I keep dinner moving because the house is one wrong sentence away from going sideways.
Debbie is at the counter rinsing vegetables, shoulders set, quiet in the way she gets when she's holding the centre for everyone else. Mark sits at the kitchen table with his phone face-down, leg bouncing hard enough to rattle the chair. Stephen stands near the doorway between kitchen and hall, half-present, eyes tracking everything without committing to anything.
The district email is still open on Debbie's laptop. Mandatory safety/support meeting. A neat subject line for a mess they don't control.
The city hasn't calmed since the earlier footage. People still talk about the day Stephen got driven through buildings and the street buckled from the impact. They talk about the red glare and the cut through concrete. They talk about how fast it happened, how helpless everyone looked in the video. That was the moment fear set its hook.
The drive-by just reminded them that the hook is still in.
Mark's phone buzzes again. He doesn't pick it up. The sound is enough. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the table like he wants to put a fist through it.
Stephen's face stays neutral. He's good at neutral now. It reads as cold if you don't live with him.
I watch the three of them and I make the decision before I say it out loud.
We're spending energy on people who will never stop. The school, the district, the strangers online, the ones who want a reason to be afraid. We cannot negotiate with any of that. We can only remove the target.
I turn off the burner and set the spoon down. The kitchen goes quieter, not calm—just waiting.
"..Table.."
Debbie looks up once. She knows what tone means from me. She dries her hands and starts moving plates without asking questions yet.
Stephen takes a seat carefully, like he's stepping into a situation that will be judged no matter what he does.
Mark stays standing until the last moment, then drops into his chair with a sharp exhale. He still won't flip his phone over.
I sit across from them and keep my voice level.
"..This ends. The school situation ends.."
Mark looks up, waiting. Debbie's gaze holds steady. Stephen continues to stare at his plate.
Debbie starts, "..Nolan—"
"..I saw the email.."
Mark lets out a short laugh that isn't humour. "..A meeting. Great. They'll put out a PowerPoint and tell everyone to be nice to my brother.."
Debbie's eyes cut to him. "..Mark.."
"..I'm saying it's bullshit.."
Too loud. He catches himself immediately, jaw tight. "..Sorry.."
Stephen's shoulders jump at the spike in volume.
I keep going. "..They want a protocol. They want a process. They want to feel in control.."
I pause just long enough to make it land.
"..They don't get that.."
Debbie's fingers press into her napkin. She doesn't disagree. She just doesn't like where this is going.
"..My plan is simple.."
Mark's leg stops bouncing.
"..We withdraw Stephen from the school. Effective immediately.."
Mark goes still. "..What!?.."
Stephen doesn't move, but his eyes lift fast.
"..We hire private teachers. He completes high school from home. If the work stays easy, he finishes early.."
Mark pushes his chair back slightly, not leaving, but bracing. "..So we just pull him out. That's it.."
"..It removes him from the daily circus.."
I keep my tone flat because if I raise it, Mark will match me.
"..No cameras. No crowds. No teachers trying to manage a room instead of teaching. No more daily stress.."
Mark's face twists. "..You mean no life. Alone. Sad. Miserable.."
Debbie's voice is quiet but firm. "..Mark. Don't decide his feelings for him.."
Mark points, not at me—at the idea. "..That's what it is. It's hiding. It's—.."
He cuts himself off, looks at Stephen. His expression shifts, softer for a second, then hard again. "..It's isolating him.."
Stephen's mouth opens, then closes.
Debbie glances at me. Not asking for permission. Warning me not to bulldoze.
She sits back and takes a breath. "..Let me talk.."
I nod once.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Nolan doesn't announce decisions the way other people do. He lays them down and waits for the room to adjust.
I hear the practicality in it, and I can't pretend I don't want to grab it with both hands. I also can't pretend practical means harmless.
Stephen has been getting ground down every day. Not by schoolwork. By being watched. By being labelled. By the constant hunger people have for a reaction, a mistake, a moment they can clip and post. After the earlier incident—after the damage and the footage and the red glare—people decided what he is without ever meeting him.
The drive-by didn't create the fear. It proved the fear has teeth.
Mark hears "..withdraw.." and hears "..locked away.."
He's stubborn. He wants to fix things by standing in front of them and daring them to try again. He also wants someone to tell him he didn't fail, even though I can see it in his face—he thinks he did.
Stephen sits with his hands folded, expression neutral. He's learned that showing emotion just gives people more material.
I look at Nolan. "..If we do this, we do it for Stephen. Not to make him smaller.."
Nolan's eyes narrow slightly. He doesn't like being challenged. He listens anyway.
"..So we're specific.."
I keep my voice calm because this house doesn't need another spark.
"..He can finish early if he wants. That part's fine. But he doesn't skip being a person.."
Stephen's eyes lift to me, cautious, almost suspicious.
Nolan's voice is even. "..This isn't about skipping life.."
"..It can become that if we're not careful.."
I don't say more. I don't need to. Nolan knows how easily a plan turns into a cage when safety becomes the only priority.
I tilt my head toward the laptop on the counter. "..And the district email. Mandatory safety and support meeting. Their risk protocol.."
Nolan's jaw sets. "..I'm not asking permission from the district to protect my family.."
"..I know.."
I let the words sit a beat, then keep going.
"..And I'm not agreeing because I'm scared of them. I'm choosing what gives him room to breathe.."
Mark's shoulders drop a fraction. He needed to hear it framed that way.
I turn to Stephen. "..If you're home, you still go out. You still see people. You still get to be a kid when you can.."
His throat moves like he's swallowing something.
"..And university.."
I look at Nolan while I say it, because this part matters just as much as the withdrawal form.
"..When you're old enough, you go properly. With people your age. Social life. Choices. Not rushing past it just because you can.."
Stephen's gaze holds on me longer now.
Mark's mouth tightens. He wants to argue, but he's not sure who he'd be arguing against.
I keep my voice steady. "..Stephen. What do you want?.."
He doesn't answer immediately. He glances at Mark, then at Nolan, then back to me. His control is tight, but the strain under it is obvious.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Stephen sits upright with his hands folded, shoulders high, face blank in the practised way that usually protects him.
When Debbie asks what he wants, his fingers loosen first. The right hand shifts slightly, as if he's letting go of a grip he didn't realise he had.
His shoulders drop a fraction.
His breath leaves him slow.
His eyes soften, and the change is visible. Not dramatic. Just real.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Then the other. A small, unguarded smile.
Debbie freezes with her fork halfway to her plate. Nolan's attention sharpens, still and focused. Mark sees it and his jaw clenches—not because he's angry, but because the relief hits him like proof of something he didn't want to admit.
Stephen catches himself and tries to pull the expression back. It doesn't fully disappear.
_ _ ♛ _ _
I don't mean to smile.
It happens before I can stop it, and the moment I feel it on my face I want to shut it down. Reflex. Habit. Control.
But it's already there. Mum saw it. Dad saw it. Mark saw it.
My chest feels less tight because for the first time in a while, something sounds simple. Someone is asking me what I want.
School hasn't been hard. The work hasn't been hard. The people are hard.
The constant watching. The way a room changes when I walk in. The way teachers pretend everything is fine while keeping their eyes on me like I'm a lit match. The way older kids act like I'm an exception they're allowed to comment on.
After the earlier incident, it got worse. Everyone already had a file in their head for me. They had footage. They had the damage. They had headlines they read out loud in the cafeteria like they were jokes.
Then the drive-by happened, and someone filmed that too, and now it's layered on top. Proof that I'm a target. Proof that being near me is dangerous. Proof that I bring problems to wherever I exist.
Mum asked what I want.
What I want is to stop walking into a building where people decide what I am before I speak.
"..I want out.."
My voice is quiet. It comes out steady anyway.
Mark shifts like the words punched him. "..Stephen—"
I look at him. I don't flinch. "..Not out of life. Out of that place.."
Dad's gaze stays on me. No softness. Just attention.
Mum's face doesn't change much, but her eyes do. Tired. Relieved. Like she's been holding her breath for weeks and didn't realise until now.
Dad says, "..Tutors. Training. And you still get out.."
I nod once.
Mum says, "..And you make friends. You're outside. You don't become a shut-in. None of you are allowed to become shut-ins. That's not how I raised you.."
She looks between me and Mark like she's daring either of us to argue.
"..I won't.."
I let out a small chuckle, mostly because I can't help it. I don't want to disappear. I just want space to breathe.
My mind runs forward anyway.
If I'm home, I can sleep. I can practise control without a crowd waiting for a mistake. I can work on my strength properly instead of relying on my domain as a crutch.
I can work with Mark. He needs it. He won't say it. He'll act fine, then throw himself at something above his skill level and come home furious at the world and himself.
I can help. I can also just be his brother. We can fly. We can hang out. We can be normal when we get the chance.
And later—later—space is still there. The universe doesn't care about rumours. It doesn't film you.
Mark's expression stays tight. He looks like he's holding something back.
His fear isn't just about me being lonely. It's about losing me. About me becoming "safe" in a way that makes me distant.
I get it. I don't like it, but I get it.
My relief could look like I don't care about humans.
That isn't what this is.
This is pressure coming off my throat.
I push my chair back and stand.
"..Mark.."
He meets my eyes. He's trying to be tough and failing.
"..I'm not going to disappear.."
Simple. Direct.
"..Fly with me tomorrow.."
He blinks. "..What?.."
"..After dinner. Just us. No patrol. No fighting. Just flying.."
His mouth twitches, almost a joke, then he swallows it. "..You're bribing me with a good time?.."
"..I'm giving you a reason to stop looking at me like I'm dying.."
He looks down, then back up. His voice comes out rough. "..Okay.."
Mum's hand touches my back once, light, grounding. Dad stands and starts clearing plates like the decision has already turned into steps.
_ _ ♛ _ _
I go to the garage because I need space to be mad without blowing up at anyone who doesn't deserve it.
The air is colder out here. It smells like oil and dust and old cardboard. The heavy bag hangs in the corner, still. I stare at it for a second and then hit it hard enough to make the chain rattle.
It swings back. I catch it, stop it, then hit it again.
My phone buzzes. I finally flip it over.
More messages. More links. More people I don't know talking about my brother like he's a weapon that might slip.
And under that, the stuff about me.
Clips of the Mauler fight. Slow-motion edits of me getting ragdolled. Comments calling my name stupid. People calling me "..Invincible.." like it's a punchline. And the part that digs deepest: the posts saying Omni-Man had to save me.
I want to throw the phone into the wall. I don't. I shove it back into my pocket and hit the bag again.
My anger is stacked right now.
Public hate. Cameras. The drive-by. The earlier footage that made people scared in the first place. The fact I can't protect Stephen from being turned into content. The fact I can't protect him from being a target.
And my own humiliation. My own insecurity. My own fear that I'm not enough.
Then Dad says: pull him out, teach him at home, keep him out of sight.
And the worst part is Stephen smiled.
He smiled because he wants it. Because school has been killing him slowly and I didn't stop it.
I hit the bag again. My shoulder aches the way it should. That pain clears my head.
Stephen's voice echoes in my head. ..Fly with me tomorrow..
He said it like a promise. Like he knew exactly where I'd go with this if he didn't pull me back.
I hate that I needed it.
I also love him for it.
'If he's home, I'm there.' The thought lands hard and clean.
I hear voices inside—Mum and Dad in the kitchen, low and calm, the way they get when they're already in logistics mode.
I walk back in.
Mum is at the table with her laptop open, phone in her hand, pen ready. Dad stands beside her, already looking at forms on the screen.
On the printer tray, a sheet slides out. Withdrawal form. School letterhead. Boxes. Lines.
Mum's voice is calm, polite, edged. "..Yes. Immediately, please. We'll need the withdrawal packet emailed tonight. And a list of required coursework and exams.."
She glances up when she sees me, and her expression softens just a notch.
Dad looks at me. "..You'll support this?.."
I nod. "..Yeah.."
Then I add, because I have to. "..Just— don't let him get stuck here.."
Mum ends the call and sets the phone down carefully. "..He won't.."
Stephen comes in from the garden, the back door clicking shut behind him. I step toward him and bump my shoulder against his, light.
"..Tomorrow.."
He looks up.
"..We go up.."
He smiles—small, quick—and bumps me back, harder.
"..Still a shorty.."
I snort it before I can stop myself. He shifts like he's about to dart past me, and I reach out, catch his wrist, gentle but fast. He tries to twist free, annoyed and amused at the same time.
Mum signs the form. The pen scratches. The ink sits on the line.
Dad picks up the paper and stacks it with the next one as it prints.
(A/N: IM BACK BITCHES!! and a new writing style too!!! told you I am taking this seriously, and I meant it! been focused on my game and my original novel, but seeing the reviews and the comments I had to come back, lets get volume 3 on the freaking way!!!, but i redone chapter 41, so hmm check it out. this volume will be fixing up the pace abit, more plot, but first we jump into new family dynamics!, I need great reviews, and power stones, so send them my way!)