The secure communication array in the de la Fuente basement reeked of ozone and hot metal. Each frequency carried ghosts from the Academy. Voices from a life that would die tomorrow evening. Kasper stared at the chrome-and-brass interface, his father's military-grade encryption protocols casting geometric shadows across concrete walls stained with years of his old man's cigarette smoke.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Just disconnect cleanly. Don't let them see how bad this is getting.
The first connection crackled with static from halfway across the Caribbean. Lucas appeared on the holographic display, wild hair even more disheveled than usual, workshop sparks illuminating the background like fallen stars. Behind him, Maria's silhouette moved between medical equipment, her healer's hands never stopping their work.
"Kasper!" Lucas's grin died the moment he registered his friend's hollow eyes. "Christ, you look..." He stepped closer to his display, workshop noise fading to silence. "We heard through Academy channels. Some operation went sideways?"
Kasper's throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. "Lucas. Listen carefully. Don't ask questions I..." His voice cracked completely. He swallowed hard, forced the words out. "Questions I can't answer."
"How bad is it?" Maria appeared beside Lucas, using that gentle tone she reserved for families receiving death sentences.
"Bad enough that this is probably..." The words stuck in his throat like barbed wire. He forced them out anyway. "The last time we talk. With me being me."
Lucas's perpetual motion stopped completely. His hands, always tinkering with some gadget, went completely still. Maria's breathing shifted to that careful rhythm she used in trauma wards when patients weren't going to make it.
"Whatever you're planning," Lucas said, voice suddenly fierce with protective anger, "you don't have to do it alone. We survived Cross trying to kill us. We survived the whole ATA infiltration nightmare. Hell, we survived three years at the Academy. The three of us can handle anything they throw at us."
"Not this time." Kasper wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hating how his voice sounded like a broken teenager. "But knowing you're out there, building things that matter, healing people who need it..." His voice broke again. "It helps. It really helps."
"The Association." Maria leaned forward, medical instincts kicking into overdrive. "We know they've been targeting enhanced veterans since graduation. Psychological evaluations, private meetings, classified research programs. If they're forcing you into something illegal..."
"They're coming for all of us eventually." Kasper managed something that might have been a smile if you squinted hard enough. "Some just get the personal visit first." He reached for the disconnect button, knowing he had to end this before he broke completely. "Take care of each other. If anyone asks about me, remember Kasper de la Fuente was your friend. Keep that version alive, okay?"
"Kasper, wait! We can fight this together, we can find another way, we can..."
Static filled the basement.
Kasper pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The small metal waste basket beside his chair became the target for his frustration. He kicked it hard enough to dent the side, sending it clanging across the concrete floor.
One down. Don't think about Lucas's face when the connection cut. Don't think about Maria trying to heal something she can't even diagnose. Just keep going.
Sean Covington's signal came through stronger, routed from Association headquarters in Brasília. The trash-talker from Boston appeared in full dress uniform, but his usual cocky grin was already gone, replaced by sharp professional concern that made him look older than his years. Behind him, the Association's art deco architecture gleamed with chrome propaganda posters promising a better tomorrow through enhanced human potential.
"Well, well. The legendary Void Killer graces me with his presence." Sean's voice carried forced lightness, but his eyes held something much darker. Something that looked like fear. "Though you look like seven miles of bad road walked backwards through hell during a hurricane, brother."
"Sean." The second goodbye tasted like copper pennies and regret.
"This isn't a social call, is it?" Sean's facade cracked completely, revealing the sharp intelligence underneath all that Boston swagger. "I've been watching the data streams from my position here. Enhanced veterans getting quiet visits, classified psych evaluations, research programs with black budgets that don't officially exist." He leaned closer to his display, voice dropping to almost a whisper. "They're collecting us for something big. Something that requires enhanced soldiers but not enhanced soldiers who might say no." His jaw tightened. "Question is whether you're running from the bastards or if they've already got their hooks in you."
Kasper's chest tightened painfully. His Academy brother was connecting dots that could sign his death warrant in triplicate. "Sean, you need to stop thinking about this. Stop investigating. Stop..."
"I'm not some rookie fresh out of basic, Kasper. None of us are. They trained us to recognize patterns, analyze threats, think strategically." Sean's expression hardened with something that looked like betrayal mixed with desperate concern. "So what is it? Are you their newest pet project or their next target? Because brother, from where I'm sitting, those might be the same thing."
"I'm keeping the people I love from becoming statistics in someone else's war." Kasper's voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by emotion he couldn't quite control. "Whatever game they're playing, I'm taking myself off the board before they can use me as a weapon against my own family."
Sean laughed, but it sounded like breaking glass hitting concrete. "Always throwing yourself on grenades for the rest of us. Even back at Academy, taking every punishment, every dangerous assignment, every piece of shit detail nobody else wanted." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "That's what made you worth following into hell and back, you magnificent self-sacrificing bastard."
"Not this time." Kasper raised his hand before Sean could object, could offer to help, could make this harder than it already was. "This time I need you to stay alive and keep being the loudmouthed pain in the ass who calls out their lies when nobody else will."
"Will I..." Sean's voice caught on something that might have been tears. "Will I see you again? Ever?"
Kasper's finger found the disconnect button. His throat closed completely. "Not as Kasper de la Fuente."
The connection went dark, leaving him alone with the sound of his own ragged breathing.
Two down. His hands were shaking worse now, tremors he couldn't control no matter how hard he tried. The basement's recycled air tasted stale, metallic, like breathing inside a tomb.
Focus. Two more calls. Then the family. Then Charles Moretti gets to figure out how to live in a world that doesn't include anyone who matters.
The third call required different protocols entirely. Valerian Xander had graduated into his family's shadow empire, and reaching him meant navigating Obsidian Syndicate encryption that made military systems look like children's toys. The hologram that materialized showed someone wearing expensive suits like armor, someone who'd learned to carry his father's legacy without drowning in the weight of it.
"Kasper." Valerian's voice had acquired diplomatic polish since graduation, but underneath lay familiar guilt eating him alive one day at a time. "I heard about Santos Negros through Syndicate intelligence channels. Clean work, surgical precision. Though the Association wasn't particularly pleased about losing their deep cover agent to Swiss academia."
"Your information network was always the best of any of us." Kasper studied his friend's face, looking for traces of the uncertain young man who'd struggled with family expectations and moral complexity. "Though I'm betting this conversation has some very interested listeners monitoring both our ends of this connection."
"Everything's monitored these days. The trick is knowing which monitors actually matter and which ones are just bureaucratic theater." Valerian paused, choosing his words like a man walking through a minefield blindfolded. "I should have told you about Sarah months sooner. Maybe if I had, if we'd moved faster, none of this would be..."
"Don't." The name hit like a physical blow to the chest, stealing his breath for a moment. Sarah Blackwood. The woman he'd loved completely, without reservation. The handler who'd orchestrated his brother's murder for money and twisted ideology. The Academy operative who'd died in his arms confessing her feelings were real even as her blood soaked through his shirt and onto his hands. "We can't live our lives in maybes, Val. We can't rewrite the past just because we don't like how the story ended."
"The consequences of my family's choices keep destroying good people." Valerian's diplomatic mask slipped completely, revealing something desperate and broken underneath all that expensive tailoring. "First Sarah's whole fucked up situation, then whatever's happening to you now. When does the debt finally get paid in full? When do we stop losing pieces of ourselves to clean up the mess our parents made?"
"Debts don't get paid, brother. They just get transferred to different accounts, passed down to the next generation." Through the display, Kasper could see Obsidian Syndicate operatives moving in the background like sharks in thousand-dollar suits. "Take care of yourself. Try not to let your father's empire eat what's left of your soul before you figure out who you really want to be."
Valerian's carefully constructed facade crumpled slightly, showing the scared young man underneath all that diplomatic training. "Will I see you again? In this life or the next?"
"Not as Kasper de la Fuente."
Three down. One more call, then the hardest goodbye of all.
Kasper slumped back in his chair, the metal cold against his spine through his shirt. The basement felt like a tomb now, walls closing in with each severed connection to his old life. Footsteps echoed in the hallway above, measured and deliberate. The distinctive tap-tap rhythm of a gold-tipped walking cane against polished hardwood floors.
Perfect timing, as always. The man has a gift for dramatic entrances.
Zariff Queen entered without invitation or announcement, his presence transforming the utilitarian space into something resembling a high-level diplomatic meeting between world powers. Behind him, shadows moved with practiced purpose. Obsidian Syndicate security maintaining professional distance while staying ready for anything.
"The farewells are complete?" Zariff asked, settling into the chair across from Kasper with fluid grace that made the movement look effortless.
"Almost." Kasper's voice came out as a rasp, damaged by too much emotion and not enough water. He didn't trust himself to say more without his voice breaking completely.
Zariff placed a small package wrapped in midnight-blue silk on the metal table between them. The fabric looked expensive, probably cost more than most people made in a month. His gold teeth caught the display screens' light as he smiled with diplomatic precision that never quite reached his eyes.
"Nailah insisted I deliver this personally. Along with words that no encryption in the world can protect."
The package felt surprisingly heavy for its size, dense with meaning and memory. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper that smelled faintly of jasmine and something else he couldn't quite identify, lay a small brass compass. Antique craftsmanship, probably nineteenth-century Parisian work by someone who understood that beauty and function weren't mutually exclusive. The kind of navigation instrument that functioned regardless of electromagnetic interference or satellite availability. Practical but beautiful. Quintessentially her.
"She wanted me to tell you..." Zariff's voice carried the weight of a father who understood impossible choices, who'd made similar sacrifices for people he loved. "She understands. Sometimes the people we love have to..." He paused, searching for words that could contain the enormity of what was happening. "They have to become strangers. To keep us safe. To keep breathing."
Kasper turned the compass over in his hands, fingers tracing the intricate engravings along the edges. The brass was warm, like something recently held by familiar fingers, like something that carried the heat of another person's touch. His vision blurred as he read the engraving on the reverse side, elegant script that probably cost extra: For finding your way home. N
His throat closed completely. For a moment, he couldn't breathe at all.
"She's remarkable," he whispered when he finally found his voice again.
"Gets that from her mother. Stubborn, brilliant, too brave for her own good." Zariff's expression showed brief vulnerability before professional training reasserted control like a mask sliding back into place. "As her father, I'm grateful you chose the path that keeps her breathing and her heart beating. As a professional intelligence operative, I recognize sound tactical thinking under impossible circumstances." He leaned forward slightly, gold-tipped cane catching the emergency lighting. "Personally? I think you're about to lose everything that makes you who you are."
Kasper looked up from the compass, meeting the older man's eyes directly. "And?"
"The question is whether you'll find something better on the other side of this transformation, or whether exile will consume what's left of the man who earned the title Void Killer through blood and sacrifice."
Through the basement's small windows, San Isidro's evening lights began their nightly dance across the city skyline. Each illuminated window represented lives continuing their normal patterns, families having dinner, children doing homework, people living ordinary lives while this conversation determined whether his own family would survive the next few years.
"The Association's surveillance protocols," Kasper said, needing to focus on practical matters before the weight of everything crushed him completely. "How intrusive are we talking? Full monitoring or selective oversight?"
"More extensive than they're admitting to you in official briefings. Less comprehensive than they're actually capable of implementing if they decide you're worth the full treatment." Zariff produced a slim folder from his briefcase, expensive leather worn smooth by years of use. "Initial placement will be Charles Moretti, bartender in a strategically neutral city with good sight lines and multiple exit strategies. Six months minimum before evaluation for permanent identity arrangements. Any contact with former associates triggers immediate capture protocols and enhanced interrogation."
"My family's protection?"
"Guaranteed under Obsidian Syndicate security protocols as long as you maintain strict compliance with exile terms and conditions." His smile carried razor-sharp edges that promised swift retribution for any violations. "We have extensive experience keeping valuable assets safe from institutional oversight and bureaucratic overreach."
Kasper pocketed the compass, feeling its weight settle against his chest like a talisman against the darkness that was coming. "The Association won't stop with just me. Enhanced veterans represent too valuable a resource for them to ignore indefinitely. They'll come for the others eventually."
"Which is precisely why the Syndicate maintains ongoing interest in this developing situation and its potential ramifications." Zariff stood, his expensive suit somehow making the basement's utilitarian fixtures seem inadequate by comparison. "Your exile may prove temporary, depending on how various political situations develop. Your usefulness to various organizations most certainly will not be temporary."
Double meanings wrapped in triple implications like Russian nesting dolls. Everything Zariff said had layers of meaning buried inside other layers, information hidden within information.
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Charles the bartender may discover interesting employment opportunities if he demonstrates appropriate discretion and professional skill in his new role." Zariff's gold tooth caught the emergency lighting as he smiled with paternal approval. "The Syndicate maintains business interests in numerous cities worldwide. Talented individuals with specialized experience and enhanced capabilities are always welcome additions to our extended family operations."
Not hope exactly. Hope was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore, a weakness that could get people killed. But the suggestion that exile might not equal a slow death from purposelessness and isolation.
"One final consideration before I leave you to your preparations," Zariff said, checking his art deco pocket watch with practiced efficiency. "Your Academy friends. The Association has implemented comprehensive monitoring protocols on their communications following Agent Hayes's capture and subsequent relocation. They remain significantly safer believing you died heroically rather than simply vanished into exile like a coward."
Of course. Even goodbye becomes another deception, another lie to protect the people I love.
"Elena Hayes?"
"Remains a comfortable guest of Swiss academic institutions until formal documentation confirms your compliance with exile protocols and behavioral modification requirements." Zariff moved toward the basement stairs, cane tapping against concrete. "Approximately eighteen hours from this moment."
After Zariff left, silence settled over the communication center like dust on a forgotten grave. The holographic displays powered down automatically, leaving only emergency lighting to illuminate chrome and brass surfaces that reflected distorted images of a man already becoming someone else entirely.
Upstairs, his family waited with the patience of people who understood that some conversations couldn't be rushed. Isabella working on clockwork projects, brass gears and springs catching lamplight while her brilliant young mind solved mechanical problems through pure intuitive understanding. Ximena reviewing patient files at the kitchen table, her healer's hands steady and sure even when discussing terminal diagnoses with families who weren't ready to hear the truth. Camila typing furiously on her latest investigative piece, journalist's instincts searching for truth hidden inside layers of government lies and corporate propaganda.
And his father, Aldair, maintaining the exoskeleton that kept him mobile and functional, metal joints whispering with each calculated movement. The man who'd survived losing one son to terrorism and now faced losing another to choices he understood but couldn't bring himself to accept.
Tomorrow evening, Kasper de la Fuente would cease to exist completely. But tonight, he still had one family dinner left to attend and impossible decisions to explain to people who'd already sacrificed too much for his choices and his war against the darkness.
The brass compass was warm in his pocket, proof that some connections could survive even identity death and the grave of exile.
Time for the hardest goodbye of all. Time to break the hearts of the people who matter most.
He climbed the basement stairs toward the sound of familiar voices and normal life, each step taking him closer to the last ordinary evening of his existence.