CHAPTER 33: HOME FRONT
The radio played bombing updates over breakfast.
"—authorities are asking residents to report any suspicious packages or unusual activity. The ABB, also known as the Azn Bad Boys, has claimed responsibility for—"
Danny turned it off.
His coffee sat untouched, steam long since dissipated. The newspaper was open to the local section, but his eyes weren't reading—they were calculating.
"Three blast sites," he said. "Two of them near shipping routes."
"I saw."
"Port authority's talking about temporary closures. Safety concerns." He picked up the coffee, put it down again. "If they close the docks..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
I'd read the web serial. I knew Danny Hebert's story—the man who lost his wife to a car accident, his connection to his daughter to grief, and his purpose to economic decline. The Dockworkers Association was already struggling. Bomb-related closures might be the final blow.
"I could pick up extra shifts," I said. "Marco mentioned they need help at the grocery warehouse—"
"No." The word came too quickly, with too much force. Danny caught himself, modulated his tone. "No. You're doing enough. Focus on school, on Taylor. I'll handle the money."
The way he said "handle" suggested the opposite.
Taylor came downstairs as Danny left for work, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She grabbed a piece of toast from the counter and checked her phone.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Yeah."
We walked to the truck in silence. The morning air carried the faint smell of smoke from somewhere distant—not fresh, but lingering. Echoes of last night's chaos.
The drive to Winslow took twenty minutes.
Taylor stared out the passenger window for the first five, then turned to me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Sophia hasn't bothered me in weeks."
I kept my eyes on the road. "That's good."
"It's weird." Taylor shifted in her seat. "She used to be... constant. Every day, something. And then it just stopped. Emma tried once without her, and it was pathetic. She didn't know what to do when nobody was backing her up."
Good. The Winslow intervention was working. The locker hadn't happened. Taylor's trigger conditions—if they still existed—had been disrupted.
"Some people need an audience," I said. "Take away the leader, the followers don't know how to function."
"I guess." Taylor was quiet for a moment. "There's this new girl. Transferred in last week. She's... weird, but nice. Charlotte. She actually asked to sit with me at lunch."
The name didn't register in my meta-knowledge. Charlotte wasn't a character I remembered from the web serial—not in Winslow's context, not in this timeframe.
Another butterfly? Or someone I just didn't notice in the source material?
"That's good," I said. "Making friends."
"Maybe." Taylor's voice was cautious, but lighter than I'd heard it in weeks. "She's interested in bugs, which is... different. Most people think they're gross."
I pulled into the Winslow drop-off zone and stopped. Taylor gathered her backpack, opened the door—then paused.
"Thanks," she said. "For driving me. And for... whatever you did."
"I didn't do anything."
"Sure." Her smile was small but genuine. "See you after school."
She walked toward the entrance, and I watched her go. Her posture was different—less compressed, less defensive. The girl who'd hunched through hallways expecting attack was becoming someone who moved with her head up.
The radio played a song I didn't recognize. Taylor laughed at something in the lyrics—a real laugh, spontaneous and unguarded.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
This, I thought. This is what I'm protecting.
Every death, every fragment, every lie I told to Danny and Brian and Lisa—it was all building toward a future where Taylor could laugh at a stupid radio song without fear.
Worth it. Worth everything.
I pulled away from the school and headed for the loft.
The map of bomb sites had grown since yesterday.
Lisa stood at the wall, adding a fourth pin—red for ABB, black ring for casualties. This one was closer to downtown than the others.
"When?" I asked.
"Four AM. Small business district. Seven injured, one dead." She stepped back, assessing the pattern. "She's escalating. Each bomb is bigger than the last, and the targets are moving toward higher-traffic areas."
"She wants attention."
"She wants fear." Lisa turned to face me. "Bakuda's methodology is psychological terrorism. The bombs aren't just weapons—they're demonstrations. Each one proves she can do something the last one didn't."
I studied the map. The blast radius markers overlapped with territory boundaries, civilian zones, economic corridors. The shipping warehouse was still the closest to dockworker territory.
"Danny's worried about port closures," I said.
"He should be. If Bakuda hits the waterfront, the economic damage alone would cripple the Docks for months."
I thought about Danny's untouched coffee. Taylor's laugh in the truck. The two worlds I was trying to hold together.
"What's Coil's response?"
Lisa's expression flickered—that same discomfort from yesterday. "He wants us positioned for opportunity. The bombing campaign is destabilizing ABB's hold on their territory. When Bakuda overextends—and she will—there will be gaps we can exploit."
"That's cold."
"That's Coil." She picked up her tablet. "The boss wants a response to this fourth bombing. Nothing direct—just reconnaissance. Map ABB patrols, identify supply routes, note where Bakuda's presence is heaviest."
"When?"
"Tonight. Full team." She paused. "Brian's leading. You'll follow his orders."
The pointed reminder wasn't subtle.
"I'll follow his orders."
"Good." Lisa headed toward her room, then stopped. "One more thing. The new girl at Winslow—Charlotte?"
I tensed. "What about her?"
"Nothing yet. Just... my power pinged when you mentioned her. Something about the connection doesn't fit the pattern."
"She's Taylor's friend. That's all."
"Maybe." Lisa's expression said she didn't quite believe it. "Keep an eye out. Unknowns are dangerous."
She disappeared into her room.
I stood alone in the main room, staring at the map of bomb sites and thinking about unknowns.
Charlotte. The new Winslow transfer who liked bugs.
Taylor had found a friend. That should have been good news—a sign that the intervention was working, that my sister was healing.
But Lisa's instincts were rarely wrong, and "doesn't fit the pattern" was the kind of phrase that preceded disaster.
I pulled up my phone and scrolled through Winslow's public roster. No Charlotte listed in Taylor's grade. No transfer notifications in the school's announcement system.
Who are you?
My phone buzzed. Lisa's message:
Bakuda hit a fourth location. Closer to our territory. Boss wants a response.
I put away the questions about Charlotte and headed to gear up.
The city was on fire, and I still had work to do.
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