Grant hopped down the last few steps of the stairwell, his hand trailing the chipped rail. On the landing below, two neighbors stood close together, whispering fast.
They quieted when they noticed him.
"…a whole family. Taken last week."
Grant slowed, ears straining.
"…father could lift things without touching them. Gifted. Dangerous. Better gone before—"
He bent to fuss with his shoelace, pretending not to listen. His chest felt tight anyway.
The woman's voice softened. "They had a little girl. She used to play out front."
The man grunted. "Weeds spread if you don't pull 'em early."
Their words faded as they pushed out the door.
Outside, the corner shop was closing, even though the sun was still high. The owner yanked the shutter down with a crash and snapped the lock. He glanced at Grant and shook his head.
"Too many Weeds around here," the man muttered. "Hiding where they don't belong."
Grant kept walking, sneakers slapping the pavement. He didn't know what to say.
From an upstairs window, a radio crackled:
"…new Gifted Regulation measures take effect today. Curfews were extended across three districts. Taskforce patrols authorized to detain suspects without warning…"
The voice fuzzed out in static.
Grant stopped, the words tumbling around in his head. Regulation. Detain. He didn't know what they meant, not exactly. But he knew they were heavy.
People hurried past with their eyes down, doors slamming behind them.
Grant rubbed his arm, wishing Dad was there.
Spencer kept a steady pace, one hand on the small of Grant's back. "Almost done. Just bread, then we head home."
Grant hugged the paper bag close. The smell was warm, then the rumble started.
Engines. Heavy ones.
At the far end of the block, two trucks rolled in, their tires grinding against the cobblestones. Soldiers climbed down in neat rows, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes scanning the windows.
Grant slowed without meaning to.
Spencer's hand clamped firmer, urging him forward. "Eyes ahead."
The soldiers split up, knocking on doors, demanding answers Grant couldn't hear. One peeled away and stopped in front of them. His visor lifted just enough to show pale eyes studying them.
"Where you headed?" the soldier asked. His voice was flat, unreadable.
Spencer didn't blink. "Home. Bread for dinner." He lifted the bag just enough to show.
The soldier's gaze flicked to Grant, then back. Grant's throat went dry—he almost blurted something, but Spencer's hand tightened on his shoulder before he could.
After a long beat, the soldier turned his gaze down the street.
Grant finally let out the breath he'd been holding.
Spencer gave the faintest nod. "Keep moving."
Behind them, fists pounded on another door.
Back home, the door shut with a little more force than usual. Spencer set the bread on the counter. His shoulders stayed stiff, like he was still listening for engines outside.
Grant slipped out of his shoes, watching him. "Dad… why were the soldiers here?"
Spencer drew in a slow breath and forced himself to turn, smile ready but thin. "They're just passing through, champ. Making sure everyone's behaving."
Grant frowned. "Because of the Weeds?"
The smile faltered. Spencer rubbed a hand across his face, buying time. "Don't—don't listen to that word. It's just something people say when they're scared."
"But the neighbors said they dragged a family out." Grant's voice lowered, almost a whisper. "Were they bad?"
Spencer crouched down so they were eye level. "Not bad—no. Just… not like everyone else. People don't like that. Makes them nervous. And when people get nervous, they… they do things. Things they shouldn't." He cut himself off, as if he'd already said too much.
Grant's brow furrowed. "Like pulling weeds out of the ground?"
Spencer's throat bobbed. He didn't answer right away. "Something like that."
Grant hesitated. "Then why do they take them away?"
A flicker of panic crossed Spencer's face. He smoothed it over with a half-shrug. "Because some folks think they're dangerous. Some say they can do things other people can't. Read minds. Start fires without matches. Stuff that—stuff that makes the rest of the world nervous."
Grant's eyes widened, caught between fear and wonder.
Spencer gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Listen. Whatever happens out there, you don't need to worry. My job's to keep you safe. Always."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Spencer's voice was steady, but the fear lingered in his eyes.
Grant leaned into him, satisfied for now. Spencer held him close, keeping his face hidden in the boy's hair so the lie wouldn't show.
At night, Grant brushed his teeth and padded down the hall toward his room, but paused when he noticed his father at the window again.
Spencer had the blinds parted with two fingers, staring into the street below. After a moment, he let them fall shut. He crossed the room, tugged a dented tin box from beneath the couch, and opened it with shaking hands. Inside: folded papers, some yellowed at the edges. He paused on one. A stamp at the top read in bold letters:
PROJECT A.M.P.
Augmented Militarized Physiology
Schematics, diagrams, rows of numbers.
Grant squinted, but the words meant nothing to him. Just grown-up stuff.
Spencer's jaw clenched as he stared at it too long, then he stuffed the paper back in the box, shoved it beneath the couch, and straightened.
Grant tilted his head. "Dad?"
Spencer flinched. Only a little, but enough. He turned too quickly and forced a smile. "Thought you were in bed, champ."
Grant yawned. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Just… nothing." His voice was too sharp. He softened it quickly. "Go on, it's late."
Grant lingered at the doorway, but his father guided him gently toward the bedroom.
"C'mon, bed," he said, softer this time, without looking over.
Grant obeyed, curling beneath his blanket. But sleep didn't come quickly. Through the thin walls, he could hear his father pacing, locks clicking, blinds shifting.
The boy lay still, staring at the ceiling.
After a while, a sound rose from outside. Engines, far off but moving closer. Grant held his breath, straining to listen.
The sound grew, rolled across the rooftops, then faded into the distance.
He squeezed his toy car in his hand, eyes wide in the dark, and wondered what his dad wasn't telling him.
Grant had almost drifted off when the first light cut across the ceiling. It wasn't the warm yellow of a neighbor's car. It was white, harsh, sweeping too slow to be casual.
He sat up, clutching his blanket. Another beam followed, sliding past the blinds in the living room.
Spencer was already at the window, his hand frozen against the curtain.
Then came the sound—low at first, like a growl under the street. Engines, heavy and unhurried, rumbling in formation. Not one. Not two. A convoy.
Headlights spilled across the cracked pavement outside, too many to count. Shadows of armored shapes crawled along the buildings.
Spencer didn't move. His chest rose and fell once, sharp, before he whispered the words Grant wasn't meant to hear.
"They're here."