The plane doors opened to the smell of New York air. Jet fuel, hot asphalt, something fried somewhere it shouldn't be. Reed stepped out, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and for a moment it felt strange… like walking into a city that remembered him even if he had been gone too long.
The eyes turned toward him were trained Shadowhunters, not airport staff. Four of them, dressed like they belonged in a glossy magazine rather than a battlefield. Sharp suits, dark coats hiding the marks under their skin, watching everything that moved.
And in the middle of them, she stood out. Early thirties maybe, though Shadowhunters aged slow. Long dark hair, lips painted a shade she had no right to pull off in daylight, posture that made even hardened guards straighten when she glanced their way. When her gaze landed on Reed, though, it softened.
"Hunter Reed," she said, like the name had weight. "Welcome back to New York."
Reed grinned, dropped the bag at his feet, and gave her a lazy salute. "Been a while. How's the old man holding up?"
That cracked her mask. Her brows shot up before she caught herself, then she let out a small laugh. "Old man…? You mean Hunter Hale."
"Please," Reed said, scooping his bag back up and starting toward her. "He hates when people call him that."
She tilted her head, studying him. Then it clicked—this wasn't some outsider throwing shade at the leader of the House of Black. This was his old protégé. She shook her head, still smiling as she gestured for him to follow.
"He's well," she said. "Though I imagine you'll see for yourself soon enough. And yes, before you ask, his daughter is one of the trainees."
Reed's stride slowed a fraction. "Ah. That explains why I got dragged across the country to babysit rookies."
Her mouth twitched. "Protecting rookies. Training them. There's a difference."
"Sure," he said, not bothering to hide the dry edge in his tone. "And nothing to do with the fact his kid is in the group. He never could hide that bias."
They reached the car, black glass and reinforced frame, the Shadowhunter crest faint against the door. A guard opened it for them. Reed slid inside, dropping his bag at his feet, stretching his long legs with the satisfied groan of someone who'd been crammed into coach for too many hours.
The woman slid in beside him, gave a nod to the driver, and the car pulled away.
Reed rested his elbow against the window, watching the blur of taxis and pedestrians as they merged into city traffic. "How bad's it gotten?"
She glanced at him. "You mean the abductions."
"What else would I mean."
She exhaled. "Thirty confirmed missing across the East Coast in the last three months. Ten of those in New York. Four… in the past twenty-four hours."
Reed's jaw tightened. He didn't speak for a moment, eyes still on the city rushing past.
"You have an opinion?" he asked finally.
"Officially?" she said.
He gave her a sidelong look.
Her voice went flat, practiced. "It's a coordinated strike, likely warlock involvement, though the motive remains unclear. The Institute is pooling resources to track and recover our people before the loss of morale becomes permanent."
Reed snorted. "Yeah. That's the kind of answer they teach you to give at the academy. Doesn't mean you believe it."
Her lips curved faintly. She didn't confirm or deny.
Reed leaned his head back against the seat, watching the city roll by. New York. He'd grown up in these streets, learned to fight in these alleys, bled in these churches and rooftops. Then they'd shipped him west, to LA, to headquarters, to missions that nearly killed him more times than he could count. Coming back felt… strange. Like slipping into an old coat you'd outgrown but still remembered the smell of.
He drifted, thoughts spinning. Hale's voice. The first blade in his grip. And always, the shadows curling in the corners of his memory, steady companions when nothing else made sense.
A polite cough snapped him back.
He turned. The woman—he realized he didn't even know her name yet—was fiddling with something in her hands. A small backpack strap. She looked a little embarrassed, which was strange for someone who walked around with four armed guards.
"Sorry," she said. "This is… awkward. But my son. He's seven. He… well, he looks up to you." She pulled out a worn training glove, child-sized. "Would you sign this for him?"
Reed blinked. "Sign it? I'm not a movie star. I'm just a Shadowhunter."
She laughed outright at that, shaking her head. "Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea the stories they tell about you in training halls?"
He raised a brow. "Stories. Yeah, that's all they are."
Her eyes glinted. "No. Not just stories. Thirteen when you cleared that nest of night spawn in the Bronx. Fifteen when you won the tournament three years in a row, undefeated. You finished training in half the time it takes most recruits, then they shipped you to LA because New York couldn't hold you anymore. And the missions… God, the missions. The nest in Mexico, the siege in Chicago, the demon incursion in LA. They say you walked out of things seasoned veterans wouldn't survive."
"Alright, alright," Reed cut in, laughing as he raised both hands. "You sound like my file's biggest fan. I'll sign the glove. Just stop making me sound like a bedtime story."
She handed over a marker before he could change his mind. He uncapped it, scrawled his name across the little glove, and passed it back.
"There," he said, leaning back again. "Now let's just hope he won't be disappointed at his hero's bad handwriting."
She tucked the glove away with more care than she'd shown her own documents earlier. "He won't be disappointed."
Reed smiled faintly, turning back to the window. For the first time in years, he was back where it had all begun.