"Okay, kiddos," I say, pointing at you like I'm about to start a PowerPoint none of us asked for. "Season 2, Episode 6 This is the day I learned two things:"
Bryce lifts her mug. "One: Lily has a code."
"And two," I add, "that code involves petty theft with moral justification."
You both blink. "She steals?"
Bryce shrugs. "Only from people who deserve it."
"Which," I say, "is exactly how every villain starts. Anyway—"
---
Season 2, Episode 6
Aldrin Justice
2006 — Late Morning, MacLaren's (Before It's Cool to Be Here)
MacLaren's in the daylight is like seeing a teacher at the grocery store. Wrong. Unnatural. A bar should not have sunlight.
Still, it was the only place open near Lily's latest "job," and she'd texted me:
Lily: I need to talk. Like… 'do I have permission to commit a crime' talk.
That's not a normal text. That's a Lily text.
Bryce came with me because (A) she likes Lily, and (B) she has the rare gift of looking at chaos and calmly asking, "Is this necessary?"
We slid into a booth. The table was sticky in a way that suggested someone had spilled a drink and then used optimism to clean it.
Lily arrived ten minutes late, wearing a bright floral shirt that looked like it had been designed by a pineapple with anger issues. Her hair was tied back, and she had that particular expression of a person trying very hard to be okay and failing quietly.
She dropped into the booth like gravity hated her.
Bryce leaned in first. "Hey. How are you?"
Lily's smile flashed—quick, fake, automatic.
"I'm good," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "No you're not."
Lily sighed so hard she looked smaller.
"I'm… searching," she admitted.
Bryce's voice stayed gentle. "Searching for what?"
Lily looked down at her hands. "For… Lily. I guess."
That landed heavier than it should've.
I hated it. Not because it was wrong—because it was honest. And honest is always more inconvenient than a lie.
A waitress wandered over with a notepad and the bright-eyed optimism of someone who hadn't yet realized day drinking was a symptom.
"What can I get you?"
Lily straightened like she was putting on armor. "I'll have water."
The waitress blinked. "Okay."
"And," Lily added, "maybe a lemon."
The waitress wrote it like it was a real order and left.
I watched Lily's eyes follow her, then flick back to me.
"So," Lily said, lowering her voice, "I might have… a situation."
Bryce's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of situation?"
"The kind," Lily said, "where a grown man talks to people like they're disposable."
I exhaled through my nose. "Ah. So a Tuesday."
Lily ignored me, eyes bright with that righteous heat she got when someone crossed a line.
"I took this temp thing," she said. "Just to… have structure. Money. Something normal. Ted helped me get it."
Bryce nodded. "At his firm?"
Lily nodded back. "At his firm."
I leaned back. "Oh no."
Lily pointed at me. "Don't 'oh no' me. You haven't even heard what he did."
"I don't have to," I said. "Ted's boss is either incompetent, arrogant, or terrifyingly both."
Lily's mouth tightened. "It's worse. He's… loud. Like, aggressively loud. And he keeps calling Ted 'Teddy' in this tone like Ted is a child."
Bryce's face twitched. "Ted would hate that."
"He does," Lily said. "And the boss keeps talking about his building model like it's… romantic."
I blinked. "Romantic?"
Lily grimaced. "It looks like a penis."
Bryce choked on absolutely nothing.
I stared at Lily. "You're kidding."
"I am not kidding," Lily hissed. "He's obsessed with it. He keeps adding little details like—" she waved her hands helplessly, face flushed— "—like shrubs and leaves and all this stuff that makes it worse!"
Bryce pressed her lips together like she was trying to keep her laughter respectful.
I nodded slowly. "So Ted's boss is designing a phallic monument and bullying him while doing it."
"Yes," Lily snapped. "And everyone just takes it. Like it's normal."
Bryce's voice stayed calm. "Okay. What do you want to do about it?"
Lily's eyes flicked up, sharp. "I want to punish him."
I stared at her.
Lily stared back.
Bryce sighed. "Lily…"
"I'm not talking about violence," Lily said quickly. "I'm talking about justice."
I squinted. "Define justice."
Lily leaned in, whispering like we were in a heist movie.
"Aldrin Justice."
Bryce's expression went flat. "Oh no. Not that."
You see, Lily had always had this little… tradition.
When someone acted like a jerk—real jerk, not "mildly annoying"—Lily didn't yell. She didn't fight. She didn't lecture.
She took something.
Not money. Not anything irreplaceable.
A toy.
A prized possession. Something shiny that screamed, "I'm important."
And then she'd wait.
Because the moment a bully loses a toy, you learn whether they have a soul.
Bryce looked at Lily. "You cannot keep doing that."
Lily's chin lifted. "Why not?"
"Because it's illegal," Bryce said, perfectly reasonable.
Lily looked at me like I'd be on her side.
I held up a hand. "I'm not saying yes."
Lily narrowed her eyes. "You're thinking yes."
I pointed at her. "I'm thinking consequences."
Lily's voice dropped. "He deserves it."
Bryce leaned forward, tone soft but firm. "What exactly did he do to Ted?"
Lily's jaw clenched.
"He called him 'a helpful little assistant' in front of the whole office," Lily said. "Then he took Ted's design draft, scribbled all over it, and said, 'This is why you're not ready for real work.' Like Ted is… nothing."
I felt heat creep up my neck.
Not for me. For Ted.
Ted was many things—annoying, hopeful to a fault, emotionally allergic to ambiguity—but he worked hard. And he didn't deserve to be treated like furniture.
Bryce watched Lily carefully. "So you want to teach him a lesson."
Lily nodded. "Yes."
I drummed my fingers on the table.
"Fine," I said slowly. "We gather evidence first."
Lily blinked. "Evidence?"
"Yes," I said. "Because if you're going to do something dumb, you do it smart."
Bryce gave me a look. "Nox."
"I'm not endorsing theft," I said immediately. "I'm endorsing… risk management."
Lily's eyes glittered. "So you're helping."
"I'm preventing you from getting arrested," I corrected.
Bryce sighed like a woman watching two raccoons try to operate a microwave. "What's the plan?"
Lily smiled—small, fierce. "I need to find his toy."
---
2006 — Early Afternoon, Hammond Druthers' Architectural Firm
Ted's office was the kind of place that smelled like printer toner and quiet despair. White walls, gray carpet, desks arranged like people were meant to be productive and not human.
Ted greeted us in the lobby with a strained smile.
"Hey," he said, eyes flicking between Lily and me. "Why are you both here?"
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Moral support."
Lily smiled sweetly. "I'm starting today."
Ted's face softened just a little. "Right. Yeah. Great. Thank you again for doing this. It'll be—"
A voice boomed across the floor.
"MOSBY!"
Ted's whole body stiffened like someone had hit his spine with a ruler.
A man strode out of a glass office like he owned the air: broad grin, loud suit, loud energy, loud everything. He moved like a man who'd never had to apologize.
Hammond Druthers.
He didn't look at Lily or me. He looked at Ted like Ted was a lamp someone forgot to turn off.
"Teddy," Hammond said, dragging the nickname out like a chew toy. "Where is my model?"
Ted's smile was tight. "It's—uh—here. It's right here."
Ted led him toward a covered table.
Hammond whipped the cloth off with theatrical flair.
And there it was: a gleaming model of a skyscraper, all glass and steel and unmistakable—once you saw it—an extremely proud penis.
Lily's eyes widened.
Bryce wasn't there, but I could practically hear her from across the city: I hate all of you.
Hammond turned to the room and spread his arms.
"Behold," he announced. "Perfection."
Every employee stared at their desks like staring hard enough might open a portal.
Ted cleared his throat. "It's… impressive."
"It's bold," Hammond corrected. "It's masculine. It's strong."
Lily's lips pressed together so hard I thought they might disappear.
Hammond snapped his fingers at Ted. "Now, show me your draft for the lobby layout."
Ted handed him a set of papers—careful, hopeful, like he was offering something he'd actually poured time into.
Hammond glanced at it for half a second, then made a sound like a disappointed walrus.
"This," he declared, "is timid."
Ted blinked. "Timid?"
Hammond grabbed a pen and started scribbling over Ted's work like he was vandalizing art on purpose.
"More pillars," Hammond said, drawing thick lines. "More… presence. You need the lobby to feel like it's—" he paused, searching for the right word— "—commanding."
Ted's mouth opened, then shut.
Hammond leaned in, smiling like this was mentorship.
"You'll learn," he said. "Eventually. Maybe."
He flicked the papers back at Ted like they were crumbs.
Then Hammond finally noticed Lily.
"And who," he said, "is this… tiny woman?"
Lily smiled bright enough to blind someone.
"I'm Lily," she said. "I'm the new assistant."
Hammond looked her up and down like she was a chair.
"Great," he said, immediately bored. "Can you fetch me coffee? Black. Like my soul."
Lily's smile stayed in place.
Her eyes did not.
I saw it instantly: the switch.
The Aldrin Justice switch.
Ted glanced at Lily, nervous. "Lily—"
She patted his arm, still smiling. "No worries, Ted."
Hammond turned away, already talking to the room.
"And someone," he barked, "find my baseball. I need it in my office. I like to look at it when I'm thinking."
Lily's head tilted slightly. "Your baseball?"
Hammond preened. "Signed three times by Pete Rose."
He said it like he'd cured disease.
Then he disappeared into his office, shutting the glass door with a smug little click.
Ted exhaled like he'd been punched.
Lily turned to me, eyes sparkling with fury and delight.
"That's his toy," she whispered.
I closed my eyes. "Lily."
She leaned closer, whispering like a spy. "Nox. Three signatures. That's not a baseball. That's an ego orb."
Ted stared at us, confused. "What are you two talking about?"
I forced a smile. "Nothing. Workplace stuff."
Ted's eyes narrowed. "That's not workplace stuff."
Lily picked up a coffee order pad like she was innocent. "I'm going to get coffee."
She started walking toward the break room—calm, casual, sweet.
But I watched her eyes track Hammond's office door.
Track the space behind him.
Track the prize.
Ted leaned toward me, whispering. "Is Lily… okay?"
I stared at Lily's retreating back and sighed.
"She's fine," I said, which was a lie.
Ted swallowed. "Should I be worried?"
I looked him dead in the eyes.
"Yes."
And the worst part?
I wasn't even joking.
I tell you two, rubbing my thumb along the rim of my mug like I can still feel the stress. "This is the one where Lily decides the law is more of a… suggestion."
Bryce leans back, completely unapologetic. "It was ethical."
"You stole a baseball," one of you says, aghast.
Bryce shrugs. "A man's ego-ball. There's a difference."
---
2006 — Druthers' Office, Ten Minutes After "That's His Toy"
Ted watched Lily walk away like he was watching a fuse burn.
He turned to me, voice low. "Nox. What is happening?"
I gave him the cleanest lie I could manage.
"Lily's adjusting," I said.
Ted frowned. "Adjusting to what? Workplace cruelty?"
"Yeah," I said. "With… flair."
Ted's eyes narrowed. "No. I know that look. She's going to do something."
I didn't answer fast enough.
Ted's face fell. "She's going to do something."
Before I could stop him, he pushed off his desk chair and took three quick steps after her.
"Lily—"
I caught his elbow and pulled him back.
"Don't," I muttered.
Ted spun on me. "Don't what? Don't stop her? Don't talk to her? Don't—"
"Don't get yourself involved," I said. "If she does something stupid, it needs to be her stupid, not your stupid, or you'll both get fired."
Ted stared at me like I'd just confessed to being morally bankrupt.
"You're… letting her," he hissed.
"I'm monitoring her," I corrected. "There's a difference."
Ted's jaw worked.
"Why would you let her risk—"
"Because if I try to stop Lily Aldrin when she's righteous," I said quietly, "I'll lose a finger."
Ted blinked.
"…Fair," he admitted, then panicked again. "But Nox—my job—"
"Your job is already being ruined by Captain Penis Model," I snapped, then lowered my voice. "Let Lily handle this her way. I'll keep it contained."
Ted stared toward Hammond's office door like it was a dragon's cave.
"Contained," he repeated.
"Contained," I said, with the confidence of a man lying to himself.
---
2006 — Break Room, Where Crimes Are Born
Lily moved through the break room like she belonged there—because she did. That was the terrifying part.
She made coffee, measured and calm, humming faintly like she was just another assistant trying to survive a boss with a volume problem.
Except her eyes kept flicking to the reflection in the microwave door.
The glass office down the hall.
Hammond Druthers, pacing like he was performing genius.
And on his shelf—clearly visible from the break room angle if you knew where to look—sat a clear display case with a baseball inside.
I walked into the break room like I was going to stop her.
I wasn't sure that was true, but I needed to be close enough to make decisions.
Lily didn't even look at me. "Don't," she whispered.
"Don't what?" I whispered back.
"Don't talk me out of it," she said, still stirring coffee. "I've decided."
I leaned against the counter. "Lily. A signed baseball is felony-adjacent."
She finally looked at me, eyes bright. "Then I'll be misdemeanor-iconic."
"Not funny," I said.
"It is a little funny," she argued.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "What is your plan?"
Lily smiled—sweet as sugar, sharp as glass.
"I'm going to take it," she said. "And I'm going to teach him what it feels like to be small."
"That's… intense," I said.
"He made Ted feel small," Lily snapped, and the calm mask cracked just long enough to show teeth. "He treats everyone here like furniture. He thinks he's untouchable because he's loud and successful."
She poured coffee into a cup with surgical precision.
"People like that only understand consequences," she said softly.
I stared at her.
This wasn't petty.
This was Lily's core: she couldn't stand bullies. Not when she was five, not when she was twenty-six.
And to her, Druthers wasn't a boss.
He was a bully with a blueprint.
Lily turned back to the microwave reflection, watching Hammond move inside his office.
"He always leaves the door cracked when he goes to yell at people," she murmured. "Because he wants everyone to hear him."
I didn't like where this was going.
"Lily—"
She held up a hand. "One minute."
Footsteps echoed.
A junior architect stepped into the break room, grabbed a soda, avoided eye contact like the floor might explode, and left.
Lily waited until the footsteps faded.
Then she picked up the coffee cup and walked out like she was delivering it.
I followed at a distance, heart thumping in that annoying way it does when someone else is about to commit a crime and you're the designated adult.
---
2006 — Hammond Druthers' Office, The Heist
Hammond's door was half-open, because of course it was.
Lily knocked lightly and walked in without waiting.
She moved like she had a right to be there, like the world simply made room for her when she decided.
"Coffee," she chirped, bright.
Hammond didn't even look up from his desk. He was scribbling something on a sketch pad like the fate of civilization depended on his pen.
"Put it there," he barked.
Lily set the cup down.
Her gaze flicked to the display case.
The baseball sat inside like a crown jewel.
Three signatures. Thick ink. Carefully preserved.
Hammond kept talking, because Hammond always talked.
"I need Mosby's draft redone by five," he said. "It's unacceptable. The man has no… no boldness. No confidence. It's like he designs buildings the way he dates—hoping someone will adopt him."
My stomach turned.
Lily's smile didn't move.
Her eyes did.
They sharpened.
Hammond waved a hand without looking. "Also, can you find my—"
"The baseball?" Lily asked, voice sweet.
Hammond finally looked up, pleased. "Yes. The baseball. I need it. It helps me think."
Lily nodded like a dutiful assistant.
"Of course," she said. "One second."
And then she did it.
Smooth, fast, like she'd rehearsed.
She crossed to the shelf, lifted the clear display case with both hands, and turned back toward Hammond.
Hammond smiled, smug. "There we go. Careful with it. It's—"
Lily's heel caught the edge of a rug.
It was barely a stumble.
Barely a jolt.
But it was enough.
The display case slipped.
The baseball popped free.
And it rolled—perfectly—under Hammond's desk.
Hammond jerked back. "What the—"
Lily dropped to her knees instantly, hands splayed, wide-eyed.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "I'm so sorry—"
Hammond shot up from his chair, frantic. "That ball is worth—"
"I'll get it!" Lily said, panicking convincingly.
Hammond shoved his chair back and moved to the other side of the desk, trying to see under it.
Lily ducked down.
Her hair fell forward, hiding her face.
And under that desk, in the shadow, her hand closed around the baseball.
Not fumbling.
Not searching.
Closing.
She slid it into her blazer pocket with the clean efficiency of a pickpocket.
Then she pulled out… a stress ball.
A plain, cheap, office stress ball she'd palmed from the break room earlier.
She rolled that out from under the desk, letting it bounce once so Hammond's eyes snapped to it.
"There!" Lily cried, triumphant, holding it up like she'd saved a baby from a fire. "Got it!"
Hammond blinked, confused.
He reached for it.
His fingers closed around foam.
He frowned, turning it over.
"This… this isn't—"
Lily stood fast, voice bright and panicked. "I'm so sorry! It must've—maybe it's behind—let me—"
Hammond shoved past her, dropping to the floor with a grunt, suit creasing, ego offended by gravity.
He crawled under his own desk like a man searching for dignity.
Lily backed toward the door, hands clasped, face apologetic.
"I'll… I'll keep looking!" she promised.
Hammond barked, muffled under the desk. "Don't just stand there—find it!"
Lily nodded furiously.
And walked out.
Calm.
Smooth.
Gone.
I stood ten feet down the hall, pretending to look at a framed architectural print.
Lily exited Hammond's office with the serene expression of a woman who had just committed a crime and improved the world.
She walked past me without stopping.
Just brushed my hand with hers.
And in that brief contact, she transferred something into my palm.
Small.
Round.
Ink-textured.
My stomach dropped.
I looked down.
Baseball.
Three signatures.
Hot in my hand like guilt.
Lily didn't break stride.
She turned the corner toward the break room, still playing "assistant," still holding her coffee tray like she was innocent.
I shoved the baseball into my coat pocket like it was radioactive.
My pulse pounded.
Because here was the thing:
Lily didn't steal it to sell it.
She stole it to break him.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
She wanted him to feel powerless for one single day.
And as much as I hated Hammond Druthers…
I hated the line Lily had just stepped over.
---
2006 — Ted's Desk, The Fallout Starts
Ted looked up when I approached, eyes wary.
"You look like you're about to tell me someone died," he whispered.
"Worse," I whispered back. "Lily succeeded."
Ted's eyes widened. "What did she do?"
I didn't answer. Not yet.
Because Hammond's office door flew open.
Hammond stormed out red-faced, hair slightly messed up, suit wrinkled like he'd wrestled a demon under his desk.
"WHERE IS IT?" Hammond roared.
Everyone froze. Heads lowered. Typing stopped.
Hammond stomped toward the bullpen like an angry god.
"My baseball," he thundered. "My signed ball. It was HERE."
He jabbed a finger toward his office like the room itself had betrayed him.
Ted went pale. "Oh my God."
I leaned close to Ted, voice like steel.
"Don't say anything," I murmured. "Don't look at Lily. Don't breathe suspiciously."
Ted's eyes flicked frantically across the office… and landed on Lily in the break room doorway.
She held a coffee pot.
She looked genuinely concerned.
She was the Mona Lisa of crime.
Hammond slammed his hands on a desk. "Someone stole from me," he barked. "This is a serious offense. I will have security—"
Lily stepped forward, voice small, trembling with fake sincerity.
"Mr. Druthers," she said, "I'm so sorry. I dropped the case—my hand slipped—and then it rolled and I tried to—"
Hammond's head snapped toward her. "YOU DROPPED IT?"
Lily's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry. I swear I tried to find it—"
Hammond's face twisted with rage.
And then, because bullies always choose the easiest target, his gaze slid toward Ted.
"Teddy," he snarled. "This is your fault."
Ted blinked. "What?"
"You bring in incompetent assistants, you create chaos," Hammond spat. "You're poison."
Ted's mouth opened, then shut.
His eyes flicked to Lily—hurt, confused, protective all at once.
Lily's jaw tightened, just a hair.
Hammond pointed at Ted like a judge.
"I want your draft redone," he barked. "Tonight. And if my baseball isn't back by tomorrow, I'm calling the police."
Ted's face went white.
My pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Because Lily had wanted to punish Hammond.
But Hammond couldn't be punished like a normal person.
He'd just redirect the pain.
And Ted was standing right there.
---
2006 — Break Room, Seconds Later
I cornered Lily the second Hammond disappeared into his office to "make calls."
Lily was rinsing a coffee cup like nothing happened.
Her hands didn't shake.
That was the part that scared me.
"What did you do?" I hissed.
Lily didn't look up. "Justice."
"This isn't justice," I snapped. "This is theft."
She finally turned, eyes blazing. "He deserved it."
"And Ted deserves to get blamed for it?" I shot back.
Lily's expression flickered—just for a moment—guilt sliding in.
"I didn't mean—"
"You never mean," I cut in. "You just do. And then other people pay for it."
Lily's eyes shimmered, anger and pain mixing.
"He made him feel small," she whispered. "I couldn't stand it."
I softened a fraction, because I understood. I did.
But understanding didn't erase consequences.
I leaned closer. "Where is the baseball?"
Lily's gaze dropped to my coat pocket.
"You have it," she said.
I exhaled. "Good. Then we put it back."
Lily's head snapped up. "No."
"Yes," I said firmly. "Tonight. Quietly. Before he calls the police. Before Ted gets fired."
Lily's jaw clenched. "He should suffer."
I stared at her.
"And you want Ted to suffer with him?" I asked.
That hit her like a slap.
Lily's face crumpled for half a second, then rebuilt itself.
"No," she whispered.
"Then we fix this," I said.
Lily blinked, tears threatening but not falling.
"I just wanted him to feel…" she trailed off, searching.
"Small," I finished, softer now.
She nodded.
I sighed. "He already does. For the first time in his life, he's scared. That's your win. Now we stop before we turn it into a disaster."
Lily swallowed hard.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. We put it back."
Then her eyes sharpened again.
"But," she added, voice low, "I'm still doing something."
I narrowed my eyes. "What something?"
Lily smiled—sweet, dangerous.
"A message."
And that's when I realized:
We weren't done.
Not even close.