The door to Kojo's apartment hissed open, and he stepped inside with the kind of exhaustion that came from a day spent navigating bureaucracy, politics, and people who thought talking louder made their arguments more valid.
He dropped his bag by the door and loosened the collar of his shirt—not quite formal enough to be government attire, but not casual enough to be comfortable. A compromise, like everything else in his life these days.
"Long day?" Rhea's voice came from the kitchen.
Kojo let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "That's putting it lightly."
She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a cloth, and smiled at him in that way that made everything feel just a little more manageable. Rhea had always had that effect on him—even back when they were broken up, even when everything was falling apart, she'd been the one constant that made sense.
Now she was his wife.
The thought still made him grin like an idiot sometimes.
"Come sit," she said, gesturing to the small table they'd set up near the window. "Food's almost ready."
Kojo collapsed into a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. "I swear, if one more district representative tries to tell me how I should be doing my job, I'm going to lose it. Half of them have never set foot in the Morrows. They don't know what it's like down here."
"But you do," Rhea said, setting a plate in front of him. "That's why they elected you."
"Yeah, well, sometimes I wish they hadn't."
"Liar."
He looked up at her, and despite the exhaustion, he smiled. "Yeah. You're right."
Being the elected representative for the Morrows district was hard. Harder than running a gang, if he was being honest. At least with the gang, the rules were simple: protect your people, handle your business, don't let anyone disrespect you. Politics was messier. It was compromise and negotiation and smiling at people you wanted to punch.
But it mattered.
The Morrows had been ignored for too long—pushed to the margins, treated like they didn't exist. Now they had a voice. And that voice was his.
"You're doing good work," Rhea said, sitting across from him. "People are noticing. Things are changing."
"Slowly."
"Change always is."
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence that only came from knowing someone well enough that you didn't need to fill every moment with words.
Then Kojo set down his fork and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"You thinking about him?" Rhea asked quietly.
Kojo didn't need to ask who she meant. "Yeah."
"He's okay, you know."
"I know." Kojo's jaw tightened. "I made sure of that."
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"
"I had a conversation with Cadmus. The guide who took him to Aeon." Kojo's voice dropped, taking on an edge that hadn't been there a moment ago. "I told him that if anything—*anything*—happened to my brother, I would end him. Slowly."
"Kojo—"
"I meant it." He looked at her, his expression hard. "Ilias is strong. I know that. But he's also my little brother. And I don't care how far away he is or how powerful the Academy is—if someone hurts him, I'm coming for them."
Rhea reached across the table and took his hand. "No one's going to hurt him. You know Ilias. He's probably already made half the Academy scared of him."
Kojo's expression softened slightly. "Yeah. Probably."
"And besides," Rhea added, "Revab set up the communicator for him. He can contact us anytime he wants. We're not as far away as it feels."
Kojo nodded, squeezing her hand. "I know. I just... I wish I could've gone with him. Made sure he was okay."
"He wouldn't have wanted that. He needs to do this on his own."
"I know."
They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped across the table.
Then Rhea's expression shifted—nervous, excited, uncertain all at once.
"Kojo," she said quietly.
He looked up. "Yeah?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small circular device, no bigger than her palm. It glowed faintly, a soft blue light pulsing in a steady rhythm.
Kojo stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at the device.
"Is that—"
"A pregnancy test," Rhea finished, her voice barely above a whisper. "Positive."
The world seemed to stop.
Kojo's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and walked around the table.
Rhea stood too, holding the device in trembling hands.
"You're..." Kojo's voice cracked. "We're..."
"We're having a baby," Rhea said, tears streaming down her face.
Kojo pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she gasped. His shoulders shook, and Rhea realized he was crying—big, ugly, joyful tears that he didn't even try to hide.
"I'm going to be a dad," he said into her shoulder, his voice muffled and broken. "We're going to be parents."
"Yeah," Rhea whispered, her own tears falling freely. "We are."
They stood there, wrapped around each other, two people who'd fought through hell and somehow found something good on the other side.
"Have you told anyone else?" Kojo asked, pulling back just enough to look at her.
Rhea shook her head. "No. I wanted you to be the first."
Kojo kissed her—soft and gentle and full of everything he couldn't put into words.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Rhea laughed through her tears. "For what?"
"For this. For us. For everything."
She kissed him back. "We're in this together. Always."
Outside the window, the lights of the Morrows glowed against the evening sky. Somewhere out there, their family was going about their lives—Revab working on his networks, Myra at the hospital, Seraph dealing with her own struggles.
And far away, beyond the stars, Ilias was making his own path.
But here, in this small apartment, two people held each other and celebrated the promise of new life.
---
Revab's fingers flew across the holographic interface, lines of code and network diagnostics scrolling past faster than most people could read. He sat in his living room—if you could call it that—surrounded by screens, devices, and half-finished projects that cluttered every available surface.
Working from home suited him. No commute, no office politics, just him and his machines.
He was deep in the process of optimizing the city's communication grid when the door chimed.
"Come in," he called without looking up.
The door opened, and Myra stepped inside, looking more tired than he'd seen her in weeks.
"Hey," she said quietly.
Revab glanced over, his hands pausing mid-gesture. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah. Just... long day."
She collapsed onto his couch, which was really more of a cushioned bench buried under blankets and tech manuals. Revab saved his work and turned to face her.
"Hospital?" he asked.
"Hospital," she confirmed. "Three surgeries, two of which went longer than expected, and a kid who decided to test whether he could fly by jumping off a roof."
"Could he?"
"No."
"Shame."
Despite everything, Myra smiled. "You're terrible."
"I try."
Revab stood and walked to the small kitchen area, pulling out two bottles of something vaguely resembling juice. He handed one to Myra and sat down beside her, pushing aside a datapad to make room.
"So," he said. "What's really bothering you?"
Myra took a long drink, then set the bottle down. "It's stupid."
"Doubt it."
She was quiet for a moment, staring at her hands. "Do you remember when Ilias got stabbed? During the fight with the Valencrests?"
Revab's expression grew serious. "Yeah. I remember."
"I couldn't do anything," Myra said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to save people. But I couldn't even help my own brother. I just... stood there."
"You were in shock. We all were."
"I know. But that feeling—that helplessness—it's coming back."
Revab frowned. "He's not in danger, Myra. He's at the best Academy in the galaxy."
"I know that too." She looked up at him, and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. "But he's gone. And I don't know what's happening to him. I don't know if he's okay, if he's hurt, if he needs help. And I'm just... here. Waiting."
Revab was quiet for a moment, thinking.
Then he said, "When the government was chasing us—back before everything went down—I didn't really know Ilias. Not like you do. To me, he was just Kojo's little brother. This kid who was in over his head."
Myra nodded slowly.
"But then I saw him fight," Revab continued. "I saw him stand up to people who wanted to kill us. I saw him take a hit meant for someone else. And I realized he wasn't just some kid. He was strong. Stronger than most people I've ever met."
"He is," Myra agreed.
"So yeah, he's gone. And yeah, we don't know exactly what's happening. But he didn't leave because he wanted to abandon us. He left because staying would've put us in danger. He left to learn how to control his power so he could protect the people he loves." Revab met her eyes. "That's who your brother is. And that's why I know he's going to be fine."
Myra sat with that for a long moment.
Then she smiled—small, but genuine. "When did you get so good at pep talks?"
"I've been practicing."
She laughed, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased. "Thanks, Revab."
"Anytime."
They sat together in comfortable silence, two people who'd been through hell and were still figuring out how to build something good on the other side.
Outside, the network continued to grow—slowly connecting the scattered pieces of their world, one link at a time.
---
Seraph sat at the small table in her father's home, staring at the communicator in front of her like it was a bomb waiting to go off.
"They called again," her father said from the kitchen. "Third time this week."
"I know."
"You can't avoid them forever."
"Watch me."
Her father sighed and sat down across from her, setting two mugs of tea on the table. He looked older than she remembered—lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a few years ago, gray creeping into his hair. The rebellion had taken a lot out of him. So had everything that came after.
But he was here. And he was trying. That counted for something.
"Seraph," he said gently. "I know how you feel about the money. But—"
"I don't want it," she interrupted. "I don't want anything from them."
"It's not from them anymore. It's from the bank. Legally, it's yours."
"I don't care."
Her father reached across the table and took her hand. "I understand. I do. The Valencrests were... evil. What they did to your mother—what they made you do—it's unforgivable."
Seraph's jaw tightened. The memory was still too fresh: her mother, resurrected and twisted into something monstrous, controlled by the very people who'd killed her. And Seraph, forced to fight her. Forced to kill her again just to set her free.
"They're gone now," her father continued. "The family's dissolved. Their assets are being distributed. And a significant portion of that is coming to you, whether you want it or not."
"Then I'll refuse it. Give it away. Burn it. I don't care."
"Or," her father said, his voice firm but kind, "you could use it to do something good."
Seraph looked up at him.
"It's not about where the money came from," he said. "It's about what you do with it. The Valencrests used their wealth to hurt people. To experiment on them. To turn your mother into a weapon." He squeezed her hand. "You could use it to help people. To make sure what happened to you never happens to anyone else."
Seraph wanted to argue. Wanted to shout that he didn't understand, that the money was tainted, that she couldn't stand the thought of benefiting from the same fortune that had destroyed her family.
But she was too tired to fight.
"I'll think about it," she said quietly.
Her father nodded. "That's all I'm asking."
They drank their tea in silence for a few minutes.
Then Seraph said, "I miss him."
Her father didn't need to ask who she meant. "I know."
"I just..." She set down her mug, her hands trembling slightly. "I just got him back. We were finally happy. We were finally safe. And then he left."
"He had to."
"I know that. I do. But it doesn't make it easier."
Her father leaned back, studying her with the kind of look only a parent could manage—equal parts concern and understanding. "You know, when I was your age, I went off to fight the old government. Left everything behind. My family thought I was crazy."
"Were you?"
"Probably." He smiled. "But I believed in something. And I couldn't stay home and pretend everything was fine when I knew I could make a difference."
"So you're saying Ilias is like you."
"I'm saying he's doing what he thinks is right. And that's hard for the people who love him." Her father reached across the table again. "But it doesn't mean he loves you any less. It doesn't mean you're not important to him. It just means he's trying to become the person he needs to be."
Seraph felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "What if he meets someone else? What if he's out there making new friends, having fun, and he forgets about me?"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Her father's voice was absolute. "Because I've seen the way he looks at you. And that's not something you forget. Not something you move on from." He smiled. "He's probably miserable right now, wishing he could talk to you."
Despite everything, Seraph laughed—a small, broken sound. "You think so?"
"I know so."
She wiped her eyes. "I hate this."
"I know."
"But I'll wait."
"I know that too."
They sat together as the evening light faded outside, two people holding on to hope in a world that had tried its hardest to take it away from them.
Neither of them noticed the figure standing in the shadows across the street, watching through the window with an intensity that suggested more than casual interest.
The figure's communicator buzzed softly.
"Target confirmed," they whispered into the device. "Awaiting further instructions."
A pause.
Then: "Understood. Continuing surveillance."
The figure melted back into the shadows, and the street fell quiet once more.
---
Ilias stepped out of Professor Ehis's training facility, his mind still buzzing with information.
Four hours of reading *Advanced Rhythm Theory and Resonance Patterns* had left him with more questions than answers, but at least he was starting to understand the basics. Rhythm wasn't just about tempo—it was about layering, about how different patterns could interlock or clash, about finding the spaces between beats where real power lived.
It was also giving him a headache.
And Ayo had shit on his head. Twice.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked, the Academy's evening lights casting long shadows across the pathway. Students moved around him in small groups, laughing, talking, heading to the cafeteria or back to their dorms.
Normal student life.
Something Ilias was decidedly not having.
He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't notice the figure standing directly in his path until he nearly walked into her.
Ilias stopped.
Vyra Thane stood there, all six-foot-seven of her, arms crossed—two over her chest, two at her sides. Her long hair was tied back in a tight braid, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face.
She looked ready for a fight.
Or at least a very serious conversation.
"Ilias Venn," she said, her voice low and controlled.
Ilias met her gaze. "Vyra Thane."
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one backing down.
Then Vyra spoke, her words cutting through the evening air like a blade:
"We need to talk."