All chapters in The Heroes are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events, dialogue, and actions—including depictions of violence, threats, political tension, or moral conflict—are fictional representations created solely for storytelling purposes.
I do not condone or encourage any harmful, violent, or unethical behavior outside of this narrative.
This story is meant to be taken seriously. It is not satire or comedy. The Heroes is a realistic fictional series that explores moral, emotional, and ethical struggles. Its goal is to promote good, expose evil, and reflect the truth of the world in a raw, unfiltered, and uncensored way.
Every moral and ethical issue presented in this story exists to raise awareness—not to mock, glorify, or trivialize it. As you read, please keep an open mind and understand that the intent behind every chapter is to inspire thought, empathy, and meaningful reflection.
This story contains political themes and references that may resemble real events, figures, or situations. While the characters and events are fictional, the issues explored are intended to be taken seriously and may serve as real-world commentary, criticism, or symbolism. Rated a Hard TV- 14+
The house lay buried deep, far from the city's restless pulse, hidden behind a winding path of overgrown trees. Small, neat, and tidy, it seemed untouched—but the air inside was heavy, pressed down by grief. Shadows pooled in corners like unwelcome memories. The only sound was the soft, almost imperceptible sobbing from the living room, interrupted occasionally by the flicker of the TV.
Alan McAllister's voice droned through the speakers, a constant hum of news and authority. "Today, Congress passed a new bill limiting superheroes' freedom in the name of public safety. President Donny Crump stated that—" He paused, then continued, "—too many cases have gone unaddressed. Measures are now in place to protect our children, our friends, our families."
Alex's mother slumped in her chair, the weight of every word pressing down on her. Her hands clutched a worn photograph of Alex, edges curling, smudged by tears. On the screen, McAllister shifted tone, narrating the latest disappearance. "Authorities are investigating the site where two children, Mark Parker and Zack Wilson, vanished last night. Observers say the search appeared… aimless, almost staged."
The camera cut to the chief of police, a stern man with tight lines etched across his forehead. "It is a tragedy," he said, voice brittle. "We will do whatever it takes. The public deserves answers."
Her lips trembled as she pressed the photograph to her chest.
The screen flickered. Inferno appeared in harsh studio light, jaw tight, eyes hollow. "Over fifty thousand people… children… taken from their—F-beeping—hands," he said, voice low, bitter. His hand shook as he pointed at the camera. "They blame some F-beeping pedophile—no… no… no…" He shook his head violently. "That's what the Democrats want you to believe…"
The feed cut abruptly. McAllister returned, chuckling too brightly. "Um… yes. Inferno was apparently mind-controlled by a villain who—uh—made him say that."
Alex's mother groaned, switching channels. "God… when will this end?" Tears streamed freely as she pressed the photograph to her cheek.
Veronica entered quietly, sinking onto the couch beside her. She draped an arm across Alex's mother's shoulders. "How long has it been?" she murmured.
"Too long… way too long…" Her voice cracked, then steadied with a shaky breath. "…Why, God? Why would the people who are supposed to protect us take my child?"
Veronica stayed silent, letting the question linger. She nodded, thoughtful, then leaned closer. "Whatever's going on—politics, the police… we fight this. Together. Okay?"
A faint stir on the couch drew their attention. A blanket shifted. Connor's brown hair was tousled; his eyes fluttered under closed lids.
"Careful now," Veronica whispered. "Don't wake him. He needs rest." Her hand rubbed gently at Alex's mother's back, a small anchor in the oppressive silence.
Connor's eyes opened slowly, uncertain. His small hands clutched at the edge of the blanket. "How… how can he stop them?" he whispered. "They… they have my friends. The military… and… the 9…"
Veronica's jaw tightened, but her voice remained calm. "You're right. They have numbers. But we have you." She rested a hand on the blanket over his chest, a quiet promise.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees, brushing against windows like ghostly fingers. Inside, the house held its breath. For now, their only weapons were each other—and a fragile hope that somehow, someway, it would be enough.
Connor tugged at the blanket, searching for comfort. A spark of determination glimmered in his tired eyes. He didn't know how he would fight, but he would try.
Veronica's hand tightened briefly over his, and Alex's mother pressed her forehead to hers. No words were needed. They sat like that for a long, heavy moment. The TV murmured on, the city's chaos creeping closer, and the storm they were about to face gathered quietly in the room.
Three years ago, at the Howards' house, the whole place rang with the sort of joy that makes your chest ache in a good way—giggling, laughing, small voices bumping into each other like bright marbles. The family room held it all: a long couch sagging just enough to show its age, a big rug mottled with crayons and the faint stain of spilled juice, and, to the left, Dad's old recliner sitting like a quiet landmark. A low coffee table sat in the center, nicked with the ghosts of card
games and scuffed with toy trains. On the wall under the TV, dozens of frozen smiles stared back: birthdays, graduations, a messy Thanksgiving, a Christmas with tinsel stuck to someone's hair. On the mantle, a polished plaque marked Mr. Howard's time as a state
representative; to its left, framed and proud, hung Mrs. Howard's nursing degree.
Connor—smaller than, a thin coil of energy wrapped in jeans and excitement—stood beneath those pictures, acting out a charade with the complete, earnest conviction of a kid who lives to be seen. Lydia, younger and louder than she'd ever been after too much sugar and
sunlight, pointed and squealed guesses: "Alligator! Shark!" Mrs. Howard crouched behind Lydia, phone in hand, filming, smile soft and steady. She looked like a lighthouse in that room—steady, warm, making sense of the uproar around her.
"Airplane! There it is!" Lydia crowed, and Connor's grin cracked wide as he thrust a card toward their mom. "Come on, Mommy, it's your turn!" He pulled on her sleeve, insistent.
"Yeah, Mom—show us your moves!" Lydia chimed, hair bouncing with every syllable.
Alright, alright," Mrs. Howard laughed, pulling her hair back, taking the card. Connor flopped onto the couch with the phone, framing her like a director. The card read: sitting at a desk. Her eyes flicked, amused and slightly mischievous. Immediately, she bent, lowering herself into an exaggerated "sitting" posture, hands in the air like a pair of practiced typists. Her fingers danced an invisible rhythm over a pretend keyboard.
Connor jumped up, bouncing, voice high: "Uh… uh… ty… ty… Typing!"
He flapped his hands like wings, delighted at the obviousness of it.
Lydia bounced in time, offering more guesses. "Oh, what about tapping? Playing the piano?" she offered, half in hope, half in competitive cheer.
Connor whooped and jumped higher: "Sitting at a desk!! Yess!!"
Mrs. Howard beamed, stepping toward them and wrapping both kids in a hug that smelled faintly of soap and the lavender she used on laundry day. Her cheek rested against Lydia's hair; she breathed them in like prayer. "I love you both," she said slowly, words soaked in something steady and true. She pulled back, met their eyes, and paused as if counting the seconds. Lydia lunged in for another hug. Mrs. Howard stroked her back in a slow, practiced motion.
"Mommy—look!" Connor pointed at the phone. "Look at the video!"
She took the phone, still smiling; joy lingered at the corners of her mouth. But then the bright rectangle in her hand blinked with a notification, and the smile froze. From: The Heroes — Heather Tate. We need to talk now. Meet me at the tower, top floor. Her breath hiccupped. She'd never seen the name Heather Tate. A second message popped up like a second punch: Also… we know where your husband is.
The words slammed into her like a fist. Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as she gripped the phone. She hadn't seen him since the accident. Her throat tightened; her tongue felt thick.
"Really…" she whispered, lip quivering.
Lydia's brow furrowed. "Mom… are you okay?" Her voice was small, worried. Connor looked between his mother and the screen,
confusion sharpening the edges of his face.
"I… I just—there's an… emergency at the hospital," she lied at first and then convinced herself. Panic rewired her movements into quick, efficient motions: jacket from the rack, keys off the hook, a brief pat for a phone, a hurried rearrangement of hair. The message kept replaying behind her eyes with an ugly insistence.
"Will you be back?" Lydia asked at the doorway, voice hollow with the new weight of responsibility.
Mrs. Howard knelt quickly, fingers in Lydia's hair. "Lydia, please—take care of him. I'll be back. I love you both." She opened the door, gave them one last small wave, and stepped out into a night made of sodium lights and cold wind.
At the Heroes Tower, Heather Tate sat in the main conference room, phone tapping a curt message to her superior. A low voice from the
back rolled through the room like a threat folded into silk. "Is she on her way?" it asked.
Heather turned, smiled with brittle control. "Yes… Inferno. She's on her way."
On the drive, Mrs. Howard's mind returned to the hospital like a bad movie on loop: the bright red flash, the crack of metal, the way the car had spun and gone sideways, the way the world shrank into the scent of burnt rubber. They'd told her he'd been in a coma. Broken ribs, a shattered leg, a fractured skull, a broken back—each injury a
jagged tally in memory. She tightened her jaw as the city rolled toward her, neon and advertisements turning familiar streets into a theme park for people with power.
Billboards promoted the Heroes with an obnoxious geniality—movie posters, breakfast cereal boxes, plush toys with too-bright smiles. A left turn revealed a red-carpet premiere, the creators of something
she vaguely recognized waving to cameras. A narrow alley on another block reeked of smoke, a half-dozen men leaning on a brick wall. Everywhere, screens featured the Nine like saints and gods. Her mouth made a small sound—half-anger, half-grief. "What the hell happened here?" she muttered.
The tower finally rose into view: broad and terrible, the tallest thing in
the skyline, glass and steel folded into itself like a fortress. Guards in reinforced black armor flanked the entrance, glowing X insignias pulsing in code. Their masks were half-visors, scanning faces, pulling up dossiers with a glance. Nanotech shields clicked into place in their hands; spears, compact and polished, reflected the city lights.
At the gate, a higher-ranked guard approached, dark-red X pulsing over his chest. He reached up and tapped the window as if the car
were a trivial possession. She froze, lips pressed thin. He didn't ask a name—he barely needed to. He gestured; she rolled down the window. His voice through the mask was low and even. "Are you Mrs. Howard?"
"I… I…" She bit her lip, the pitch of her voice thinning. The guard raised a single finger and stepped back; doors opened as if by command. She exhaled a small, brittle breath and drove in, palms
white on the wheel.
The parking lot felt like a stage: assigned spaces for executives, a valet system that hummed with invisible protocols. She parked in an unassigned spot, heart tapping in her throat. Heather Tate's car sat a few rows away, nameplate on the dash like a banner. The others—Rachel, Cameron, Calvin Mallory—weren't there.
It took a blink before she found the entrance. Two guards with a spear-
Like batons stood sentinel at the doors. She walked in with hands that would not still, fidgeting with a sleeve, avoiding the blank, impassive eyes of the guards. Inside was an obscene opulence: white quartz floors, walls hung with images of heroics, tasteful
furniture arranged to look casual. A front desk sat empty like an unanswered question.
The elevator dinged, and out stepped Winthrop: all black, titanium sheen, hood hiding his face. He didn't make a sound; he never does;
A tilt of his head said everything. She stepped forward, voice a brittle thing. "You're—Winthrop… right?"
He didn't answer. He simply walked back to the elevator, tapped the button, and let her approach. She tried again, soft, clinging to the
normalcy of shared toys. "My son—he really likes you. He has your toys. Your collectables." She laughed, an awkward little sound that tried to smooth the tension. Winthrop glanced once, then away. He held a silence like a held breath.
The elevator rose. She dared, "You…don't talk at all…do you?" He continued to stare at the control panel like a man with no room for words.
They reached the top floor. A steel door waited with a hand-scan.
Winthrop pulled off a glove, and to her horror, she saw the hand—ragged and bloody, a chunk missing down to the bone. He did not flinch. He placed it on the scanner and, as if the sight were nothing, slid the glove back on. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Sir… you're going to need medical assistance. Please—I'm a nurse, I can help."
He looked at her in a way that said he accepted neither offers nor pity, then turned and disappeared into the shadow of a long corridor.
The room beyond felt like the heart of something official and terrible: tile underfoot, a long table with chairs arranged like soldiers, walls crowded with photographs of battles and trophies. At the head of the table stood a man whose size the photographs had never prepared her for. His cape folded across his broad shoulders like blood. His hands were clasped behind him. He stared out the window at the city.
She approached, words falling out of her mouth in a rush. "Sir—Winthrop—he's missing part of his hand. I think—"
He turned. The angle of his head looked almost embarrassed to be noticed. When he stepped around the chair, the air shifted—the room seemed to inhale a little. He smiled the way someone smiles before a storm. "Yes," he said. "I am Inferno."
He stepped closer than any stranger should and broke her personal space. The light caught his teeth when he smiled; his voice was low
and hot. "Pleased to meet you… Mrs. Howard." He extended a hand, and she grabbed it with the single, small vigor of a fan meeting a god. Her fingers trembled as she shook his.
"I'm… I'm such a big…fan, sir," she stammered, and for a brief, flaring second, she seemed small enough to be held in the crook of his
elbow. "How did you—how did you lift that asteroid the size of the moon?"
Inferno's tongue clicked. He licked his lips as if tasting the memory. "I
just did it," he murmured, amused as if the question were an old joke.
Heather Tate strolled in then, heels soft on tile. "We have business to discuss," she said, efficient and precise. Inferno's expression hardened; a single look in his direction said, Interrupt me and you will burn.
He moved to his chair, planted like a sentinel, hands behind his back. Heather gestured curtly, taking Electric Strike seat, Miss Howard Vortex seat. "So," she said, and her voice shifted to the professional
baritone of people who break bad news for a living. "Let's start. Your husband was ordered to be killed."
The room narrowed for her, sound rushing into a single, painful point. "What?!" Her hands slammed the table. "What the hell! Why—who—"
Heather sighed, steady as anything that had aged into iron. She began to explain: a bill, fewer restrictions on Heroes, power
consolidated into hands she named without irony. The room grew
colder with each bureaucratic term. Inferno scoffed, a small sound undercutting the official tone.
"You—this organization grew bigger," Heather said, leaning in, a net cast wide. "Congress—your husband was part of a push that would have restrained Heroes less. He supported a bill that would have shifted controls—"
She didn't finish before rage locked into Mrs. Howard likes poison. "What does that have to do with my husband?" she snapped, voice
breaking. "All I want to know is—is he all right? Where is he?!"
"Calm down," Heather said, but the words were paper-thin. "You called—"
"Called me here?!" Mrs. Howard cut her off. "I've not seen my husband in years, and you tell me to calm down?" Her fingers dug into the wood of the table.
Inferno moved then, a shadow that swallowed space. He stepped around the table until he stood almost behind her, warm breath ghosting her ear. His hands settled on her shoulders in a way that should have been a courtesy and instead felt like a claim.
"Get your hands off of me!" she shouted, flinching up so fast her chair squealed.
"Excuse me?" Inferno's brows rose, slow and fake.
"Inferno—please… not now," Heather murmured, but Inferno didn't
move away. He just relaxed, letting the tension hum.
"Look at me, Mrs. Howard," Heather said gently, trying to stitch the scene back to protocol. She placed one shaking hand over Mrs. Howard's. "Your husband is a good man—he helped a lot of people. He has a plaque—"
Inferno cut the sentiment with a flatness: "Let's cut the bullshit. I sent Roadrunner to kill him." His voice was a new thing altogether: simple, factual, like someone reading a grocery list.
Her body bucked with the force of her reaction. "Why—why would you do that?" she cried, pointing at him, fingers trembling. Her eyes brimmed and overflowed.
He shrugged, chin high. "He was an enemy. His bill would have given dangerous people more power to hurt innocents."
"How long—how long did you keep tabs? How—" Her voice climbed, then jagged into a sob. "How long, Goddamn it?!" She rounded on Heather. "You listen to everyone's phones, their TVs, their watches—everything. You invade privacy, and you killed my husband? Who are you to decide?"
Her hands slapped the table and clapped against her thighs in a wild
rhythm, part accusation, part plea. "What happened to this country?!" The room recoiled as if the shout had thrown something solid.
Inferno closed the distance until the air between them was a blade. "Yell again," he said close enough that she felt the heat of him like an insult. He bent almost to whisper and finished the threat in a way that made the room tilt: "I will rip your vocal cords out."
She inhaled, the breath tearing through her like a fragile rope. Tears spilled down without permission. Her words stumbled into a raw, unfocused fury. How…when did it come to America to conclude that killing is ok, that abortion is legal, that rape is fine, and killing people over opinions is just, and no one gets punished? Where are the systems that are supposed to protect us turning away? And no one ever answers for the terrible things that happen?" The questions
tumbled, unformed and vital, desperate to be the right kind of outrage.
Inferno's grin widened like a slow burn. "Sweetheart," he said, and the word had the sick comfort of a predator. "You barely know half of it."
Till then, rage had been a trembling thing inside her; now it hardened. Her jaw clenched; her fist closed so tight the knuckles paled. Without thinking, she swung. Instinct and fear drove muscle and bone. Her hand slammed into him. He didn't flinch. Instead he caught her arm in an iron clamp and squeezed, slow and precise, the kind of pressure that says you are not yet finished with the lesson.
"Try that again," he muttered, voice low enough to freeze her blood.
"Heather—enough!" someone said; the word was a thin scalpel. Heather stood, nodding, and the room reorganized itself into the artificial calm of decision and exit. Inferno released her arm, stepping back as if the whole thing were a minor inconvenience. She rubbed at the spot he'd gripped, the pain a small, hot bloom.
"Fine," Mrs. Howard stammered, voice collapsing into something small. "I'll tell the public what you did." The words were half-defiance, half-sob.
"No," Heather said quickly, stepping forward with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "You won't." She turned the sentence into a cage. "You're a nurse, correct?"
Mrs. Howard spun, confusion crackling across her face. "What does that—?"
"You will not be returning home," Heather said softly, the sentence threaded with finality. "You will… serve your time here."
In that instant a hundred images burst through her mind like intrusive film: Connor building a fortress from couch cushions, Lydia's sticky handprints on the window, breakfast burnt on a school morning stove. Panic fractured into a single, screaming thought: Who will take care of my kids?
Winthrop moved without sound. He stepped through the doorway, reached her, and tapped the base of her neck with a practised motion. The shock hit like a small, cold ocean. The world narrowed to a pinprick of white, then closed.
Black.
Her last thought was the shape of the two children on her kitchen rug, laughing, and the way her hand had felt in Connor's when she waved goodbye. Then the room took her, and the light went out.
The rain began falling in sheets, drumming against the car roof with relentless rhythm. Inside, Lydia sat stiff in the passenger seat, a coat pulled tight around her trembling shoulders. Her eyes were wet, hair tossed and damp from the storm, and she clutched a photograph in her hands. The image was a frozen memory of three years ago: Connor, Lydia, and Mrs. Howard laughing, smiling, caught in the middle of a charade night. She traced their faces with her thumb, a shiver running down her spine.
A tear slipped onto the photo. Lydia bit her lip, staring out the window as nurses hustled past the hospital entrance in slick raincoats, their movement blurred by the raindrops on the glass. The flashing red and blue lights of emergency vehicles reflected across the car hood, painting her face in intermittent terror and sorrow. Her body shook, wracked with memories she hadn't dared to revisit.
"Lydia…" Ryan's hand tapped hers gently. His face was tight with worry, eyes scanning her for signs of composure.
She turned toward him, jaw trembling. "I… it's just…" She couldn't finish the sentence; the words lodged in her throat.
Ryan parked the car, turned toward her, eyes earnest. "Hey… is everything alright? I mean, you're literally shaking."
She exhaled, a long, quivering breath, and her eyes drifted back to the rain. "It's been three years, Ryan… I remember that damn night." She clutched the photo tighter. "We were so happy. Nothing… nothing was wrong. And then… she was so scared… and she left. She never came back."
The frustration coiled within her, twisting her stomach. "Do you know what I had to do when she left?" she whispered, voice rising. Her fingers fumbled, gripping the seat. "I had to get two jobs, pay the bills, keep track of Connor… and now… now he's gone because of that… stupid…" She kicked at the car's floorboard, sobs breaking through.
Ryan's hands rose, palms open, gentle. "Hey… hey. Look at me, alright? Whatever your mom did… we can find out. If you want answers, we can ask. And we… we can find your brother." His hand covered hers, warm, steady.
She swallowed hard, tears tracking down her cheeks. "I… I know… I know… I'm just so scared… scared of…"
Ryan tilted his head. "Scared of what?"
"The truth," Lydia whispered, shaking her head. Silence hung between them for a heartbeat before she continued. "When she left… we got a letter. From… Inferno."
Ryan's brow furrowed. "Really? A letter from Inferno? Why… would he—"
"It's right here." Lydia leaned forward, hands trembling, and dug into the glove compartment. She retrieved a folder and handed it to him, opening the dashboard like it held secrets of life and death.
Ryan's eyes widened as he scanned the letter and the photograph. His jaw slackened, hands shaking. "Jesus Christ… really? He… he's a monster."
She nodded, voice breaking. "He said… if I told anyone, or stepped one foot in… he would come down himself. Or send others to… rip out my spine."
Ryan's hand lingered on hers. "Did you… tell anyone about this?"
"No…" she admitted, twisting her jacket nervously. "I didn't know if I could… I thought I'd just put you and her in danger."
He squeezed her hand. "Well… what other choice do we have? You were attacked and survived—Winthrop. I—what?!"
Her eyes widened. Ryan stroked the back of her hand, calm but intense. "When you were out… I checked the cameras frame by frame. He attacked you… and not only that… but you found out Alex is being held in the lab."
"Do… do you want to stop now?" he leaned in, voice urgent. "We're so close. We could expose them. Save your brother. Help others. Lydia… I promised I'd help. Let me. I will do whatever it takes."
Her hand found his cheek, fingers brushing against his jaw. She leaned in slowly, pressed her lips to his for five seconds, then pulled back, eyes glimmering with both resolve and fear. "I love you…"
Ryan smiled, strength and determination in his gaze. "Then let's catch these hero bitches."
HOSPITAL LOBBY
Inside, the hospital lobby hummed with anxious tension. Patients sat on black chairs, eyes glued to the TV screens above the front desk. Nurses called names over the intercom. On the screens, Inferno lifted a skyscraper while Roadrunner, Vortex, Strike, and General Pike fought below. The camera zoomed in, capturing Inferno's calm dominance—and next to him, Winthrop stood silently, as usual, observing without a word.
Lydia and Ryan stepped forward together, their hands brushing and intertwining. Each step felt deliberate, almost ritualistic, as though entering the room marked a transition into something both terrifying and necessary.
Lydia went first, hands shaking slightly. "Um… hi," she waved. "I… I just wanted to see… Mrs. Howard."
The nurse smiled faintly, typing quickly at the computer. "It says here… she's not taking any visitors."
Lydia leaned closer, voice quivering. "Please… I… I haven't seen her in three years. She… she left… me… and I… I just want to see her."
The nurse pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled, sighing deeply. "Okay… I'll call you when I get an answer, alright?"
"Thank you," Lydia whispered, stepping back as Ryan guided her to a chair.
Ryan smirked lightly, trying to break the tension. "You know… do you know what my favorite hero was growing up?"
Lydia scoffed, shaking her head. "Probably Inferno. Everyone loves him."
"No," Ryan said, shaking his head with a dramatic wave of his hands. "Actually… it was Winthrop."
"Really?" Lydia leaned forward, curiosity piqued.
"Yeah. I used to collect all his merchandise, all his collectibles. He's so… mysterious. One second, he's a baby kisser, the next he's tanking bullets like Superman. No one understands him. They say he can be in multiple places at once, that some are clones… or he can't really die. People have been trying to figure him out for decades."
"And that's why I like him," Ryan added quietly. "Because behind all of it… I feel like he wouldn't be roped into this… Heroes bullshit."
Lydia nodded, watching the TV as the other heroes waved to cheering crowds. "I… I feel the same way."
She rested her head on his shoulder. Their hands intertwined, warm and steady amid the chaos around them.
"Hey… Ryan," Lydia said softly, voice barely above the hum of the lobby. "Thank you. You didn't have to come, but… You did. Thank you."
"You know I'd never leave you," he murmured. "Not in this state… never."
Lydia tilted her head toward him, smiling softly. She reached up and cupped his chin, pressing her lips to his again. For a moment, the rest of the world—the flashing lights, the hero propaganda, the chaos—simply disappeared.
Room 431 called for Miss Howard.
Lydia and Ryan stood immediately, their eyes locking in shared determination. They walked through the doors together. Lydia whispered, almost reverently: "We're coming for you, Connor."
The house was small, quiet, and heavy with that kind of silence that feels like it's listening.
Connor sat hunched at the little wooden table, a blanket draped over his shoulders. Even wrapped up, he trembled—cold, exhausted, drained. A simple breakfast sat in front of him: scrambled eggs, toast, and two strips of bacon. But he only picked at it, pushing bits around with the edge of his fork.
Veronica sat beside him, eating her food while keeping an eye on him. Her gaze was soft, every glance full of worry.
"Hey…" she said gently, reaching out and rubbing slow circles on his back. "Everything's going to be alright… okay? I know you miss Alex…"
He stiffened, and Veronica stopped immediately, giving him space.
Connor stared at the plate, his fork midway in the air. Then he slowly set it down, swallowed, and glanced sideways at her.
"How… did you… save me?" he whispered, voice hoarse and thin. "After watching Roadrunner and Strike take away my friends… I… ran. I headed for the bridge and I… I jumped…"
He stopped. His breath hitched. His lip trembled hard.
"But… how did you… Save me?"
Veronica opened her mouth, hand half lifting toward him—
—but Alex's mother, Sarah, sat down next to them first, her own plate in hand. Her face was pale. Haunted.
"Connor…" she breathed out. "It wasn't easy."
He tensed, eyes widening.
"He came for you," she said.
Connor's breathing shifted—sharp, uneven, panicked. He glanced side to side like the walls themselves might split open.
"You mean…"
"Yes," she said, nodding. "He attacked us after we pulled you out."
"We barely got out," Veronica added, sliding into the story. "Connor… if you had stayed underwater even ten seconds longer… you'd be dead."
Connor's eyes reddened. Tears welled.
"So he's… still out there…" he whispered. "All of them are… we—we have to save Alex… Mark… and Zack… please…"
His voice broke. He stared at them, desperate.
"There has to be a way. Please… there has to be a way…"
Sarah put her fork down and leaned forward, eyes locked on his, voice low and serious.
"Connor… if you don't mind… we need to know everything you remember from that night. You went to play laser tag. Tell us what happened to Alex."
Connor looked down. His hands twisted in his lap. His breathing came uneven, guilt weighing down his shoulders.
"Alex…" he whispered. "After the game… we went to the treehouse—"
"We know that part," Veronica cut in gently.
Connor flinched slightly at the interruption, but kept going.
"It was really dark out. I… suggested I walk with her, but she…" His voice broke again. A tear slipped down his cheek. "…she said she was fine."
He wiped his face with the blanket sleeve.
"But the next day… she never came back. And the only thing left in the whole place… the police scanned it—was this."
He reached into his pocket with shaking hands and placed a small piece of blue fabric on the table beside his plate.
Sarah's face went rigid.
"Damn it," she whispered. "The police have been at scenes like this hundreds—thousands—of times, and they give us that half-assed answer: 'We didn't find anything.'"
She glared at the scrap of fabric like it personally betrayed her.
"And yet you found something."
Sarah stared at it for a long, silent moment… then suddenly shoved back her chair and stood so fast it scraped violently against the floor.
She grabbed her coat with frantic hands.
"Sarah!" Veronica stood up. "What—what the hell is going on?"
"There's no time to explain," Sarah snapped, breathing sharp and ragged. "We have to go. Now."
Connor and Veronica exchanged alarmed looks—then grabbed their jackets and followed.
CAR RIDE — LATE MORNING
The car was dead silent except for the soft hum of a Christian radio station Sarah hadn't bothered to change. Rain still clung to the windows, streaking sideways as the vehicle sped down the road.
Sarah's grip on the wheel was tight—white-knuckled, trembling. Her jaw clenched every few seconds. She bit her lip so hard it threatened to bleed.
Veronica sat straighter, turning to check on Connor in the backseat. His hands were balled into fists. He looked terrified.
"Sarah…" Veronica said quietly. "What's going on?"
Sarah's eyes stayed locked on the road.
"Look around you," she snapped. "It's been days without Alex. And yet no word. Not a trace. Not a damn sign. They're hiding something from us— the government, the police… the Nine."
Her voice shook. Her foot pressed harder on the gas.
"First, Alex. Then a couple of families. Then more. Then Connor's friends. How long until they hunt us? They already sent him."
Connor flinched at the unspoken name.
"How long," Sarah continued, "do the lies on the news get to last? How long do they get to say they're searching when they're not? They never were."
Veronica swallowed. "Then what… are you planning?"
Sarah's grip tightened so violently the steering wheel creaked.
"There was a man," she said. "He loaned me weapons. Guns. Lasers. Even some… high-tech things I've never seen before."
Veronica's jaw dropped. "Sarah—God—Connor is in this car, you can't—"
"And my kid is in Felicity!" Sarah snapped, voice cracking. "God knows what they're doing to her! And I'm done sitting around pretending everything is fine. I'm done smiling while people vanish."
Her breathing became sharp, almost angry panting.
"It's time to take action."
She slammed her hand on the steering wheel.
"We're going to get her back."