The front door of the Sterling residence clicked open at 3:14 AM.
Silence greeted them. It was the kind of heavy, luxurious silence that only exists in houses that cost more than a small island nation.
Michael Sterling stepped inside, dropping his kit bag on the marble floor with a heavy thud. He felt like he had been run over by a truck, reversed over, and then shouted at by Pep Guardiola for good measure.
"We're home," he croaked. His voice was gone. The A-Grade Voice Projection Elixir had officially worn off, leaving his throat feeling like he'd swallowed a bag of gravel.
Behind him, Kenji Sato stumbled in, holding Arthur Milton upright. Arthur was technically awake, but his eyes were glazed over in a sugar crash so profound he looked like he was seeing into the fourth dimension.
"Home sweet fortress," Kenji slurred, kicking off his £2,000 loafers. "Sarah! We conquered the North! We beat the robots!"
