Two weeks had passed since the last time the warehouse smelled like hot steel and cordite.
The rhythm of life had slipped back into something almost comfortable — or as comfortable as it ever got in a post-apocalyptic Boston where the wrong alley could shave decades off your lifespan. The warehouse ran like a living organism now: scavengers in and out on their runs, security teams doing shift rotations, the excavation crews still scraping away at rubble down in the skyscraper's basement. The alleyway house served as the hub, its worn brick walls and boarded windows hiding the network that kept us fed, armed, and breathing.
And yet… something was off.
At first, it was little things. A delivery runner came back saying he'd seen the same man leaning against the same lamp post three different times on the same route — different days, different weather, same lazy posture. One of the traders in mid-tier housing swore a woman had been watching her stall without buying a thing, every day for a week. Lia's aunt mentioned seeing the same scrawny teen "shopping" in their ration booth twice in one morning, asking vague questions about where the goods came from.
Then it spread closer to home.
Cole reported that a shadow had followed him three streets past where our patrols normally cut off. Joe caught a glint in a second-story window during one of his side sweeps. One of our newer scavengers swore he saw someone turn away quickly the moment he looked up from loading his cart. Even the excavation team now turned construction complained that they kept spotting "passersby" in an area that was supposed to be dead quiet while fixing up some walls on the right side of the alleyway house.
It was like the city itself had sprouted extra eyes.
No one said "surveillance" outright, but I could taste it in the way people's voices dipped low when they talked about their routes. In the way hands hovered near weapons for longer than they needed to. I kept my own paranoia tucked neatly behind a smirk and shrugged it off in public. Inside, my mind was already pulling threads — mapping every repeated sighting, marking routes, trimming runs, rotating people so no one formed a pattern.
The worst part? Lia's aunt and husband mentioned being followed, too. They were small-time sellers, just a family working a ration booth, but they were connected to me in enough ways that it made sense someone would use them as a loose thread to pull. And when my parents — of all people — started dropping little asides about "increased patrol interest" in the administrative sector, I knew it wasn't just random.
Two weeks ago, I'd been confident enough to think we could handle anything short of a direct assault. Now, there was this constant hum in the background — a slow, grinding certainty that someone, somewhere, was lining up a shot.
It wasn't fear, not exactly. More like standing on a frozen river and feeling the cracks spread under your boots.
So I played it careful. Cut down certain deliveries. Swapped out couriers for routes that felt "warm." Increased guard rotation on the alleyway house. Kept my own trips short and my weapon on me at all times. Told Cole to ramp up the training for everyone and to post most of the guards in the alleyway house since the warehouse and skyscraper can be handled with minimal people.
I'd been in this world long enough to know one thing — quiet weeks weren't blessings. They were warnings.
By the end of the second week almost starting third, the city felt like it was breathing down our necks.
Our runners moved with the kind of alertness you couldn't fake — that constant half-turn of the head, the weight shifting toward escape without even realizing it. Even the scout teams who prided themselves on slipping through the QZ like shadows were coming back edgy, voices low, eyes flicking toward the door whenever it opened.
I knew the signs. People were being tracked.
It wasn't the kind of heat you got from FEDRA's usual patrol boredom. This was smarter, more patient. They weren't swooping in to grab anyone; they were waiting, mapping us, testing reactions. Whoever it was, they wanted the whole picture before making a move.
Which meant one thing: they'd eventually go for something, or someone.
Probably our runners, they were the artery of everything I'd built — they moved goods, maintained contacts, and carried the kind of trust that wasn't easy to rebuild if it got broken. A hit on them wasn't just about supplies; it was about breaking the spine of the whole operation.
Lia came back from a meet with her aunt looking more pale than usual. She told me she'd caught a glimpse of someone she'd seen twice before, hanging back behind the ration line, pretending to browse. Not just that — her aunt had gotten questions from strangers about me. Not Cal Reyes, FEDRA brat. Me. As in, the quiet fixer who somehow kept trading gear nobody else could get their hands on, that even made FEDRA interested.
Fucking mole. Why couldn't there be a mole in Fireflies, I dont deal with them. Fuck me sideways.
Cole's report wasn't any better, it made me physically sigh. One of his security patrols spotted two men in mismatched coats loitering across from the alleyway house for most of an afternoon. Didn't speak to anyone, didn't move much. Just watched. By the time the patrol doubled back, they were gone.
Joe was blunt. "We're not just being looked at — someone's cataloguing us."
Even my parents, who normally played the part of the well-insulated officer couple, had started making comments. My dad casually dropped that a few people in uniform had been asking about where I spent my time lately, that question made even my quiet dad snap at them that it isint their business but my own, his and even general Voss doesn't know exactly. My mom warned me to "cut back on whatever you're doing," which in parent code meant, we know you're doing something, and so do other people.
So I did what I could. Shifted schedules, broke up established routes, swapped out lead couriers. I even pulled a couple of runs entirely, citing inventory reshuffles. Problem was, you can't keep the lifeblood of a growing network bottled for long without strangling it.
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If you'd asked me a month ago who I'd trust to lead a supply run with my eyes closed, Elsie would've been near the top of that short list.She wasn't flashy, wasn't loud though she did have a sharp tongue, but she knew the streets and the people on them better than most of the old hands. Knew when to blend in, when to push, and — most importantly — when to run, dont let her limp and age deceive you she could potentially outmanoeuvre and lose many of the younger runners..
That morning, the alleyway house had that pre-run buzz: quiet talking, gear being checked, boots being laced. The air smelled faintly of oiled leather, cloth dust, and that sharp metallic tang of cleaned weapons. Elsie stood at the centre of it all, checking her little spiral notebook where she kept every run's plan.
She'd be moving eight people total, usually had less but because of the circumstances we added two extra people, its split between runners and security outfited with handguns and knives since having rifles is illegal in the QZ unless you are FEDRA. The cargo wasn't heavy, just important — a stack of ration packs, a couple boxes of barter goods, and some small high-value items for a contact near the middle QZ. Stuff easy to carry if they had to move fast, but enough that losing it would sting.
She gave her usual rundown, calm but sharp:
Keep spacing in the alleys.
No unnecessary stops.
Two-man rear guard at all times.
If someone gets tailed, they peel off and circle back.
Cole stopped by before they left, leaning in the doorway like he was just checking the weather. But his eyes tracked every face in the room, measuring. He didn't like how often the Firefly name had come up lately, or the shadow FEDRA was casting over us. I could tell by the slight tightening of his jaw that he wanted to go with them. But he didn't — and Elsie gave him that half-smile of hers, the kind that said, I've got this, don't hover.
Huh, did something happened between them?
I stood back near the workbench, letting them handle their prep. There's a point where you can't add anything more without making people feel like you don't trust them.
Lia stopped by just before departure, slipping a wrapped bundle into Elsie's pack. "For the contact," she said quietly. "It'll smooth the handoff." I didn't ask what it was — I trusted Lia's sense for the little details that turned a good run into a clean one.
When they finally stepped out into the alley, the weather was still holding — grey skies, just damp enough to keep the dust down. The group moved like a unit, that easy pace of people who've done this enough to look unremarkable.
I watched them until they turned the corner and vanished.
And just for a second, I wished I'd broken my own rule and told her to take an extra two guards.
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The thing about the Boston QZ is that you learn to read it like a book.Every street, every alley, every half-collapsed tenement has a mood — a rhythm. You can tell when a block is breathing easy and when it's holding its breath.
And that morning, the stretch between the mid-tier housing and the outer alleys was holding it.
Elsie didn't say anything to her group right away.Eight people today — two rear guards, one point, five carrying goods. Not the best security ratio, but it was supposed to be a simple drop to a known contact, in a zone they'd moved through dozens of times before.
Her eyes flicked upward as they passed under a broken balcony. Nothing there. But the absence of sound — no laundry flapping, no casual voices, no clatter of someone fixing something — set a little hook in her gut.
Keep them steady.
"Rear, keep your spacing," she murmured over her shoulder. The words came out even, but her thumb was already brushing the safety on her sidearm. Cole had taught her that — how to make your body do the thinking before your brain even caught up. He'd also told her once, quietly, that he hated this sector. Too many corners, too many places for ghosts to hide.
They turned left into a long narrow lane — buildings on both sides leaning inward like they were conspiring. Halfway down, movement caught her eye at the far end. Just a shadow, gone as quick as it came.
"Pick it up," she said, louder now.
The first Molotov came in from the right, arcing in slow motion before it burst against the wall just ahead. Fire spilled across the lane, blocking their forward path. Heat slapped her face, and the smell hit immediately — burning alcohol, cheap accelerant.
"Back! BACK!"
But the way they'd come in was already closing. Figures appeared in the smoke behind them, at least five, moving fast. She caught glimpses — scarves over mouths, gloved hands holding knives, pipes, and short shotguns. The front end sealed next — more shapes, more weapons.
Thirteen, maybe fourteen attackers in total. Outnumbered nearly two to one.
The first gunshot snapped the air. One of her carriers — a young guy named Bell — folded instantly from a shotgun shot to the chest that turned his front into mincemeat, bloody mist going up with a bang from his body before it hit the ground, his box of barter goods spilling across the cobbles. A second shot cracked past her ear. She fired back twice without thinking, saw one figure drop behind a pile of debris.
Then it was chaos.
One of her guards — Lenny — tried to break through the left wall of bodies. A pipe caught him in the jaw, another in the ribs. He went down under three people, his boots kicking until they stilled.
Someone else, I don't know if friend or enemy got engulfed by a massive fire courtesy of receiving a Molotov to the face. His screams, oh my god his screams.
Snapping out of it Elsie dove sideways as another Molotov shattered behind her, the heat washing up her back. She yanked the nearest carrier — a short woman named Harper — behind a half-toppled cart. "Cover right! COVER RIGHT!"
But the attackers weren't just pushing from front and back — they were herding them, keeping the space tight. A third group slipped in from an open side doorway, slamming the last escape shut. The air filled with shouting, the ring of metal, the sharp hiss of flames.
She dropped another attacker — close enough to see the whites of his eyes when the bullet hit. Her ears rang, the sound narrowing until the screams and gunshots seemed to come from underwater.
Harper screamed beside her, clutching her side. Elsie grabbed her arm, tried to drag her toward a narrow gap near a pile of trash, but three more attackers slid in, one swinging a machete. She barely got her arm up in time — the blade bit deep into her jacket sleeve, grazing skin before she twisted and fired point-blank.
Somewhere in the blur she thought of Cole — in a sharp, bitter jolt. He's going to be pissed at me for getting caught in a mess like this.
A pipe slammed into her ribs. She hit the wall, breath gone, vision flashing white. Hands grabbed at her pack, yanking hard. She elbowed back, felt cartilage crunch under her strike. Her pistol was gone now — she didn't even see when she'd lost it.
"Strip them! FAST!" a voice barked — one of the attackers, calm and practiced.
That's when she knew they weren't just opportunists. This was targeted. The goods were going into someone's pocket, and her crew's lives were worth less than the boxes they carried.
The rearguard broke first — one man down, the other stumbling with blood on his face. Another carrier went down screaming, knife in his leg. The point man — an older runner named Rhys — tried to push forward but got hit twice in the chest before dropping.
Someone grabbed her hair from behind, shoving her to her knees. She twisted, caught a glimpse of the burning lane in front and the crumpled shapes of her people scattered like discarded clothing.
She felt the knife before she saw it — low, sharp, punching into her side. Not deep enough to kill outright, but enough to drop her. The pain was instant and hot, her blood soaking into her shirt. She hit the ground hard, cheek pressed to the cold cobbles, the taste of iron in her mouth.
The looting was fast — boxes lifted, ration packs stuffed into sacks, weapons stripped from limp hands. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than two minutes.
When it was over, the attackers melted away into the maze of alleys, fire and smoke swallowing them. Elsie lay on her side, blinking against the black spots clouding her vision.
Three of her people were dead where they'd fallen. Two more were moving — crawling or limping. Someone was calling her name, but it sounded far away.
Her last clear thought before everything went dark was of Cole again — his voice low in her ear on one of those rare nights they'd stolen for themselves: Don't take the narrow lanes if you can help it. They kill you in the narrow lanes.
Then the world slipped away.
It was late afternoon when the alleyway house door slammed open.The front room filled instantly with the smell of blood — heavy, metallic, impossible to ignore.
Two of Elsie's crew stumbled in first, both limping, faces streaked with dirt and soot. Between them they carried Elsie, her arms hanging limp, her shirt soaked dark from the wound at her side. Every step jostled her, and every jostle pulled a strained, shallow gasp from her.
Behind them came the third survivor — Rafe, one of the younger scavenger-types Cal had pulled in months ago. He was dragging someone by the collar: a man in patched clothes, one leg bent wrong at the knee, clearly broken. The stranger's head lolled, half-conscious, blood caked in his hair.
Rafe kicked the door shut with his heel. "Four down out there. Around 3 or 4 dead of theirs. One we brought back." His voice was ragged, eyes wide, still in that glassy shock after a fight. "Everything's gone."
The house shifted in seconds. People moved from corners and side rooms — Rusty from the workshop, Kev from the back stairwell, Marta emerging with her hands still wet from washing dishes. Donny froze halfway through the doorway, taking in the sight. Lia was already at the table, sweeping tools and scraps to the floor so there'd be room to lay Elsie down.
Cal was there by the time they reached it, his hoodie sleeve catching on the rough table edge as he helped guide her down. Her skin was cold, clammy. The bleeding hadn't stopped — hadn't even slowed.
Rusty's voice cut through the noise. "Get rags, clean water — NOW!"
Someone sprinted to the kitchen.
Elsie's eyes flickered, focusing on Cal for half a second before slipping away again. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. He pressed down on the wound, felt the heat of her blood seeping into his palm.
"Stay with me, Els," he muttered, voice low but firm. "Just keep your eyes open."
Her lips moved, but no sound came.
The unconscious attacker groaned somewhere near the door, dragging attention for a moment. Two scavengers — big guys from security rotation — hauled him upright with the delicate hands of a pissed off Mike Tyson who just lost a ranked game while on cocaine, they tied his hands with cord from the wall hook, probably also cutting off the blood circulation. The man spat weakly, earning himself a punch to the gut. He folded over, gasping.
Lia returned with a bundle of fabric, Kev with a half-bucket of water. Cal switched rags as soon as one soaked through, but it was useless. The bleeding was too deep, too fast.
Elsie's head rolled slightly toward the far side of the room. Cal followed her gaze — Cole was there now, standing stiff in the doorway. His face was stone, but his eyes were locked on her like nothing else existed. He didn't move closer. Didn't say a word.
The house was loud — too loud. Voices shouting orders, arguing about who should go for a medic, debating if a medic could even help without drawing FEDRA attention. Somewhere in the background, the tied-up attacker started cursing in a hoarse voice, promising things no one listened to.
Elsie coughed once — bloody wet, shallow — and her hand twitched against Cal's arm. He caught it without thinking.
And then… nothing.
No big dramatic gasp, no last words. Just the air leaving her, her body slackening all at once.
Cal stared at her face, expecting something — a flicker of breath, a twitch of eyelid — but she was gone. Completely gone.
The noise of the room blurred into a low hum. Cal's hand stayed where it was, still holding hers, even as the blood on his palm cooled.
Rusty reached forward after a moment, gently closing Elsie's eyes. Kev muttered something under his breath, swearing at the floor. Lia stepped back, one hand covering her mouth.
Cole was gone from the doorway. No one had seen him leave.
Cal stayed seated beside her longer than anyone else. Long enough for the others to start cleaning the table, long enough for the bucket to be carried away, long enough for the shouting in the room to shift into an uneasy quiet.
He didn't move until the bound attacker's voice cut through the air again, louder now, almost taunting. That sound pulled Cal up from the chair.
When he stood, there was nothing in his expression — no raised voice, no dramatic movement — just a steady, deliberate walk toward the corner where the man sat tied.
The room went silent as he passed. Even the attacker seemed to falter, his words dying in his throat.
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The house felt smaller now. Not just crowded — smaller, like the walls had leaned in to watch.
Cal sat in the same chair long after Elsie's body had been moved, staring at the blood-dark stain on the table. His hands rested on his knees, motionless, the ache in his knuckles from holding pressure on her wound still lingering.
The voices in the room were just noise now. Rusty murmuring with Lia. Kev pacing by the stairs. Someone asking where Cole had gone. He caught fragments — grief, anger, someone saying "we'll make them pay" — but they washed over him without sticking.
His eyes stayed locked on the empty space where she'd been.
The System could make strangers into allies, allies into friends, and friends into something dangerously close to family. But it could also take them away — quick, messy, no warning.
She'd been in his plans. She'd been in his future. Now she was just gone.
The noise sharpened all at once — the bound attacker had started yelling again. Not loud enough to drown in, but sharp enough to cut through the fog. Every word was a hook digging into his skull.
Cal stood without a word. No one stopped him.
By the workbench, his hand closed around a battered equipment box — heavy, metal corners, latch bent from years of use. He held it tight enough for his knuckles to blanch, the edge biting into his palm.
The shouting in the room thinned to silence as he turned toward the corner where the attacker sat.
Step by step, he crossed the floor.
The horror and apprehension in the scums face as he approached with the toolbox.
Was absolutely delightful
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The war room in Boston's central administration block smelled faintly of burnt coffee and oiled paper — the scent of long hours and stale air. General Voss stood at the far end of the conference table, hands flat on a stack of operation reports, his eyes moving across the maps pinned to the wall.
The city was marked in neat circles of influence — mid-tier housing, outer alleys, dockyards, the western checkpoints. Each had small notes scribbled beside them in black ink: ration unrest, patrol disputes, smuggler routes suspected.
Colonel Maddox, one of his longest-serving officers, leaned back in his chair with arms folded. "Three incidents in less than a week," he said, voice flat but edged with irritation. "Two of them were minor — stolen crates, missing patrol supplies — but yesterday's ambush? That wasn't random. Those were trained hands."
Voss didn't look up. "Trained enough to hit a moving convoy and disappear without a trace, they had coordination, manpower, resources and even shotguns. What I want to know why target him now when we coincidentally made a huge landfall due to his efforts."
Maddox tapped the tabletop. "I'm not saying it was a mole, sir. But I'm not ruling it out. These weren't the kind of scavengers that get lucky."
Voss finally met his gaze. "No. They weren't."
The other two senior officers, Captain Evers and Major Dalton, shifted uncomfortably. Dalton spoke first. "Word's already getting around in the mid-tier. Rumours are already flying that it wasn't our convoy — it was one of our partners. The kid's group. The one our people have been… cooperating."
Voss's jaw tensed just enough for Maddox to notice. "Partner or not, they've been supplying us better than anyone in this city, better than HQ has in recent times. That makes them worth protecting."
Evers frowned. "It also paints a bigger target on their back."
Voss moved to the wall map, sliding one of the pushpins toward the alleyway district. "The moment this city's enemies think they can take from us without consequence, they'll keep doing it. We have enough trouble with Firefly cells sniffing around the western sectors — I don't need petty opportunists thinking they're untouchable."
Dalton leaned forward. "What do you want to do about it?"
"Lock down movement in the mid-tier for seventy-two hours. Triple-check checkpoint logs. And keep an eye on anyone who's been near that alleyway district in the last month. Quietly," Voss said, the last word sharp.
Maddox's brow lifted. "You're thinking inside job."
"I'm thinking," Voss replied evenly, "that someone in this city. My city, has either sold us out or passed it along to the wrong ears. And until we find out who, we're bleeding resources and looking weak."
The conversation shifted to patrol routes and supply shortfalls, voices overlapping in the low drone of practiced crisis management. Voss kept his focus on the map, weighing the thin line between keeping his city functional and keeping it secure.
The junior aide who'd been taking notes slipped quietly into the room's corner, tapping twice on the doorframe. Voss gave him the smallest nod.
The aide crossed the floor, placed a folded paper on the table beside the general's reports, and stepped back without a word.
Voss unfolded it. His eyes traced the short message.
Status update on potential asset.Rocky Mountain HQ – Priority.
Voss didn't show the flicker of reaction that tightened his chest.
He folded the note again, set it on the table, and continued speaking to Maddox about sector patrols as if nothing had changed — but his mind was already moving.
If Rocky Mountain HQ wanted a status update on "the asset," then Cal's world — and his own — was about to get a lot more complicated.
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The old textile warehouse that served as the Fireflies' Boston safehouse always smelled faintly of damp fabric and dust, no matter how many times they aired it out. The boarded-up windows let in slits of cold afternoon light, striping the long table where Marlene sat with two of her lieutenants.
A map of Boston was spread across the wood, corners pinned by half-empty mugs and the butt of a revolver. Coloured chalk lines marked known patrol routes, smuggling channels, and places to avoid unless you had a death wish.
She'd been halfway through a logistics report when one of her runners, Calder, stepped through the door. His hood was up, but his eyes gave him away — restless, wary.
"What is it?" Marlene asked without looking up from the papers.
"You hear about that hit in the mid-tier yesterday?"
Her gaze lifted sharply. "Which one?"
"Not FEDRA. One of their… outside partners. Small run. Got hit hard. Three dead on the spot, more wounded. Supplies gone."
That earned her full attention. "Who led it?"
Calder shrugged. "Girl named Elsie. Don't know her. But word is she worked for that… well-connected kid. The one who's been moving good gear through the alleys."
Marlene leaned back, jaw tightening. She'd been keeping tabs on that boy for months now, unsure if he was just another opportunist or something more. His supply quality was too consistent for pure luck.
She exchanged a glance with her second-in-command, Torres. "Tell me the truth — any of our cells hit that run?"
Torres shook her head without hesitation. "No way. I'd have heard. Our people are under strict orders to stay off his routes unless you say otherwise."
Marlene narrowed her eyes. "That's not the same as none of them doing it."
Calder hesitated. "I'm not saying it was us, but… if you ask around, people are saying some of the attackers wore jackets with our patch. Could be fake. Could be someone trying to stir things up."
Marlene felt a familiar pressure building behind her temples. This was exactly the kind of thing that could spiral out of control. "Get me confirmation. If someone in this city is using our name for hits, I want to know who — and I want them stopped. If it was one of ours, I'll deal with it personally."
From the far end of the warehouse, a small voice piped up. "Was it the kid?"
Marlene turned her head to find Ellie — gangly limbs, scraped knees, wearing a jacket two sizes too big — standing in the doorway to the back room. She was supposed to be reading, or at least pretending to.
"What did I tell you about eavesdropping?" Marlene asked, though her voice softened a fraction.
Ellie ignored the question, stepping closer. "If it was him, he's not gonna like it. He's… careful. And pissed-off careful is way worse than normal careful."
Torres raised a brow. "You know him?"
Ellie shrugged, a flash of defiance in her eyes. "I've seen him. Around in school. He's older than me but not that much older. Keeps his head down, sneaks in whenever possible from school or work. Smart people don't pick fights with smart people."
Marlene studied her for a long moment before sighing. "Go on. Back to the book."
Ellie lingered a moment longer, then padded away, muttering something under her breath about "adults being boring."
Once she was gone, Marlene leaned forward, both hands on the map. "Double our watchers on mid-tier and alley sectors. And send word through the quiet channels — if it wasn't us, we find out who. If it was, I want them in front of me before they think about their next job."
Her voice dropped to something cold and certain. "We're not going to war over a few crates. But if someone's trying to drag us into one… they'll regret it."
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The Reyes apartment always smelled faintly like disinfectant and over-boiled coffee. Elena said it kept the mold off the walls. Meredith said it kept romance off the table. Today it smelled almost warm—chicory, a hint of cinnamon she'd bartered off a dockhand, and the ghost of burnt toast clinging to the coils.
Meredith sat cross-legged in one of the hard kitchen chairs, coat shrugged off but within reach, mug cupped in both hands as if heat alone could keep things simple. Elena faced her across the table, posture straight, uniform blouse traded for a charcoal sweater that tried and failed to make her look less like command staff on a day off. Between them: a chipped plate of ration biscuits, a teaspoon, a jar of something that claimed to be "jam" in hand-stamped letters.
"—and he gives me that look," Meredith was saying, grinning into her cup, "you know the one, like he's about to argue semantics with a wall. So I told him if he tries to move crates on four hours' sleep again, I'm confiscating his boots."
Elena took a measured sip, lids lowered. "You're very free with your confiscations for someone who doesn't sign his pay chits."
"I'm rich in moral authority." Meredith wiggled the spoon at her. "And he listens to me."
"You say that like he doesn't have parents," Elena said, but there wasn't much sting in it.
"He has parents," Meredith said easily. "He also has an aunt."
A small line tightened at the corner of Elena's mouth. "Do we need to revisit the definition of 'aunt'?"
"Family is whoever shows up," Meredith shot back, light but not joking. "I show up. So do you. The title saves time."
Elena's brow tipped—half skeptical, half curious. "He's known you, what, a year?"
"A year is plenty in this world," Meredith said. "And you know why I do it."
Elena's gaze drifted, just briefly, to the hall that led to Cal's room. The hallway with the squeaky board at the end because no one had gotten around to fixing it. "I know you care about him. I sometimes wonder why you insist on branding it."
"So that when he needs another adult who isn't wearing a FEDRA crest, there's no debate about whether I get to be that adult, plus it has been less boring." Meredith said, tone still soft, but with an annoying grin aimed at Elena. "So when I shove a bowl in his hands and tell him to eat, he doesn't think it's charity. He thinks it's an aunt being bossy."
"You are bossy."
"Pot, kettle," Meredith said, and Elena's mouth tilted upwards, conceding the point.
They might have kept circling that old, familiar argument, lines mapped, stakes understood, or maybe talking about the jobs they have done in the past together—if the door hadn't opened.
Tomas stepped in, shoulders squared, coat still buttoned against the cold. He always took two steps and then stopped, like he needed to decide whether he was coming home as a father or as a FEDRA officer. Today, he didn't take off the coat.
"Tea?" Elena asked automatically, because habits hold even when the floor tilts.
"Don't bother," he said, voice clipped. He shut the door carefully, as if the latch mattered. Then he looked at Elena first, then Meredith, and something in his face made the room shrink.
"What happened?" Elena asked, already setting her mug down, already bracing.
"General Voss called me in," Tomas said. No preamble. No clearing of his throat. "He'd sent runners to check on a report. They found our people—Cal's people."
The pause after "our" was so small most people would have missed it. Meredith didn't, question was did he mean it as Tomas Reyes, Callum's father or Tomas Reyes FEDRA officer.
"Physically?" Tomas shook his head once. "No. He wasn't in the run. Mentally? I cannot say for certain."
Elena closed her eyes for the space of a breath, the kind you only take when you intend not to take another one for a while. When she opened them, they were glassy but hard. "Details," she said. "Give me what Voss gave you."
"He thinks it was independents," Tomas said. "Not Firefly colours. Mismatched Firefly insignia patches on the coats, but they were sloppy, probably a way to frame them. More than ten attackers, probably local. Coordinated—Molotovs and crossfire, then knives when Cals people broke formation." He looked at the table, then away. "Voss said they were efficient."
"Efficient," Meredith repeated, the word bitter. "That's not how FEDRA will phrase the attack in broad daylight with casualties on seemingly innocent civilians, there will be major unrest in days following."
Meredith sat back, swallowed hard. "Why did he tell you?"
"Because he knows Cal is ours," Elena said before Tomas could. Her voice had re-hardened, iron cooling. "Because Voss refuses to put anything with Cal's name on it in writing. If it goes wrong, it dies in a room, though the main HQ probably knows about it but its off the books, no proper paper signing it no problem if it goes bad."
Tomas's shoulders eased half an inch at being understood. "He said… he said Cal brings value. That we should 'stabilize his perimeter' and 'discourage opportunists.'"
Meredith snorted, one sharp breath that could have been a laugh if it had found anything funny. "Discourage with what, exactly? A stern memo?"
"With presence," Tomas said, already thinking like an officer again. "Voss will add patrols—at a distance, he wont fully send in the uniforms, says "too risky" what he really wants is Cal to directly ask for help to tighten his hold on him more."
"Of course," Meredith said. "God forbid he protects the kid who keeps his suits armoured and alive."
Elena's hand found the edge of the table. She didn't slam her palm down. She just flattened it, the way you smooth paper that keeps trying to curl. "That's enough."
Meredith bit back whatever she'd been about to say. The silence that followed wasn't friendly, but it held.
Elena turned back to Tomas. "Did Voss say why he called you personally?"
"He did," Tomas said. "He said the Rockies pinged him for a 'status update on potential asset.' Exact phrasing."
Elena's face didn't change, but the air around her seemed to. "They used the word 'asset.'"
"They did," Tomas said. "And he used it back."
Meredith's eyes narrowed. "So word's made it uphill. Your mountain friends want him scaling fast."
"They want proof of stability," Tomas said evenly. "Meaning fewer surprises. Meaning fewer dead. Meaning—"
"—meaning we both do our jobs and keep him alive," Elena finished for him. Not a plea. An order phrased like a conclusion.
Tomas's jaw relaxed a fraction. "Yes."
A beat passed. Two. Outside, a pipe knocked as the building adjusted to the cold. Inside, the three of them adjusted to the new shape of the room.
Elena was the first to move. She stood, folded the dish towel the way she always did—lengthwise, then thirds—as if the ritual prevented the edges of her day from fraying. When she spoke, her voice was cleaner than the expression in her eyes. "I'll need a list of the names," she said to Tomas. "The dead. The wounded. Any missing."
"Voss will investigate where the attackers came from in his own way."
Elena ignored it. "What else?"
"Voss asked me to tell Cal to lay low for three days," Tomas said. He didn't look at Meredith when he added, "He also asked whether Cal had… outside ties."
"Meaning you," Elena said to Meredith, not unkindly.
"Meaning me," Meredith agreed.
"You do," Tomas said. No accusation. Just record.
"I do," Meredith said. "And before you ask, no, none of mine did this. Independents with discipline? Not my web."
Elena watched her for a long second. "Can you prove it?"
"If I need to," Meredith said. "But I'd rather find the ones who did and prove that instead."
Something eased—barely—in Elena's shoulders. "Fine."
They ran out of things to arrange for exactly two heartbeats. Grief attempted to pool in the space urgency left behind. Elena didn't let it.
"Do I need to go to Voss?" she asked Tomas.
"No," he said. "He wanted you out of it. Optics. He made a show of saying 'family shouldn't be directly linked.'"
Meredith's mouth curled. "Family," she echoed softly. "Good. Then we're agreed."
Elena's eyes flicked to hers.
Meredith didn't smile this time. "You asked me why I keep calling myself his aunt," she said, voice low. "This is why. So when bad news walks through the door, no one wonders why I'm here, or why I care, or whether I'm going to help, plus the kid has grown on me, the little bastard is entertaining not a dull moment with him and his sharp tongue."
Elena held her gaze. Something unclenched. "I don't wonder," she said. "I just… needed to know you wouldn't make it about you."
"I won't," Meredith said. "I'll make it about him."
Tomas cleared his throat, not to break the moment, but to steer it. "Voss will send a message tonight. 'Status update on potential asset'—that's their phrasing, not mine. I'll answer. I'll tell them the asset remains operational."
"You'll tell them the boy remains alive," Meredith corrected softly.
"I'll tell them both," Tomas said.
Elena nodded once, crisp. "All right. Tomas, you write to Voss. Keep it dry. No apology. No ask. He respects clean lines. Meredith—"
"I'll start listening," Meredith said, already sliding her coat back over her shoulders. "I want chatter from the middle alleys to the north docks. I'll pull the names of anyone selling molotov components in bulk this week."
"Don't get cute," Elena said.
"I'll get results," Meredith said.
Tomas reached for the door, paused. "He'll be angry," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Elena didn't ask who. There was only one he that mattered right now. "Let him," she said. "Angry keeps you upright. After that, we make sure he doesn't go hunting alone."
Meredith tugged her sleeves into place, eyes sharper now. "He won't," she said. "He has a family."
Elena didn't correct the pronoun this time.
The building's bones popped once, the way old buildings do when the day shifts. Tomas opened the door and hesitated, the coat still on his back, the officer still very much on duty.
"Go," Elena said. "We'll move in parallel."
He nodded and stepped into the hall. The door closed with its familiar, slightly off-center click.
For a moment, the apartment held just two women and a cooling pot of coffee.
Elena reached across the table and turned the jam jar label so it faced the wall, an absurd little act of control in a world that had none. "You keep calling him your nephew," she said, not looking up.
"I will," Meredith answered. "Until he tells me to stop."
Elena inhaled, exhaled, and finally met her eyes. "He won't."
Meredith's mouth twitched. "Then we're agreed."
They sat in that held-together quiet for three long seconds. Then both stood at once—two different uniforms, same direction—and began to move.