Avalon wasn't booming.
There were no lines, no viral buzz, no miracle weekend surge. Just the steady hum of everyday life in a corner of New York: occasional foot traffic, modest sale totals, and a quiet sense of persistence.
Some mornings, the till showed a small profit—fifty, a hundred dollars. Other days, expenses swallowed the income completely. The result: a perfect break-even.
It wasn't impressive on paper, but on a deeper level it meant everything. Avalon was open. Stocked. Paid its bills. More importantly, it remained.
That quiet consistency—no magic, no fireworks—was exactly what John had intended. It was enough.
One late afternoon, somewhere between sweeping and brewing his second pot of coffee, John drifted downstairs to The Den for a break. He expected a moment of silence, a shot of ginger tea, maybe a few minutes of peace.
But he found something entirely different.
A neat stack of Science magazines sat on the low table. Not the slick tabloids with doom headlines or breathless claims—these were serious issues on quantum physics, earth's magnetic fields, and electromagnetic phenomena.
Beside them lay Lorna's sketchbook, open to page after page of rough circles and arrows, scribbled notes in her hand:
"Magnetic domains: regions of aligned spins"
"Aurora-like glare around my hair…"
"Could it be localized magnetism?"
Her hair shimmered in the dim LED glow—strands of turquoise and violet weaving through dark roots like moonlight caught in her scalp.
John smiled lightly but stayed quiet, picking up a magazine. One arrow pointed into an article about magnetic field manipulation and non-invasive medical tech. More than half the pages were dog-eared.
That afternoon, he ventured upstairs. "You got magnets on the mind?"
She looked up from organizing inventory. When she saw the magazines in his hand, she paused. "They're just... interesting."
"Your hair's been flaring more," he said honestly. "You ever wonder if it's not just, you know, emotion—but physics?"
Her face lit up. "Exactly. That's what I want to find out." She paused, then reached behind the counter and tucked the magazines into his hands. "You allowed me to bring them downstairs. Maybe... maybe we do some reading in here."
He nodded. "The Den's your study spot." He paused again. "If we ever find out what's behind it... your hair, your gift… I want you to understand it. For yourself."
She only blinked. Then ducked her head and said softly, "Thanks."
The next morning, the doorbell chimes welcomed the same small number of guests: the banana lady, the instant noodles biker, the occasional writer who scribbled in a corner with their orders.
ESH--
But Avalon's livelihood was secure—not prosperity, not independence, not growth. Just stability. And John was fine with that. He'd built more than brick and tile; he'd built a rhythm.
Later that day Bob strolled in. He moved easily—no slouch this time, but deliberate, steady, leaning on the counter. He cracked a smile.
"Still running the show?"
"Some days," John said, locking the overworld ledger. "Today in the red by thirty-two cents."
Bob nodded. "Keep the noise low and the lights warm. That's how it's built to last."
John eyed him. "You've said that before."
"I'll say it again."
Bob took a sip of coffee, brows creased as he listened to distant traffic and the squeak of rubber wheels on wet pavement.
They didn't speak.
Then, in mid-sip, Bob spoke into the quiet. "All these soft edges. You need hard ones."
John raised a brow.
"You need reminders." Bob nodded slowly, tapping the table with his fingers. "Not to snap—just to not forget what still needs to stay quiet. Fierce."
John set the coffee down. "I'll keep that."
The bell chimed again—ding-ding.
Two men entered behind Bob. They wore dark hoodies and sunglasses—indoors, under uniform lighting. Sneakers impossibly clean for the damp street outside. They drifted casually toward the snack aisle but with slow, half-hidden purpose. Their shoulders were too broad. Their build practiced and controlled.
John felt the shift deep in his spine. A familiar spark: that tingle.
The one he felt as a kid hurdling over fenceposts from gang kids, night jackets dangling as he ducked under broken fences. The same one he felt in the gym before sparring matches. That ancient fighter instinct: something's off.
Bob caught it too. His head tilted, eyes shifting to them, blind to any open transaction.
Neither man made direct noise—just the casual brushing of chips against furrowed brows as they considered items but too methodically. Like they were mapping exits.
Bob didn't sit.
He rose to leave quietly, brushing his jacket free.
John watched him move.
The men paused, exchanging half-glances then resumed browsing.
Bob paused at the counter, reached out, clapped John's shoulder briskly. "Take care of home, kid."
With that, Bob left.
The men had nearly reached the back of the bodega—one lined up beside the cooler, the other near the emergency exit—when silence broke.
A muffled grunt.
The clang of metal against metal.
A scuffle.
John froze.
Instinct buzzing like live wires in his bones.
He dropped everything and sprinted over.
He flung the cooler door open—neither man was there. But the exit door swung half-open. Rainwater pooled on the tile. A folding chair lay overturned.
The stock tins near the aisle had toppled. A package labeled High Heat Microwave Hotdogs lay broken open with mustard dripping to the floor.
He sprinted outside.
Lightning flashed.
In the middle of the narrow block stood one of the men—dark hoodie soaked, one hand pressed to his ribs where the other man's fist had landed. The other collapsed backward outside the store, clutching his head.
Bob stood across from them. Silent. His stance squared, leather jacket creased over muscle memory.
The fight had already ended. No roaring crowd. Just street, rain, and two men coughing and leaking pain.
Bob didn't watch.
He looked toward Avalon's open door—its yellow glow a beacon.
Then Bob turned back and disappeared into the night.
Inside, John stood frozen in the doorway.
The files. The serum. Hidden behind the slats in the Den.
The science magazines. The magnetism.
The weight of little steady moments stacking toward survival.
Two men without business here.
And a former vigilante vanished under a streetlamp with rain pooling around his boots.
The ringing return of the bell startled him.
But the store was empty now.
Just two broken strangers on wet pavement.
He locked the store, switched off the lights, and exhaled—a long, deep breath.
Oak and tile.
Ginger and mint.
Magnetism and muscle memory.
Calm.
Then—
Another smack...
A grunt… muffled and strained.
He didn't hesitate.
John ran to the rain.