hypervigilance of someone accustomed to threats from all directions.

  She caught him watching and straightened, trying to look casual as she leaned against the wall. "Thought maybe we could grab dinner. That Thai place on Lord Street is supposed to be good."

  "Melody," Gerald said, setting aside his work and standing up. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing's going on," she replied too quickly, her eyes darting to the window again.

  "You've been here every day this week."

  "So? Maybe I like seeing you." She crossed her arms defensively. "Is that a problem?"

  Gerald walked over to her, noting how she tensed slightly as he approached. He stopped a respectful distance away, close enough to speak quietly but not crowding her.

  "It's not a problem," he said gently. "But I think something's bothering you, and I'd rather you tell me what it is than watch you case my classroom like you're expecting trouble."

  Melody's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing her face before she glanced away. "I'm not—" She stopped herself, shoulders slumping slightly. "That obvious, huh?"

  "Just a bit." Gerald offered a small smile. "I'm not upset. I'm concerned."

  She exhaled heavily, looking uncomfortable. "I just... after what happened with Uber and Leet's little stunt..."

  Understanding dawned on Gerald. The incident the previous week had shaken the entire school, though the two villainous "gamers" had apparently been apprehended. Students were still talking about it, and security had been increased throughout Winslow.

  "You're worried they might come back," he said. "Or that something else might happen."

  Melody swallowed, the movement making the scars on her neck shift slightly beneath her scarf. "You stepped between Oni Lee and those girls. You faced him down with nothing but that stupid drama club costume."

  Gerald winced at the memory. "Not my finest moment of self-preservation."

  "It was brave," she corrected sharply. "Stupid, but brave. And now—" She gestured vaguely. "This school is becoming a target. First the ABB, then those idiot gamers. I know what happens when civilians get caught in cape business."

  She unconsciously touched her throat, fingers brushing against the scarf.

  Gerald felt a surge of affection mixed with concern. Behind her tough exterior, Melody was genuinely worried for his safety.

  "So you've been checking up on me," he said softly.

  "Someone has to," she muttered. "You clearly have no survival instincts."

  Gerald chuckled despite himself. "I appreciate the concern. Really, I do. But you can't spend every afternoon staking out my classroom. Don't you have other commitments?"

  She shrugged. "I've arranged my schedule."

  "Melody." Gerald took another step closer. "I'm going to be fine. The school has increased security, and the PRT is keeping a closer eye on Winslow now."

  "The PRT couldn't find their ass with both hands and a map," Melody growled. "That new history teacher? She's been asking questions all over the place. Something's going on."

  Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Washington? She seems perfectly normal to me. Just trying to get her bearings as a new teacher."

  Melody gave him a look that suggested he was being hopelessly naive. "Sure. Right around the time everyone's suddenly interested in Winslow. Just a coincidence."

  Gerald decided to let that go for now. He reached out, hesitating briefly before gently taking her hand. "I understand you're worried. After what you've been through, it makes sense that you'd be concerned about... unexpected violence."

  Her fingers tensed in his, but she didn't pull away.

  "But you can't protect me by hanging around the school every day," he continued. "All you'll do is exhaust yourself and probably get me in trouble with Principal Blackwell for having a 'lady friend' lingering in my classroom."

  The corner of Melody's mouth twitched upward. "Lady friend?"

  "What would you prefer? Girlfriend? Paramour? Romantic entanglement?"

  "Girlfriend works," she said, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Though 'badass protector' has a nice ring to it."

  Gerald laughed. "I'm sure it does." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I promise I'll be careful. I'll even text you when I leave school each day, if that helps. But you need to trust that I can take care of myself."

  Melody looked skeptical. "You confronted Oni Lee with a ruler and a Halloween mask."

  "And I won't be doing that again," Gerald assured her. "I've learned my lesson. Next time I'll use a prop sword."

  "Not funny," she said, though her lips curved slightly.

  "A little funny," he countered. "Look, I understand your concern, but you can't stand guard indefinitely. Besides, if anything did happen, I'd rather you weren't here. I couldn't bear it if you got hurt because of me."

  Melody looked away, a complicated expression crossing her face. "I can handle myself in a fight."

  "I know you can. But that doesn't mean I want you in one." Gerald hesitated, then added softly, "I care about you too much for that."

  She looked back at him, vulnerability flashing briefly in her eyes before she masked it. "Fine. I'll stop lurking around your classroom." She paused. "But you better text me. And answer when I call."

  "Deal," Gerald said, smiling. "And now that we've settled that, how about that Thai food? I'm starving, and grading quizzes always gives me an appetite."

  Melody nodded, her posture relaxing further. "Yeah, okay. But we're taking my car. Yours is basically a death trap."

  "My Honda is perfectly serviceable," he protested.

  "It sounds like it's coughing up a lung every time you start it."

  Gerald couldn't really argue with that. As he gathered his belongings, he noticed Melody still performing a final scan of the room—checking the windows, the doors, potential hiding spots. Old habits, he supposed. He pretended not to notice.

  As they walked toward the door, he asked, "So, did you enjoy WrestleMania last week?"

  Her face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "It was amazing! The production value alone was worth it. And that match between Undertaker and Shawn Michaels? Pure storytelling."

  Gerald smiled, enjoying the animation in her expression. Their first real date at the wrestling event had gone better than he'd expected. Melody had been completely absorbed in the spectacle, explaining nuances of technique and performance that Gerald would have missed entirely. He'd found himself watching her reactions more than the matches themselves.

  "I thought the storylines might be too... simplistic," he admitted as they walked through the empty hallway.

  Melody shook her head. "That's the beauty of it. They're archetypal—heroes and villains, betrayal and redemption, all played out in the ring. It's like ancient Greek theater with suplexes."

  "Sophocles with spandex?"

  "Exactly." She grinned. "And unlike cage fighting, nobody gets permanent damage. Usually."

  They reached the school's exit, and Gerald noticed how Melody tensed slightly as they stepped outside, her eyes scanning the parking lot automatically.

  "I was thinking," he said as they walked toward her car, "maybe we could go to the house show when it comes to Boston next month? It's not as big as WrestleMania, but I hear the smaller venues have a different energy."

  Melody looked at him with surprise. "You want to go to another wrestling event?"

  "I enjoyed myself," he said honestly. "The matches were entertaining, but mostly I liked seeing how much you enjoyed it. Your commentary made it ten times better."

  She looked briefly flustered, unused to compliments. "Yeah, well... I've watched a lot of wrestling."

  "So that's a yes?" Gerald bumped her shoulder gently with his.

  "Yeah, that's a yes." She smiled, a genuine smile that transformed her face. "Should be a good card, too. They're building toward the summer pay-per-view."

  "Excellent. I'll get the tickets this weekend."

  As they reached her car—a practical, well-maintained sedan—Melody hesitated. "Thanks," she said quietly. "For understanding. About the checking up on you thing."

  Gerald nodded. "Thanks for caring enough to worry."

  Before he could second-guess himself, he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. Melody stiffened momentarily, then relaxed against him, her arms wrapping around his waist. They stood like that for a moment in the school parking lot, the spring afternoon warm around them.

  When they separated, Melody looked slightly embarrassed but pleased. "Come on," she said gruffly. "Food's not going to order itself."

  They got into her car, and as Melody drove toward the restaurant, Gerald found himself thinking about how far they'd come since their first awkward encounters after the Oni Lee incident. Her tough exterior had initially intimidated him, but beneath it was someone thoughtful, passionate, and fiercely protective.

  The Thai restaurant was busy but not crowded. They were seated quickly at a small table near the window. After ordering, their conversation drifted back to wrestling.

  Their dinner arrived, temporarily interrupting the conversation. As they ate, Gerald noticed how Melody had positioned herself to face the door, her back to the wall. Another habit from her fighting days, perhaps, or something more recent. He wondered about her life outside of their dates—what she did when she wasn't visiting his classroom or accompanying him to wrestling events.

  "How's your grandmother doing?" he asked, remembering she'd mentioned visiting her recently.

  Melody looked surprised by the question. "She's good. Tough as ever. Keeps trying to teach me new techniques, even though she's pushing eighty-seven."

  "That explains your skill," Gerald said. "I'd love to meet her sometime."

  Melody nearly choked on her food. "Meet my grandmother? That's... she'd interrogate you for hours. She's very protective."

  "So that's where you get it from," Gerald teased.

  She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it. "Maybe someday. If you're really sure you want to subject yourself to that."

  "I'm tougher than I look," Gerald assured her.

  They finished their meal, arguing good-naturedly over the check before agreeing to split it. As they walked back to her car, Melody seemed more relaxed than she had at the school, though Gerald noticed she still maintained awareness of their surroundings.

  "I had a good time," she said as they reached the vehicle. "Even with the intervention about my hovering."

  "I did too," Gerald replied. "And I don't mind the hovering, exactly. I just don't want you rearranging your life out of worry."

  Melody nodded. "I'll try to dial it back. No promises, but I'll try."

  "That's all I ask." Gerald leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Text me when you get home?"

  "You're the one who needs supervision, not me," she grumbled, but nodded. "I will."

  After Melody dropped him back at the school to retrieve his car, Gerald sat in the driver's seat for a moment before starting the engine. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. It was still early enough.

  As if on cue, his phone rang. The display showed "Mike Johnson - Event Coordinator."

  "Hello, Mike," Gerald answered, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement.

  "Mr. Glady! Glad I caught you. I just wanted to confirm everything's set for next month's event in Boston."

  "Great," Gerald said. "No issues with the, uh, special arrangements?"

  "None at all. The wrestlers are totally on board—they love this kind of thing. We'll have you and your girlfriend on the jumbotron right after the third match. The ring announcer will introduce you, then hand over the mic. You'll have about ninety seconds for the proposal before we need to move on with the show."

  Gerald felt his heart rate increase at the word "proposal." Until now, it had been a concept, a plan. Hearing it spoken aloud made it suddenly, thrillingly real.

  "That sounds perfect," he managed. "And the wrestlers will...?"

  "They'll play along, yeah. The faces will cheer you on, maybe hold the ropes open for you to enter the ring. Nothing too elaborate, but it'll make for a memorable moment. We've done a few of these, and they always get a great reaction from the crowd."

  Gerald smiled, picturing Melody's face when she realized what was happening. She loved the showmanship and theatricality of professional wrestling—what better way to propose than incorporating that into one of the most important moments of their relationship?

  "Thank you, Mike. This means a lot."

  "No problem. Just remember to be at the arena two hours before showtime for the final walkthrough. And congratulations in advance!" Mike paused. "She's a wrestling fan, right? This isn't going to backfire?"

  "She's a huge fan," Gerald assured him. "She'll appreciate the showmanship."

  After ending the call, Gerald sat for a moment longer, imagining the scene: the bright lights, the roaring crowd, Melody's surprised expression. It was a risk, certainly—public proposals always were—but he knew her well enough now to be confident she'd appreciate the gesture.

  His phone buzzed with a text from Melody: "Made it home. No ninjas or supervillains attacked me on the way."

  Gerald smiled and replied: "Glad to hear it. Sleep well. Looking forward to Boston next month."

  As he finally started his car—which did indeed make a concerning noise—Gerald felt a sense of contentment. Despite her overprotectiveness and his occasional exasperation, they fit together well. He couldn't wait to see her reaction when he got down on one knee in the middle of that wrestling ring.

  He just hoped she'd say yes.

  Brian paced the length of his apartment, pausing occasionally to glance at Sophia, who sat cross-legged on his couch, surrounded by papers and takeout containers. One week since she'd crashed into his life with wild eyes and frantic claims about some girl named Taylor Hebert being Miss Stepford. One week of her sleeping on his couch, jumping at shadows, and meticulously building a case against the cape who had apparently brainwashed half of Winslow High.

  He should have kicked her out days ago. The last thing he needed was another complication in his life. Yet something in her desperation resonated with him—that and the chilling evidence she'd presented.

  "We should check out that Deer Lodge outreach center tomorrow," Sophia said, not looking up from her notes. "I've been tracking their patterns and—"

  "I need to find my sister first," Brian interrupted. "Aisha hasn't been by in over a week."

  Sophia finally looked up. "The one you're trying to get custody of?"

  Brian nodded. "She usually crashes here at least twice a week, even when she's supposed to be at our mom's. She hasn't answered any of my texts."

  "Maybe she's just being a teenager," Sophia suggested with a shrug. "I ignore my brother's texts all the time."

  "Not Aisha. Not like this." Brian grabbed his keys from the counter. "I'm going to check my mom's place."

  Sophia started to rise. "I'll come with—"

  "No," Brian said firmly. "I don't need you and Aisha meeting right now. That's... that's a combination I'm not ready for."

  Sophia rolled her eyes but settled back onto the couch. "Fine. But call me if you see anything suspicious."

  Brian nodded and headed for the door. "Just... don't go anywhere, okay? We don't know who might be watching this place."

  The drive to his mother's apartment took twenty minutes, each passing mile ratcheting up Brian's anxiety. He and his mother hadn't spoken in months, not since their last fight about Aisha's custody. The last time he'd seen the apartment, it had been a disaster—dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn across every surface, the sickly-sweet smell of marijuana permeating everything.

  But his concern about Aisha outweighed his reluctance to face his mother. If she was using again, if Aisha was stuck there... He pressed harder on the accelerator.

  He turned onto his mother's street and immediately spotted a vehicle that made his blood run cold—his father's battered pickup truck, parked in the driveway.

  "Shit," Brian muttered, pulling over across the street.

  His father had never been physically abusive, not exactly. But the man was a powder keg of anger and disappointment, quick to explode into shouting matches that left emotional wreckage in their wake. After the divorce, when Aisha was just a baby, his father had drifted in and out of their lives like a destructive storm.

  The last time Brian had seen him had been nearly a year ago. The encounter had ended with Brian pinning his father against a wall, warning him to stay away from both his mother and Aisha. Now here he was, parked in the driveway like he belonged there.

  Brian exited his car and approached the house cautiously, listening for raised voices. Nothing. The silence was somehow more unnerving than shouting would have been.

  The front door was unlocked. Bracing himself for whatever chaotic scene awaited inside, Brian eased it open as quietly as possible. The first thing that struck him was how bright the place looked—sunlight streaming through clean windows, reflecting off surfaces that actually gleamed.

  He blinked in confusion. The living room was not only tidy but transformed. The sagging couch had been replaced with a neat sectional. The stained carpet had given way to laminate flooring. Family photos—ones he didn't recognize—hung on the walls in matching frames.

  Brian stepped further inside, his combat boots suddenly feeling clumsy and out of place on the spotless floor. He moved toward the kitchen, where he could hear quiet voices conversing. His foot landed on a creaky floorboard, and the voices immediately stopped.

  "Hello?" his father's deep voice called out. "Is someone there?"

  Footsteps approached, and Brian tensed, ready for confrontation. The kitchen door swung open, revealing his father's tall frame. Brian braced himself for the familiar scowl, the narrowed eyes, the tightened jaw that signaled the start of another fight.

  Instead, his father's face brightened with genuine pleasure.

  "Brian! Son, what a surprise!" His father was clean-shaven, his usually unkempt hair neatly trimmed. He wore a simple polo shirt and jeans, but they were clean and pressed. No beer stains. No reek of cigarettes.

  Brian stood frozen, unable to reconcile this beaming man with the father he knew.

  "Come in, come in," his father continued, stepping aside. "We're just having lunch. There's plenty if you want to join us."

  "This is Mom's house," Brian finally managed, the words coming out harsher than he'd intended. "Why are you here?"

  His father's smile dimmed slightly, but didn't disappear. "I know we have a lot to talk about. Come into the kitchen, please?"

  Against his better judgment, Brian followed. The kitchen, like the living room, had undergone a transformation. The grimy linoleum was gone, replaced with clean tile. The countertops were empty of liquor bottles and drug paraphernalia. Instead, a fresh fruit bowl sat centered on the dining table, where his mother and Aisha were seated.

  His mother rose from her chair, and Brian almost took a step back in shock. Gone was the gaunt, hollow-eyed woman with unwashed hair and trembling hands. This woman looked... healthy. Her hair was styled, her face filled out, her eyes clear. She wore a simple blouse and jeans, but she looked more put together than Brian had seen her in years.

  "Brian," she said, her voice steady. "I'm so glad you came by."

  She approached and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Brian returned it awkwardly, his arms stiff, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Over his mother's shoulder, he could see Aisha watching the exchange with an expression he couldn't quite read.

  His sister, too, looked different. Her wild hair was styled into neat braids. Instead of the revealing clothing that had been the source of many arguments between them, she wore a graphic t-shirt and jeans. And—most shocking of all—textbooks and notebooks were spread in front of her on the table.

  "Sup, bro," Aisha said with a grin that was somehow both familiar and strange.

  "What's... going on here?" Brian asked, finally extracting himself from his mother's embrace.

  His parents exchanged a look that Brian couldn't interpret.

  "Sit down, son," his father said, pulling out a chair. "We were just having lunch. Can I get you a plate?"

  Brian remained standing, his posture rigid. "I came to check on Aisha. She hasn't been answering my texts."

  Aisha picked up her phone from the table. "Oh shit, sorry. I got a new phone and didn't transfer all my contacts yet. Mom and Dad got me a family plan."

  "Mom and Dad?" Brian repeated incredulously. "Since when are we a 'Mom and Dad' family again?"

  His father sighed heavily and rested his hand on the back of a chair. "I know this must seem strange to you, Brian. We owe you an explanation—and an apology."

  "An apology," Brian echoed flatly.

  His mother and father exchanged another look, then both sat down at the table. After a moment, Brian reluctantly took the remaining seat.

  "Brian," his mother began, her voice steadier than he could ever remember hearing it, "I want to apologize for everything I've put you through. The drugs, the neglect, the men coming in and out of our lives... I was a terrible mother."

  "And I was no better," his father added. "I abandoned my responsibilities. I let anger control me. I wasn't there when you needed a father."

  Brian stared at them, waiting for the punchline, the catch, the inevitable moment when this bizarre facade would crack. But his father continued, his voice thick with emotion.

  "You stepped up, son. You took care of Aisha when neither of us could. You became the man I should have been. I don't know how long it will take, but I want to regain your trust. I want to make amends for all the years I wasted."

  As his father spoke, Brian could feel nothing but sincerity emanating from him. This wasn't the rehearsed contrition of someone going through the motions of an apology. This was real remorse.

  "I don't understand," Brian said, his voice tight. "What brought this on?"

  His mother reached across the table, taking his father's hand in hers. "We both ended up at this outreach program. Separately, at first. I nearly walked out when I saw your father there. We almost had another one of our fights."

  "But the counselors there," his father continued, "they helped us see things differently. Helped us understand the damage we were doing to ourselves and to you kids."

  "They helped me get clean," his mother added. "Really clean this time."

  "And you two are... together again?" Brian asked, still struggling to process what he was seeing.

  "We're working on it," his father said. "Taking it slow, focusing on being better parents first."

  Aisha, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally piped up. "I was super skeptical too at first. Thought it was more of Mom's bullshit recovery attempts. But it's different this time, bro." She gestured around the kitchen. "Look at this place. Look at them."

  Brian did look. The change was undeniable. But something about it felt fundamentally wrong—too sudden, too complete.

  "This outreach program," he said slowly. "What's it called?"

  "It's run by the Deer Lodge," his mother answered.

  The pieces clicked into place. Brian had heard about the Deer Lodge—the supposedly community-focused organization that had been expanding rapidly across Brockton Bay. The organization that, according to Sophia's research, was connected to Miss Stepford.

  "The Deer Lodge is an Empire Eighty-Eight front," Brian said bluntly.

  His parents exchanged surprised looks.

  "That doesn't seem right," his mother said, frowning. "There are plenty of Black and Hispanic people in the program. They helped me get this new job at the hospital."

  "And if some of them are former Empire members, well..." his father shrugged. "Who am I to say they don't deserve a second chance? I needed one badly enough myself."

  "You don't understand," Brian insisted, his voice rising. "They're using tinker tech to brainwash people. Miss Stepford—she can control minds. Make people do what she wants. That's what's happening to you."

  A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. His mother stared down at her hands, then looked up at Brian with an expression of quiet desperation.

  "Is that really such a terrible thing?" she asked in a small voice.

  Brian stared at her, stunned. "What?"

  "Is it so terrible?" she repeated, her eyes glistening. "I've wanted to be a good mother for so long, Brian. I tried rehab before. Three times. It never stuck. But this time... this time I can feel the difference."

  His father put his arm around her shoulders. "It's the same for me. My anger, my drinking... I've tried to stop a hundred times. Nothing worked until now."

  "This isn't real," Brian said, pushing back from the table. "Whatever you're feeling, whatever you think you're feeling—it's not real. It's someone else's programming."

  "It feels real," his mother whispered.

  Brian turned to Aisha, his last hope for an ally. "Aisha, come on. You've never gone along with authority. You've always seen through bullshit. You can't be okay with this."

  Aisha bit her lip, looking torn. "Brian, please don't ruin this," she said, her voice uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I'm happy. For the first time in forever, I'm happy. I have a mom and dad again."

  "This is fucked up," Brian said, standing now. "You're all being controlled. You're not yourselves."

  "And who were we before?" his father asked quietly. "Who was I? An angry drunk who couldn't keep a job or a family. Is that who you want me to be?"

  "I want you to be real!" Brian shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Not some mind-controlled puppet spouting lines someone else wrote for you!"

  "Son—" his father began, rising.

  "Don't call me that," Brian cut him off. "You didn't earn it before, and you haven't earned it now. These aren't your words. This isn't your change. This is someone else pulling your strings."

  His mother was crying now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. "We love you, Brian. We want to be a family again. All of us."

  "My family," Brian said, backing toward the door, "abandoned me years ago. I built my own life. And now you want me to accept this... this fake version just because it's easier?"

  "It's not fake," his father insisted, moving toward him. "These feelings are real. The changes are real."

  "You keep telling yourself that," Brian said. "But I'm not joining your stepford cult."

  He looked at Aisha one last time. "Aisha, when you're ready to leave, call me. I'll come get you."

  "Brian, wait—" Aisha called, but he was already striding through the living room.

  His father followed. "Son, please. I know I've let you down. So many times. I know I wasn't there when you needed me. I should have been the one protecting you and Aisha, not the other way around." His voice cracked. "I want to make it right. I want to be the father you deserved."

  Brian paused at the door, his hand on the knob. For one moment—just one—he allowed himself to imagine accepting what his father offered. The family he'd always wanted. The parents he'd needed. The weight of responsibility lifted from his shoulders. It would be so easy to say yes.

  "Those are the words I've wanted to hear my whole life," Brian admitted quietly. "But I won't take them from a puppet."

  He wrenched the door open and walked out, ignoring the calls of his family behind him. His vision blurred as he strode to his car. He wasn't crying. He didn't cry. It was just... the sun was too bright.

  He drove away from his mother's house, hands tight on the steering wheel. He hadn't known how badly he still wanted his parents' approval until this grotesque parody had been dangled in front of him. A perfect family, manufactured by mind control.

  This wasn't just about Sophia anymore. This wasn't just about Brockton Bay or the Empire or any of that. This was personal now.

  Miss Stepford had taken his family—his real family, flawed as they were—and replaced them with smiling imposters. And Brian was going to make her pay for that.