Monday morning in the Carter household felt different. Not in the good way. Not in the "holy shit we're rich now" kind of way. More like the kind of tension you feel right before a storm hits—air too still, smiles too forced, like the whole house was holding its breath and didn't know why.
Peter woke up at 6:00 AM sharp, his body adjusting to its enhancements like a machine that didn't believe in snooze buttons anymore. No alarm. No groaning. Just cold tiles, fast water, clean clothes that Madison had picked out with her "this makes you look casually powerful" logic.
Downstairs, the kitchen lights were too bright, too early. Mom was already up and dressed, staring at her Mercedes keys like they were a dream she might wake up from.
"Morning, baby," she said, pouring coffee from the ancient machine that looked hilariously prehistoric now. Like it belonged in a museum for broke people.
"Sleep well?"
