Tim from the lab had finally had enough.
He stood up, dragged a hand down his face, and headed for the shower before he said something he could not take back. At the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Mom," he said, forcing calm into his voice, "don't take this the hard way, but Tim Gold and Orange is terrible. Just because I've got gold eye lenses does not mean I should be called Tim Gold. I'm going with Timothy. He can keep Tim."
There was a beat of silence, then a few nods, a few shrugs, and just like that, Timothy was welcomed home.
Tim was exhausted by everything else going on, so he sank onto the couch and turned on the TV. But no matter what channel he flipped to, the same thing kept coming up: the blue beam of light that had appeared out of nowhere and vanished without a trace.
His phone would not stop buzzing. Conspiracy theories were spreading across it like wildfire.
By the time Timothy came downstairs, he found Tim staring at the screen, half-laughing, half-annoyed.
"Congrats," Timothy said. "You're famous. And after sharing memories long enough, i already know what happened in the creek."
"Glad it's over," Tim muttered.
His voice was flat, like the argument had already drained whatever was left in him. Without looking back, he added, "Don't bother me again," and walked out.
The house fell quiet behind him.
He headed straight for the back—toward his parents' library, the type that looks small on the outside but is really large on the inside. The outdoor structure sat tucked behind the house like a hidden wing: tall shelves visible through glass walls, rows of books stacked in careful order, a place that usually felt untouched.
Not anymore.
A new lock sat on the door.
Tim stopped.
"…So someone's been here," he said under his breath.
He didn't wait.
One hard pull and the frame gave way with a crack.
Inside, the air felt wrong.
On the far side of the library, Grey Owl stirred.
Her mask was still on, slightly tilted. She blinked once, then twice, scanning the room like she was trying to stitch together missing time. The last thing she had was impact...Virus. Darkness. Silence.
Then nothing.
Nearby, Tora lay slumped over a long table, wrapped in bandages. Barely conscious. Breathing, but unstable. Her daughter was gone.
Grey Owl pushed herself upright.
And then she saw him.
Tim.
Still inside the library.
They froze—recognition hitting before words did.
"You tried to kill me back in the creek," Tim said.
His orange lenses caught the light and flared bright orange.
Grey Owl rose slowly from the table, testing her balance.
"I always finish my targets," she said quietly. A pause. "How about we end it?"
"Same."
Tim moved first.
He blurred forward.
The table between them exploded into splinters as he passed through it. Grey Owl rolled with Tora in her arms just in time, wood debris raining down where she had been standing a second earlier.
Blades snapped into Tim's hands mid-motion.
Empty space met his grip where weapons should have been—Grey Owl had nothing on her. No axe. No sickles. Just instinct.
So she used that and what ever was available in the library.
She met him head-on.
The library shattered into chaos... bookshelves rattling, glass trembling, wood cracking under impact after impact. No one outside had any idea what was happening inside that quiet structure.
Not even the house itself reacted.
Only a faint thud carried through the walls.
Meanwhile still outside, a sound shifted—Jane paused mid-step.
Timothy hummed softly as he walked toward the bathroom.
He wore his mother's oversized robe, too big even for her, sleeves hanging past his wrists as he adjusted it absently. The house felt calm again. Normal.
Almost.
He stopped at the bathroom door.
Water was running.
He was puzzled.
I'm the only one home, I'm really certain.
He attempted to sneak up on who ever it was.
The handle turned slowly.
The door creaked.
He paused again.
The water cut off.
Silence hit instantly.
Then—light bulbs popped one after another.
The room went dark.
Even the windows, already fogged and angled for privacy, swallowed what little light remained.
Timothy stepped in.
His gold eyes cut through the darkness.
"Please," he said quietly, raising his hands slightly, "I don't want to hurt you."
A blade answered him.
He leaned back just in time.
Another strike came.
Then another.
Faster.
Closer.
Metal slicing air in the dark, guided only by sound and instinct.
Timothy didn't retreat.
He listened.
Each swing… each shift in weight… each breath between attacks.
He moved with it.
Then, in one motion, he caught both wrists.
The momentum carried them down.
They hit the floor together—him and the attacker—breath colliding in the tight space between them.
Water dripped onto his face from above, cold and steady.
"…You're good," he said.
Still pinned, he reached sideways and flicked the person's blade into a wall switch.
A soft emergency light flickered on.
The darkness peeled back.
Falcon Empress lay beneath him, still breathing, eyes sharp even in surprise. Her waist pulled the large towel in like it had an opinion, and the towel gave it room to answer back. When she stirred, her lips were that deep red you only see on roses right after rain. Her brows sat heavy and sure above her eyes, with lashes that threw their own little shadows. Her hair fell past her shoulders in a thick, dark curtain. You could tell, just by the way the room quieted, that this was the kind of woman poets used to ruin kingdoms for.
"…" Timothy blinked slightly.
"…That's where my new towel went."
She stared up at him, voice low.
"You saw through my attacks… in the dark?"
"It's complicated…"
Timothy's eyes flicked briefly toward the towel.
A beat of silence.
The realization landed a second too late.
Her expression changed instantly—heat rising to her face. She let go of his grip like it burned, stepped back, and the slap came sharp and clean across his cheek.
"Hey—!" Timothy recoiled, hand snapping up. "Ouch. I'm not a perv, that hurt!"
She didn't answer at first. Just adjusted her stance, breathing uneven.
"Why did you save us?" she finally asked.
Timothy rubbed his jaw once, then looked past her instead of at her.
"Something bigger than this."
He turned away.
"Finish up. Then we talk."
Inside the library, the world was barely recognizable.
Paper drifted through the air like ash, slow and weightless above the wreckage. Shelves lay collapsed in broken rows, books torn open across the floor like they had been searched in panic or rage.
Tim stood on one side of the ruin.
Grey Owl stood on the other.
Both were still standing...barely.
Blood traced down Grey Owl's arm. Her mask was no longer intact, cracked along one side. Beneath it, a beauty, damp grey hair clung to her face, revealing a sharp scar cutting across her forehead. Older than she looked at first glance—much older—but still steady enough to keep fighting.
Tim's weapons were gone. What remained of his blades had already broken off, scattered somewhere in the wreckage.
Neither of them moved at first.
Then they did—at the same time.
They launched toward each other.
The impact never came.
A blast tore through the room.
Both bodies were thrown backward through splintered wood and shattered shelves, crashing into the remains of the library.
Silence followed.
A voice cut through it.
"STOP."
Jane stood at the edge of the rubble, a sound gun still raised.
Tim tried to push himself up, arms shaking.
"Mom…" his voice cracked. "She tried to kill me."
Grey Owl didn't answer immediately. Her breathing was uneven now—controlled only out of habit. Her hand pressed against a fresh wound, trying to slow what was already spreading.
Jane stepped forward instead.
Neither of them moved.
"You're not the only one who knows what's going on," she said.
Her gaze shifted to Grey Owl.
"I know about the Legion."
That made Grey Owl pause.
Jane didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
Her voice lowered slightly.
"They saved me once."
A word slipped out—quiet, deliberate.
"Sùrâ àruknah."
The room changed after that.
Grey Owl's posture broke—not into weakness, but recognition. The fight drained out of her like a switch had been turned off.
She lowered herself carefully, no longer resisting.
Jane exhaled once.
"You're not dying here," she said. "I'll keep you alive until whatever is hunting you is gone."
A pause.
"And you'll be compensated enough to negate the bounty on my son. Properly."
Grey Owl tried to respond, but her body gave out first.
Her knees hit the ground.
Blood loss won the argument she couldn't.
The bleeding came in pulses.
Arterial.
Jane didn't flinch. Two fingers pressed above the wound, searching...then locking into place. The rhythm faltered under her touch.
"Good."
She tore the fabric open. Deep cut. Clean. Intentional.
Not luck.
Her eyes traced invisible lines beneath the skin, mapping vessels, avoiding what couldn't be damaged twice.
"Miss this… you lose the arm."
She adjusted slightly. The flow weakened.
Better.
No rush. No panic. Just precision.
She worked fast now—clearing, assessing, closing what she could, leaving what she shouldn't trap. Every movement exact, like she'd seen this body before without ever meeting it.
Minutes later, the bleeding was no longer a threat—just a warning.
She leaned back, breathing steady.
A glance and look of relief at the unconscious Grey owl.
Dinner didn't start all at once.
It formed.
Chairs pulled back slowly. Plates set down with care that felt forced. Everyone chose where to sit like it mattered more than the food.
Tim took his usual seat.
Then paused.
Timothy was already there—on the opposite side of the table.
Of course.
Tim sat anyway, but not before dragging the chair just a little louder than necessary.
Grey Owl chose a position with her back to the wall, eyes on every exit without making it obvious. Falcon Empress sat beside her, quiet, composed—watching more than eating.
Jane moved last, settling at the head like nothing about this was unusual.
For a while, only cutlery spoke.
Then—
"You brought them here."
Tim didn't look up when he said it.
No one answered.
His fork pressed harder into the plate. "All of this… this mess…" A short breath. "It started when he showed up."
Timothy's hand stilled.
A pause.
Then he reached for his glass instead, like it didn't matter.
"That so?" he said quietly.
Tim let out a dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You think this is normal?"
"Do you?" Timothy replied.
That made Tim look up.
Really look this time.
"Everything was fine before you."
Timothy held his gaze. Didn't blink.
"Yeah," he said. "You looked fine."
The table shifted—not physically, but in feeling. Falcon Empress's fingers tightened slightly around her fork. Grey Owl didn't move at all, but her attention sharpened.
Tim's chair scraped back a fraction.
"Enough."
Jane didn't raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
It cut clean through the room.
Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away first. Timothy leaned back, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders.
Jane set her glass down.
"We have guests," she said, her tone steady, almost too calm. "You will treat them like it."
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
Just… compliance.
Jane's gaze shifted, settling briefly on Grey Owl.
"I've spoken with her."
Grey Owl inclined her head just slightly- acknowledgment, nothing more.
"Falcon Empress as well as...T."
A faint movement beside her. Nothing spoken.
Jane's eyes moved last—to Timothy.
"And him."
Tim's fingers tightened around his fork.
"They'll be attending your school Tim."
That landed.
Tim didn't speak.
He just stared at Jane...slowly leaning back, disbelief written all over his face. Not loud, not explosive. Just… stunned.
Jane didn't look away.
"They'll also remain here," she continued. "Until this situation is resolved."
Grey Owl's voice came in, low and controlled.
"Your conditions ensure survival."
Jane met her eyes. "That's the point."
A pause.
Grey Owl added, "The name you want… you won't get it."
Jane didn't react. Not outwardly.
"We're done with that for now," she said.
It was not an agreement.
But it was enough.
Down the hall, the clinic light stayed on.
Tora lay motionless beneath layers of bandages, chest rising slower than it should—but steady.
Too steady.
A faint shift ran through his fingers.
Jane stood at the doorway, arms folded.
"He'll recover," she said. "What ever rituals the legion did helped with the life threatening injuries, given a week or two he'll be back in shape".
Grey owl revealing herself behind Jane, nodded in trust.
The helicopter didn't arrive quietly.
Its blades tore through the canopy, flattening exotic trees in violent waves as it forced its way down onto a strip of land that didn't exist on any map.
Dust and leaves swallowed the clearing.
By the time the doors opened, the island had already gone still again.
Large Crates were unloaded first—heavy, sealed, marked with symbols that weren't meant to be read. They disappeared into the back of a waiting military transport.
Then Sylvester was dragged out.
Chains at his wrists. No resistance left to give.
He stumbled the moment his feet hit the ground, legs failing to match the pace forced on him. Not from starvation, his body still carried weight—but from something deeper. The kind of exhaustion that settled behind the eyes and never left.
No one slowed down for him.
He was shoved into a separate vehicle.
The doors slammed shut.
The first gate rose out of the jungle like a wall carved for giants.
Steel, seamless, swallowing the road ahead.
The vehicle didn't stop long enough for him to take it in properly. Just long enough for the sound—metal grinding open—before they passed through.
Silence again.
Then more road.
Hours stretched.
The second gate came long after the sun had shifted twice. Smaller than the first, but not by much. Same steel. Same silence.
Then another.
And another.
Each one lower.
Each one deeper.
Time stopped making sense somewhere between the third and whatever came after. Sleep came in fragments. Waking up felt the same every time—engine noise, blurred trees, no sky worth remembering.
Days passed.
Or maybe it was one long day that refused to end.
When Sylvester woke again, the engine was gone.
So were the restraints.
He was lying on something hard.
Yellow.
The walls.
The floor.
All of it.
His head throbbed as he pushed himself up slowly.
That's when he saw them.
Handprints.
White. Small. Layered over each other like children had been playing… or trying to reach something that wasn't there.
Too many to count.
Some smeared.
Some dragged.
The smell hit next.
Sharp.
Chemicals strong enough to sting the back of his throat—detergent, antiseptic… and beneath it, something metallic that hadn't been fully erased.
Blood.
Sylvester swallowed hard.
The door opened.
No warning.
Just the sound of a lock disengaging.
Barron stepped in.
Tall. Still. His presence filled the room before he even spoke.
Sylvester's eyes met his for a second—
and dropped immediately.
Not by choice.
Instinct.
"Welcome home, Doctor."
Barron's voice was calm. Controlled.
It didn't match the room.
"If you want me to consider your request," he continued, taking a step closer, "you'll need to impress me."
A pause.
His gaze didn't leave Sylvester.
"ALPS had potential," he said. "You proved that much."
Another step.
Closer now.
"This…" his voice lowered slightly, "could be far more."