Damien's phone call comes at exactly 6:17 PM, demanding tomorrow's observatory meeting. I know this is the moment of final choice.
I'm sitting in the living room of Alexander's safe house—a modest two-bedroom apartment in Silver Lake that Marcus keeps for emergencies. Nothing fancy, just clean lines and functional furniture, but it feels more like home than anywhere I've lived since I was seven years old. Alexander is in the kitchen making dinner, and I can hear him humming something under his breath while he works. The domestic normality of it should feel strange after a day of federal briefings and genocide revelations, but instead it feels like the first real thing I've experienced in years.
My phone buzzes against the glass coffee table, and Damien's name appears on the screen. For a moment, I consider not answering. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to just turn off the phone, delete his number, pretend the past sixteen years never happened.
