CHAPTER 25: THE RETURN
The plane touched down at JFK just after three PM.
I took a car service into Manhattan. Watched the city scroll past the windows—familiar skyline, familiar streets, familiar everything. Like I'd never left.
Except I had. And I wasn't the same person who'd boarded the flight to Pennsylvania.
The driver tried to make small talk. I gave short answers. Polite but minimal. My phone had been buzzing constantly since we landed—texts, emails, voicemails. I'd glanced at a few.
Kendall: Welcome back. Coffee this week?
Greg: Saw the news! Are you okay?! Let me know if you need anything!
Frank: Good work in Pennsylvania. Debrief when you're ready.
And from numbers I didn't recognize: journalists, probably. Requests for interviews. The story had gotten out.
I put the phone on silent. Watched Manhattan.
The car pulled up to Waystar HQ at four thirty. I grabbed my bag. Tipped the driver. Stood on the sidewalk for a moment.
Same building. Same glass and steel. Same everything.
I walked through the lobby.
The security guard at the desk—Marcus, worked there for years, usually ignored me—looked up.
"Mr. Roy." He nodded. Respectful. "Good to have you back."
"Thanks."
People in the lobby glanced over. Recognized me. I caught fragments of conversation as I passed: "...that was him..." "...hostage situation..." "...talked them down..."
Word had spread. Of course it had.
The elevator ride to the executive floor felt longer than usual. When the doors opened, I stepped into familiar territory.
Different eyes watching me now.
Sarah at the reception desk smiled. Actually smiled. "Welcome back, Roman."
"Thanks, Sarah."
"Your office is ready. Mail's on your desk."
I headed down the hallway. Passed Karl coming out of his office. He paused.
"Roman. Hell of a thing in Pennsylvania."
"Yeah."
"You handled it well."
"Did my best."
He clapped my shoulder. Kept walking.
Small things. Tiny shifts. But noticeable.
I reached my office. Closed the door. Set my bag down. Stood at the window.
Same view. Manhattan spread below. The towers, the streets, the river in the distance. I'd stood here dozens of times. The view never changed.
But I had.
Seven weeks ago, I'd woken up in Roman Roy's body. Stranger in strange skin. Playing a role I barely understood.
Now... I wasn't sure what I was anymore. Not just the transmigrator. Not quite Roman either. Something in between. Something forged by crisis and choice and the weight of other people's lives.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Kendall stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. We stared at each other for a long moment.
"Hey," he said finally.
"Hey."
"You good?"
"Yeah."
He crossed to the window. Stood beside me. Looked out at the same view.
"I saw the news," he said quietly. "Hostage situation. Three armed men. You talked them down."
"More or less."
"That's..." He stopped. Started again. "That's not nothing, Roman."
"It was the right thing to do."
"Still." He glanced at me. Something complicated in his expression—admiration, maybe. Envy. Confusion about what to do with this new version of his brother. "You could've frozen. Most people would've frozen."
I thought about Trauma Lock. About the power that had held Roman's childhood terror at bay while I negotiated with desperate men. About the shaking that came after.
"I was scared," I said. Truth, if not all of it. "But scared doesn't help anyone."
Kendall nodded slowly. "The 'teach me' thing. I meant it. I want to learn... that. How you stay calm."
"It's not something I can teach in a classroom."
"Then teach me however you can."
I looked at him. My brother. Roman's brother. The man who would eventually kill someone at a wedding and spend years owned by Logan's cover-up. The man I might be able to save from some of that.
"Okay," I said. "We'll start this week."
He smiled. Uncertain but genuine. "Thanks."
A sharper knock. The door opened without waiting.
Shiv walked in. Surveyed us both with politician eyes.
"The prodigal son returns," she said. Dry. "Kendall, you're needed in finance. Frank's looking for you."
Kendall glanced at me. I nodded. He left.
Shiv closed the door behind him. Leaned against it.
"So," she said. "Hostage crisis. Armed standoff. Peaceful resolution." She tilted her head. "When did you become competent?"
"I was always competent."
"No. You were always smart. Different thing." She crossed her arms. "This is new. The calm under pressure. The crisis management. What changed?"
Dangerous question. Shiv was the perceptive one. The one who noticed things.
"Almost losing Dad in the stroke," I said. Same story I'd given Gerri. "Clarified priorities."
"Mmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Well. Whatever it is, keep it up. The family could use someone who doesn't fall apart when things get difficult."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Don't get used to it." She pushed off the door. "Dinner next week? You, me, Tom. Catch up properly."
"Sure."
She left.
I stood alone in my office. Processing.
Both siblings had approached me. Separately. Both acknowledging change. Both uncertain how to navigate this new dynamic.
Good. Uncertainty meant flexibility. Meant I could shape the relationships instead of being locked into old patterns.
My phone buzzed. Gerri.
My office. When you're ready.
I grabbed my jacket. Headed down the hall.
Gerri's office door was closed. I knocked.
"Come in."
She stood behind her desk. Professional pose. Lawyer face.
Then I closed the door and she crossed the room.
The hug was brief. Appropriate for a professional setting if anyone had been watching. But tight. Real.
"Don't do that again," she said into my shoulder.
"Which part? The management training or the hostage situation?"
"Either." She pulled back. Looked at me. Really looked—checking for damage. "You scared me."
"I scared myself."
Her hand came up. Touched my face. Just for a second. Then she stepped back. Professional distance restored.
"How are you actually doing?" she asked.
"Tired. Wired. Trying to figure out what normal feels like now."
"That's honest." She moved back to her desk. Gestured for me to sit. "The media's been calling. They want the story. Logan's PR team is managing it, but they'll want you to do some interviews."
"I'm not doing interviews."
"I told them you'd say that." She smiled slightly. "They're drafting a statement instead. 'Mr. Roy is grateful for the peaceful resolution and requests privacy as he processes the traumatic experience.'"
"Sounds appropriately meaningless."
"It's PR. Meaningless is the goal." She leaned back in her chair. "Logan wants to see you tomorrow. Debrief about Pennsylvania."
"Should be fun."
"He's... pleased. In his way. Don't expect warm sentiments, but he sees value in what you did."
"I know." I thought about the phone call. Well done. Two words that meant more from Logan than a speech from anyone else.
"The board is impressed," Gerri continued. "Frank's been singing your praises. Several members have asked about expanding your responsibilities."
"Already?"
"Crisis competence is rare. They want to capitalize on it while the goodwill is fresh."
I processed this. The hostage situation had accelerated my trajectory. Proven me in ways months of boardroom maneuvering couldn't have.
Butterfly effect. Major one.
"What do you think I should do?" I asked.
"Accept some additional responsibility. Not too much—you're still recovering. But enough to cement the perception shift." She paused. "And Roman?"
"Yeah?"
"Take care of yourself. The adrenaline crash from something like that can last weeks. You'll have nightmares. Flashbacks. That's normal."
"Speaking from experience?"
"My husband was a cop. I saw what crises did to him." Her expression softened. "Promise me you'll actually rest. Not just throw yourself back into work."
"I promise."
"Liar." But she smiled. "Dinner tonight? Our place."
Our place. The quiet Italian restaurant. The one that had become ours over shared meals and honest conversations.
"Eight o'clock?" I asked.
"Perfect."
I stood to leave. Paused at the door. "Gerri?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For..." I gestured vaguely. For everything. For being there. For caring.
"Always," she said quietly.
I left before the moment could get heavier.
Back in my office, I stood at the window again.
Same view. Same city.
But I wasn't the same.
And somewhere in that difference was something worth holding onto.
My phone buzzed. Logan's assistant.
Tomorrow, 9 AM, Logan's office. Be prepared to discuss Pennsylvania in detail.
I texted back: Confirmed.
Tomorrow I'd face Logan. Tonight I'd have dinner with Gerri.
The wounded king, returned to the empire.
Changed. Tested. Proven.
And somehow, despite everything, still standing.
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