Wynne Xevoz's POV
I was buried in paperwork when my phone vibrated against the desk, the soft buzz cutting through the steady scratch of my pen. School activities, club budget approvals, incident reports—paper towers that never seemed to shrink, no matter how many signatures I laid down. I sighed and glanced at the screen.
Nick.
I paused.
Dad, I'm done. I'll go to the bookstore first before returning home.
For a moment, my hand hovered above the phone. Eighteen in a few months. Too old to hover over, too young for the world he was walking into. I typed a simple reply.
Ok.
I stared at the message after sending it, as if I could read something between the lines. I couldn't. And maybe that was the point. He had his own rhythm now, his own quiet corners he didn't invite me into anymore. That was normal. That was supposed to be normal.
The phone rang almost immediately after.
Tristan.
I frowned before answering, already feeling a familiar tension settle between my shoulders. I didn't say anything—just pressed the phone to my ear and waited.
A full minute passed.
Then he sighed loudly. "Come on, man. You can't just answer a phone and go dead silent. It's unsettling."
"You're the one who called," I said evenly. "I assumed you had something to say."
A short laugh crackled through the line. "You're no fun. Ever."
"Tristan," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, "just tell me what you want."
He cleared his throat, suddenly more serious. That alone made my stomach tighten. "Alright. I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
"Just say it."
"Well, whatever. I'll tell you both anyway." He didn't even pause for effect. "Bad news is—Nick's one of them. Good news is—he's different."
My pen stopped mid-signature.
The room felt quieter. Too quiet.
"Care to explain that better?" I asked, keeping my voice flat with effort.
"I'm sure now," Tristan continued. "Nick's a Nihilkin. When I pointed an empty pistol at him, his eyes turned purple. Reflexes kicked in instantly. Fast. Faster than anyone I've ever tested."
My jaw clenched. "You pointed a gun at my son?"
"It was empty," he shot back quickly. "Relax. I wasn't trying to traumatize him. I was proving something. Isn't that what you wanted? Answers?" Then, lighter, almost defensive: "And I wouldn't hurt my godson."
"So you remember that," I said coldly. "That you're his godfather."
"Of course I do," Tristan replied, a hint of sincerity bleeding through his usual bravado. "That's why I did it carefully. You had suspicions. I confirmed them. Now we know the truth."
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright. "And the other news?"
He exhaled slowly. "His power's under control. That's the important part. His mental fortitude is… impressive. He's suppressing his other self consciously."
"So what should I do now?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
There was a brief silence on the line. Not Tristan being dramatic, he's trying to construct his actual thought.
"He might be in control now," Tristan said carefully, "but things aren't predictable. Power like that doesn't grow quietly. And he's still a boy, Wynne. Power or not."
"You said he needs support," I said. "What kind of support?"
Tristan's voice softened, losing its usual sharp edge.
"Emotional support," he explained. "Nick's suppressing half of what he is. That takes constant effort—fear, guilt, confusion, all piled on top of normal teenage nonsense. If he feels isolated, rejected, or misunderstood, that control can crack. He needs stability. Trust. Someone who treats him like a son first, not a threat or a weapon. You're grounding him—keeping him human—that's what keeps the Nihilkin part from taking over. Power listens to emotion, Wynne. Right now, you and Chloe are his anchor."
I leaned back in my chair, the office suddenly feeling smaller than it had a moment ago. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, steady and indifferent. Papers lay across my desk, but the words on them had lost all meaning.
I understood what Tristan was saying. I had understood it the moment he said Nick needed support.
What my son needed wasn't explanations or contingency plans. He needed his parents—unwavering, unquestioning—standing behind him.
"I understand," I had told Tristan, my voice low but firm. "Thank you."
"Don't sweat it," he replied lightly, slipping back into his usual tone. "He's my godson. I did what I needed to do."
"I'm going now," I said.
He started to say something—probably a joke, probably unsolicited advice—but I ended the call before he could finish. For once, I didn't have the patience.
I sat there for a few seconds longer, fingers steepled, staring at the surface of my desk. Then I reached for the phone again and dialed another number.
It rang twice.
"Hayward Clinic, how can we help you?" a female voice answered, professional and calm.
"May I speak with Dr. Hayward?" I asked.
"Please wait a moment."
A soft beep followed, then a pause long enough for doubt to creep in. Finally, a man's voice came through—older, gravelly, carrying the weight of years and authority.
"Hello? This is Dr. Hayward. How can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, Doctor," I said. "This is Wynne Xevoz. May I ask you for a favor?"
There was silence on the other end. Not the awkward kind—the measuring kind. I could almost see him leaning back in his chair, gears turning.
"Oh," he said at last. "Harvey's son-in-law. I owe your father-in-law more than I can repay. A small favor for you won't hurt me. What do you need?"
I smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. I had sworn never to use those connections. Yet here I was.
"I need a human heart," I said.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Hm," he murmured. "I can arrange that. But perhaps you could enlighten me—what will you be using it for?"
"For research," I replied smoothly. The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it anyway.
"I see," he said, not sounding convinced, but not pressing further. "Shall I send it to you, or will you be picking it up?"
"I'll pick it up," I said. "Thank you, Doctor."
"No problem at all. Anything else?"
"That's all."
"I'll be waiting for you then."
The line went dead.
I exhaled slowly and rubbed my face with both hands. I had crossed another line today. I told myself it was for Nick. That made it easier to stand.
Before I could overthink it, I dialed another number.
Chloe answered on the third ring, her voice bright as ever. "Hey! You done playing important man at work?"
Despite everything, a small smile tugged at my lips. "Almost. Quick question—do you want beef heart stew for dinner?"
There was a delighted gasp on the other end. "I'd love that! But… where would I even find beef heart?"
"I already have one," I said. "Just buy the ingredients."
She laughed, light and musical, completely unbothered. "Of course you do. Alright, I'll handle it."
"I have to go," I said softly. "I love you."
"I love you too, honey," she replied without hesitation.
The call ended, and for the first time that day, the tightness in my chest eased—just a little.