Downstairs, Gwen was preparing dinner.
Hawk sat alone in George's study, flipping through the old case files of the New York Times journalist, Otos.
Last year, just before Christmas, the man had been found tied to a cross and burned alive by the Hudson River.
The moment the news broke, every major outlet in New York exploded.
So did the public.
The police hated Otos—he'd made a career out of humiliating them—but the media grieved one of their own. Outrage poured out in articles, editorials, and live broadcasts, while citizens took to the streets, convinced the journalist had been silenced for uncovering some hidden corruption.
It was, as Hawk thought with mild amusement, the double-edged sword of populist education.
The people were easy to manage when ignorant—but once roused, their outrage became a tidal wave.
Before long, even those who still believed the earth was flat and that a secret world existed beyond the Arctic ice wall had joined the protests, waving signs demanding justice for Otos.
And in the middle of it all stood the 21st Precinct.
George Stacy—its captain—was the one crushed between the fury of the public below and the pressure of the brass above.
If he'd wanted to, George could have closed the case easily. Find a dead junkie, pin it on him, and the whole city would have moved on.
It wouldn't be the first time.
After all, this was the federal system. A guilty man could walk free under a clever lawyer, and an innocent one could rot in prison if the prosecution's narrative swayed the jury.
That was how it worked—
you didn't need to convince the judge.
You only needed to convince twelve random citizens.
Show them the right emotion, make them believe—even a murder caught on video could be dismissed as a deepfake.
And on the other hand, if the DA could convince the same jury that a man with an alibi had somehow killed someone across town with psychic powers… the jury would still nod and send him to prison.
Because, of course, the people who got railroaded didn't have money for good lawyers.
But George wasn't that kind of cop.
He didn't fake cases.
Even though the Hudson case had no clear crime scene or camera footage, he had supported Detective Mahoney's investigation from start to finish.
Two months later—just last month—the tech division had recovered fragments from a scorched laptop hard drive at the scene. Among the fragments, a name appeared.
Not a person's name—an organization: Crimson Revelation.
A cult.
A legal one, technically—religious freedom and all that—but a cult nonetheless.
Its founder was a man named Erani, who believed that only by offering blood sacrifices could humanity summon the Four Horsemen to cleanse the world.
And that was all anyone knew.
Even Otos had only managed to uncover Erani's name before he was killed.
Mahoney had applied for a warrant immediately—
—and then, out of nowhere, a man turned himself in, confessing to the murder.
Before Mahoney or George could react, the DA's office had already struck a plea deal.
As Mahoney put it later, "This case came from above. They wanted it gone."
No one wanted to waste manpower avenging a reporter who'd spent his life antagonizing the NYPD.
Someone confessed. The bosses were happy. Case closed.
But George wasn't.
He'd known the "confession" was staged—knew they'd silenced the wrong man.
He could have kept his head down. He didn't.
And now, someone had tried to kill him for it.
Hawk sighed as he closed the file. The name "Crimson Revelation" lingered on his tongue like poison.
A fanatic cult obsessed with blood and apocalypse—he'd seen worse.
George picked a fight with zealots, Hawk thought. No wonder they tried to erase him.
Compared to Hydra, these people were lunatics. Hydra had a purpose—power, order, control.
The cult had only one: madness.
He stood, shut the file, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Gwen was slicing vegetables. Hawk leaned against the counter and told her everything he'd found.
When he finished, he smiled. "If you want, I can go deal with this Erani myself."
George might need evidence.
Hawk didn't.
He didn't need warrants or proof. Just suspicion.
If he suspected you, that was enough reason to erase you.
But Gwen shook her head. "No."
He blinked. "No?"
"This is Dad's case."
For a moment, she hesitated—then pushed the impulse away, taking out the steak from the oven as she continued softly, "You believe in results. Dad believes in process. That's why he doesn't even like Spider-Man. And this case—he almost died for it. So it should be his to finish."
Hawk smiled faintly. He understood.
George would wake up soon.
If he learned someone else had already executed the man behind it, he'd probably be furious.
"Alright," Hawk said, accepting the roasting pan. "You're the smartest person in this house. I'll listen to you."
Gwen rolled her eyes.
"But," she added, "I'll still need your help later."
"Always," he replied. "Where you point, I strike."
Dinner passed quietly.
Howard and Simon behaved like perfect angels in the car on the way to New Amsterdam Hospital.
No fighting, no shouting—just quiet, wide-eyed boys standing by their father's bedside, watching George breathe through his tubes.
Helen, sitting nearby, smiled faintly as she tasted Gwen's cooking. "Not bad. You're getting better."
"Of course!" Gwen said proudly. "I'm the daughter of Chef Helen Stacy, after all."
Helen laughed, then looked at her two sons. "They're better behaved than I expected."
"They're not bad," Gwen agreed. "Just a little wild sometimes."
"Just not gifted in school," Helen sighed. "If they had even a tenth of your talent, I'd be happy."
"Mom, boys mature later," Gwen defended them. "Even Hawk was a handful at ten."
Hawk, sitting silently nearby, blinked. "Wait, what?"
Then, with a straight face, he said to Helen, "She's right. I was very loud in church choir back then."
Helen laughed. "You were in the choir! You were supposed to sing loud."
Hawk turned to Gwen, shrugging innocently.
Gwen sighed, then smiled again. "Mom, you should give them more confidence. When Hawk and I have kids, even if they're not geniuses, I won't be upset."
Helen chuckled, glancing between them. "You believe that?"
Hawk smiled weakly. "I do."
"Really?"
He hesitated, trapped between his fiancée and future mother-in-law. "Helen… please don't do this."
Helen's laughter filled the room.
Gwen pouted, serious again. "I mean it, Mom."
"I know, sweetheart," Helen said with a grin she couldn't hide. "Just don't come crying to me later."
"I won't!" Gwen declared.
Confident as ever, she imagined their future children—half hers, half Hawk's. Even if they inherited only a fraction of her brilliance, that'd be enough.
Helen smiled knowingly. "So, have you two decided? Boy or girl first?"
Hawk smiled. "If it's Gwen's, I'll love it either way."
Smart answer. He wasn't falling for that trap again.
Gwen beamed. "One girl, two boys. We've already decided."
Helen arched a brow. "So that's where that number came from."
"Perfect family," Gwen said proudly.
"Not bad," Helen agreed.
Later that night, Hawk and Gwen brought the boys home and tucked them in.
Then they entertained Mahoney and Hale in the living room—both detectives had stopped by to discuss the ongoing investigation.
Mahoney held the sheet with "B.U." written across it, still frowning. "I can't make sense of it."
Hale shook her head. "I checked our informant database. No match—not even remotely."
"Could it be from another precinct?" Gwen suggested.
"Possible," Hale said. "The deputy's already reaching out to others, but no luck yet."
Hawk asked, "What about the shooter?"
Normally, detectives wouldn't disclose case details to victims' families—but this was different.
George was their captain, and Helen had explicitly told them to keep her updated.
Mahoney sighed. "Not much to report—the suspect's dead."
Both Gwen and Hawk looked up.
"We found him through surveillance near the scene," Mahoney continued. "The NYPD mobilized the whole city. Within half an hour, a patrol from the 3rd Precinct located his motorcycle—burned. The techs recovered a partial frame number, traced it to an address. When we got there…"
"He'd hung himself."
"There was a suicide note, but we're waiting for forensics to confirm whether it's genuine. The body's being examined."
Gwen frowned. "Could that be B.U.?"
Hale shook her head. "Name's Ethan Thompson—E.T., not B.U. We found a handgun in his bag. The ballistics match."
"Crimson Revelation?" Hawk asked.
"We're checking," Hale said. "So far, no evidence linking him to the cult."
Hawk rubbed his chin but didn't press further. He wasn't a detective; his methods didn't rely on evidence anyway.
And Gwen had already told him—this was George's case.
The three discussed a few more details before admitting there was nothing else to do but wait for forensics and, hopefully, for George to wake up.
As they saw the detectives off, Hawk suddenly froze mid-thought.
"If someone tried to silence George once…" he said slowly, "what if they try again?"
Gwen smiled calmly. "That's the difference between amateurs and professionals, Hawk. The precinct already thought of that. Mahoney and Hale will be guarding Dad tonight."
Hawk nodded. "Right. Captain of a precinct. Makes sense."
"So we can rest easy," Gwen said. "Tomorrow, when Dad wakes up, we'll know who B.U. is. And if that person runs—then it's your turn."
Hawk grinned. "Deal."
They went upstairs to rest.
About an hour later—
Hawk suddenly froze mid-motion.
Gwen, half-asleep beside him, blinked. "What's wrong?"
He looked down at her, expression grave.
"Pop."
He snapped his fingers softly.
"Helen just… underwent rebirth."
Gwen's eyes widened.
And Hawk's tone turned cold.
The Phoenix's flame had ignited—
somewhere inside the hospital, Helen Stacy had died.
(End of Chapter)
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