The room breathed in a dull green glow—the kind that made skin look sick if you stayed in it too long. Blue lights hummed quietly overhead, cold and precise, as if they were watching. Somewhere in the distance, a red pulse flickered. Slow. Patient. Waiting.
Timothy ran.
His yellow suit clung to him—loose in some places, tight in others—like something meant for a patient, not a prisoner. His sneakers slapped against the cold floor, each step echoing down the corridor. He held the arms of a young girl—pretty, with a nasty scar carved across her forehead like a warning. She was crying. He wasn't. But his chest heaved with something heavier than tears.
Fear.
His movements were desperate, uncoordinated—a boy running from something he couldn't outrun.
Then the alarm screamed.
Red lights replaced the green. The hum became a wail. His fear didn't just grow—it solidified, pressing against his ribs like a second skeleton.
Soldiers everywhere.
"Stand down!" they yelled. Voices overlapping, sharp, urgent.
He didn't listen.
He kept running, pulling the girl forward, her small hand gripping his like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water.
Then—thwip. thwip. thwip.
Darts hit his back. His neck. His shoulder.
His legs buckled. The floor rushed up to meet him.
Darkness.
"What did you do?"
The voice came from everywhere—inside his skull, outside his ears, crawling through the spaces between his thoughts.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?"
He opened his eyes.
His hands were stained with blood. Deep red. Wet. His? No. Not his. The girl—where was the girl?
"WHAT DID YOU DOO?!"
Louder. Closer. Scarier.
He woke up gasping.
Sweat soaked through his pajamas, sticking to his skin like a second layer. The ceiling above him was familiar—cracked paint, a water stain shaped like a cloud. His room. His bed. His breath.
He stared at the empty space beside him.
Tim wasn't there.
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He walked to the bathroom, not bothering with the light, and turned on the faucet. Water splashed against his face—cold, sharp, grounding.
He looked up at the mirror.
His reflection stared back at him. Dark circles. Hollow eyes. A face that looked like it had aged ten years in one night.
He didn't recognize himself.
He found her on the stairs.
Falcon Empress sat halfway down, her back against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was humming—a soft, almost melodic tune that seemed to drift through the air like smoke. Familiar. He'd heard it before. Somewhere. In another life, maybe.
It's rude to stare, King Kong.
The thought appeared fully formed in his mind.
He blinked. "And it's rude to sit in the staircase."
She didn't look at him. Just kept humming. He moved past her, his footsteps heavy on the wooden steps.
The tune stayed with him longer than it should have.
Breakfast was already on the table.
The family was gathered—Jane at the head, Grey Owl to her left, Tim across from her, Falcon Empress slipping into her seat just behind Timothy. The food steamed quietly: eggs, toast, fruit. Normal.
But the silence wasn't.
It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, thick and suffocating. The kind that made you want to say something just to break it—but you didn't, because saying something felt like admitting the silence was there.
Timothy sat apart from them all. Not physically—he was at the table, same as everyone else—but something about him felt distant. Untouchable. Like trauma looking for something to blame and finding only itself.
Tim watched him for a moment.
"You alright?"
Timothy blinked, snapping out of whatever dark corridor his mind had wandered into. "Yh, yh, I'm okay..." A pause. "Can't wait for summer break, I guess."
Jane looked up from her plate, a gentle smile playing at her lips. "Aren't you supposed to be happy? I see a lot of kids jubilating."
No answer came.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Falcon Empress stared down at her plate, her fork frozen mid-motion. She'd seen that face before. She'd worn it. Part of her still did. She set her fork down, her appetite gone.
Grey Owl noticed. She always noticed.
And Jane noticed the way everyone else didn't.
The kitchen hummed with the sound of running water.
Jane stood at the sink, scrubbing a pan, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Grey Owl stood beside her, drying dishes with methodical precision.
"Your kid," Grey Owl said, not looking up. "He's not alright."
Jane's hands paused for just a fraction of a second—then kept moving. "I know."
"I can tell, cause that face..." Grey Owl set down the dish she was holding, her voice dropping lower. "It looks miserable."
Jane sighed—a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of everything she hadn't said. "He's been hiding something from me." A pause. "Reminds me of his dad." She shook her head. "I'll handle it. I just don't know how long he can keep—" She stopped. Pressed her lips together. "—before it tears him apart."
Grey Owl was quiet for a moment. Then: "I have my questions for you. But that's not for today."
She dried her hands on a towel, her movements deliberate.
"Benjamin strictly told us—Virus hasn't found my people yet. I ordered a leader. Devil's Stallion." She said the name like it weighed something. "He'll assist me in keeping the legion alive in the most protected hideout we have. I don't know for how long. But I'm not going back." Her gaze hardened. "I have a feeling it'll blow their cover if I did."
Jane turned off the faucet, drying her hands slowly. "This... Devil's Stallion. He seems like a heavy hitter. But can he lead?"
Grey Owl's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Though our rules vary, and he always tries a coup against me..." She shrugged. "He's good. A bit messy. Loves violence—extremely. But tactical."
Jane shook her head, letting out a breath. "I sure hope the kids are getting along. I'm kinda nervous on how this plan will work."
Grey Owl's face shifted—that cold, professional mask sliding into place. "It'll work alright. I don't waste my time testing my targets. I end them. Without chatting. Without wasting my time. One lethal strike."
Jane paused, the words hanging between them.
She didn't say it out loud. She didn't need to. The silence said enough.
Summer break was close. The air on campus practically buzzed with it.
Students spilled through the hallways, their voices bright, their steps lighter than they'd been all year. Lockers slammed with cheerful finality. Someone laughed—a loud, carefree sound that seemed to echo off every wall.
Falcon Empress stood at her locker, pulling out books she wouldn't need for months. Her movements were efficient, unhurried. She didn't smile. She didn't frown. She just... existed.
"Alita? Hi."
She turned.
A boy stood a few feet away—tall, built like he'd been carved from stone, with a kind face and dark hair slicked back with gel. His smile was warm, almost disarming.
"I'm Bruno, I... uhmm, can we talk?"
He spoke like he was intimidated by her. His eyes darted to the side, then back. His hands fidgeted at his sides.
Girls nearby whispered. Jealous? Maybe. But mostly they watched with a mix of envy and approval—like they'd already decided the two of them were a perfect match.
Bruno gestured toward a quieter corner of the hallway, away from the crowd. Falcon Empress followed, her footsteps silent on the tile.
He stopped, turned, and gave her the smile most girls melted for.
She didn't give a damn.
"Hi... Alita, is my—so sorry, my name is Bruno." He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "I think, no, I know you're really pretty. And I'd love to know you better over food. In the restaurant, I mean. My abuela has the best recipes too..."
She let him finish. Let him stammer. Let him squirm.
Then she spoke—calm, soft, utterly nonchalant.
"I commend your bravery. I really do." A pause. "But I'm not interested in anything you have to offer."
Bruno blinked. His smile faltered. He'd never been rejected before—not like this. Not by someone who looked at him like he was invisible.
He hesitated. Then, in a moment of panic—denial, embarrassment, the weight of what people might say—he reached out. Gripped her hand.
For a second—just one—his hand didn't feel like his.
It felt like someone else's. Someone who'd grabbed her before. Someone who'd hurt her. The memory surfaced fast, unbidden, burning behind her eyes—
Then her hand was around his throat.
She lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing. His feet dangled. His face turned red. His hands clawed at her wrist, but she didn't feel it. Didn't see it.
She saw something else.
Tim moved fast—shoving through the gathering crowd, grabbing Falcon Empress's arm, pulling her back.
"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!"
She let go.
Bruno dropped, gasping, clutching his throat, his eyes wide with terror. A few students rushed forward to help him up.
Falcon Empress stumbled back, her hands shaking. She looked at them—at the faces in the crowd, at the fear in their eyes, at the way they looked at her.
Like a monster.
She turned and walked away. Fast. Not running—walking. But each step carried her further from something she couldn't name.
Timothy was on his way to the crowd when he saw her pass him. He raised a hand to wave—but she passed him like he didn't exist.
He lowered his hand. Watched her go.
And said nothing.
The situation resolved itself.
Bruno, to his credit, covered for her. Told the teachers it was a misunderstanding. A joke gone wrong. No parents were involved. No recordings were made.
The crowd dispersed. The hallway returned to normal—students celebrating summer, their joy bountiful, their happiness unmatched.
But something hung in the air. Something that didn't go away.
The creek was quiet.
Tim had been there all day—pushing himself, jumping, trying to understand how the abilities worked. He could jump high. Cover distances. Blast things. But he couldn't levitate like Timothy. Couldn't control it fully.
He was exhausted.
Then he saw Andrew.
Standing at the edge of the bank, waving. His smile was wide and warm, the kind that made you forget, just for a moment, that the world was heavy.
"Yo!" Andrew called, jogging over. "You look like you've been fighting a bear. Or... training. Same thing."
Tim laughed—a tired, genuine sound. They both sat on a large rock by the water, the sound of the creek filling the space between them.
"So uh," Andrew said, his voice softer now, "how's the training going? You seem to be going at it a lot lately."
Tim looked at his hands—at the dirt, the small scrapes, the evidence of effort. "Well... I'd have to get stronger. To protect myself. To protect you." He glanced at Andrew. "You're my best friend. I want to be there when you need me."
Andrew was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know, you spooked the shit out of me back when we first met. But I was also fascinated." He laughed. "I mean, who wouldn't be? You lifted a car. Rehabilitated bullies. You really are amazing, Tim." He looked at his friend, his voice dropping. "And I feel like I don't tell you that often."
Tim's smile was bright—a rare, unburdened thing. "I might be amazing. But you're my superhero." He nudged Andrew's shoulder. "Always were. Always will be."
"Says the guy who's training to protect us both," Andrew shot back, laughing it off—but there was warmth in it.
A moment of silence passed. The creek murmured. The wind stirred the leaves.
Then Tim asked, his voice gentler: "Hey, so... how are you taking the divorce, man? I'm sorry."
Andrew sighed. The smile faded into something more honest.
"To be honest, it hasn't been easy." He stared at the water, his voice low. "Though the thuds of my mum's head hitting the walls stopped. And my dad screaming every time too."
Tim winced.
"I don't know what went wrong. We were all a happy family." Andrew's jaw tightened. "Mary's just four. She won't know what a real family feels like. I did." His voice cracked. "For a while. But not her."
He picked up a small pebble, turned it over in his hand.
"What messes me up is how they moved on so quickly. Like no one mattered to one another." He threw the pebble into the water. It landed with a soft plink. "I broke up with Jennifer last week. There's just a lot."
Tim nodded slowly. "I'm sorry about that."
The water rushed over the stones, steady and unchanging.
"To be honest," Tim continued, "I always wonder what's going on in my mum's head. Benjamin has feelings for her, but Dad's still out there. I know it. Just feels off." He paused. "She rarely talks about him. Don't get me started on Timothy. I just can't stand him..." A beat. "Though he's not that bad."
Andrew smiled faintly. "But whatever. Whenever and however it ends..." He held out his hand. "We'll always be family."
They shook. Then laughed—a release of everything heavy, a moment of lightness.
Tim stood, pulling Andrew up with him. "Come on. Let's head home."
Timothy lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.
The cracks in the paint. The water stain shaped like a cloud. He'd memorized every inch of it—had spent too many nights doing exactly this.
He couldn't stop thinking.
About the accident. About his father. About the cold way he'd looked at him in the lab—like he was an experiment, not a son.
Why did he survive? Why did a crash that should've killed him leave him here—breathing, broken, unsure who he even was anymore?
He needed air.
He climbed out his window, scaled the side of the house, and pulled himself onto the roof. The wind hit him first—cool, sharp, alive. The stars were faint above, hidden behind city light.
And there she was.
Falcon Empress sat at the edge of the roof, her knees pulled to her chest, her shoulders shaking.
Crying.
Timothy froze. His instinct was to move toward her—to say something, do something. But his feet stayed planted.
Say something. Comfort her. Be human.
He couldn't move.
He watched her for a long moment—watched the way her body curled in on itself, like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. Watched the way her hands pressed against her face, stifling sounds that wanted to escape.
Then he turned. Climbed back down.
And left her alone.
Minutes passed.
Grey Owl spotted her daughter on the roof from the kitchen window. Her heart clenched—not that you'd see it on her face. She climbed up, her movements practiced, silent.
Falcon Empress heard the footsteps and quickly wiped her tears. Sat up straighter. Clenched her jaw. Tried to be tough.
Grey Owl settled beside her—close, but not crowding. She didn't speak at first. Just sat there, her presence steady.
"Who hurt you?" Her voice was soft—a tone she used with no one else. "Is it Jane's kid? Tell me, my empress."
Falcon Empress shook her head, staring at the sky. "It's fine, Mum. No one did anything." A pause. "I just don't know. I feel tormented." Her voice wavered. "I know we're supposed to love death. Consider all life taken equal. But I'm..." She pressed her lips together. "I don't want to remember."
Grey Owl reached over and gently took her daughter's hand.
"You've been through a lot." Her thumb traced small circles on Falcon Empress's palm. "I wished I gave you a better life. From the very beginning—you had it bad. You only smiled to me. Only opened up to your mum." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "Never made friends."
She squeezed her daughter's hand.
"I have a lot of regrets over the years." A pause. "But I'm grateful I have you. And nothing will ever change that."
Falcon Empress's breath hitched.
"There's a lot you shouldn't have seen at a very young age. And I should've known better." Grey Owl's voice dropped to a whisper. "For what it's worth—I love you."
Falcon Empress broke.
The tears came—not silent, not controlled. They poured out of her, ugly and raw, her body shaking with sobs she'd been holding in for years.
"I thought I could be tough," she gasped. "Emotionless. Like you." She shook her head violently. "But I'm soft. I can't even control my bloodlust sometimes." Her voice shattered. "I hate me, Mum."
Grey Owl pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her daughter like she could shield her from the world.
"When all this is over, we'll leave here." Her voice was steady, sure. "You, I, and Tora. We'll leave the legion for good. I promise."
Falcon Empress stiffened. "No. They'll all come after us. We'll all die."
Grey Owl smiled—a warm, motherly smile that didn't reach her eyes but radiated something softer.
"That's not for you to worry about."
She held her daughter tighter.
And on the roof, under the stars, the two of them stayed like that—mother and daughter, wrapped in silence, carrying the weight of everything they couldn't say.
Wednesday morning.
The sun was pale, the air cool and crisp. Jane laced up her running shoes and stepped out the door, her breath misting in front of her. She jogged through the neighborhood, past sleeping houses, past empty streets.
Then she saw them.
A homeless family—a woman, her husband, and a small girl—huddled in the doorway of an abandoned building. They were filthy, their clothes torn, their faces hollow with hunger.
The mother saw Jane and stumbled toward her, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm not asking for much," she pleaded. "Little cash will do. For my daughter. For my husband. Please."
Jane slowed. Then stopped.
She looked at the woman. Looked at the little girl, who had bruises on her legs, half-hidden beneath a too-short dress. Looked at the father, who lay on the ground, unmoving.
Jane's face remained expressionless.
"Out of my way."
She pushed the woman aside and kept running.
That night, the homeless family slept.
The mother curled around her daughter. The father lay a few feet away. The building was cold, but they were too tired to feel it.
The little girl stirred. She'd heard something—soft footsteps, barely audible.
She stood up, rubbed her eyes, and walked toward the sound.
Jane stood in the doorway.
She was dressed in dark clothes, her face half-hidden in shadow. In her hands—a stack of cash. Thick. And a small shoe, just the right size.
The girl saw her and froze. Her eyes went wide. She'd seen this woman before. She was scared.
Jane put a finger to her lips, her expression softening into something almost... motherly. A smile—warm and gentle, like she was tucking her own child into bed.
She left the money and the shoe on the ground. Then she slipped away.
The next morning, the homeless family woke to find the cash.
The mother counted it. Her hands trembled. Her husband stared, speechless. A note lay beside the stack:
"Get yourself a good life. And your girl a better one."
The mother laughed—a sound of pure, disbelieving joy. She hugged her daughter tightly, tears streaming down her face.
They'd never have to live like this again.
That same morning, Jane ran her usual route.
The little girl spotted her from across the street. She ran toward her, holding something in her small hands.
Jane stopped.
The girl approached, her steps unsteady but determined. She stopped in front of Jane and held up her offering—
A plastic rose.
Not perfect. Slightly crooked, the petals bent at odd angles. But it had been made with care, with love, with the kind of effort that only a child can give.
Jane hesitated. Then she bent down—slowly, carefully, until she was eye level with the girl.
She took the rose.
Her fingers brushed against the girl's hand. Then, gently, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a bracelet—an old thing, worn and faded, but beautiful in its simplicity. It had meaning. She'd worn it for years.
She slid it onto the girl's wrist.
"It's yours now," she whispered.
The girl's eyes lit up.
A voice called from across the street—the girl's mother, waving. The girl turned, then looked back at Jane.
She threw her arms around her.
A tight hug. Quick. Warm.
Then she ran back to her family, her new bracelet catching the light.
Jane stayed where she was, kneeling on the sidewalk. A tear slipped from her eye—then another, and another, a sudden, violent outburst of emotion she couldn't control.
She looked up at the sky. Pale blue. Endless.
And she smiled.