The car ride home was silent.
Taylor sat in the passenger seat of her dad's truck, staring through the window at Brockton Bay sliding past in a blur of gray sidewalks and sagging power lines. Her reflection stared back at her — split lip, bruised jaw already darkening into something ugly, scratch marks trailing down her neck like a cat had gotten hold of her. Which, in a way, one had.
Her dad kept glancing over. She could feel his eyes on her every few seconds, the way his hands tightened and loosened on the steering wheel like he was working up to something and failing.
He'd shown up at the school office barely twenty minutes after Blackwell's call. The look on his face when he'd seen her — the bruises, the blood, the way she was holding her ribs — made him cycle through shock, fury, and something that looked horribly like guilt in the space of a single breath. He hadn't said much after they left the school.
Now they were almost home, and he still hadn't found the words.
Danny pulled the truck into the driveway and killed the engine. The house looked the same as it always did — peeling paint, overgrown garden, the faint tilt of the front steps that neither of them had ever gotten around to fixing. Taylor reached for the door handle, but Danny's voice stopped her.
"Taylor. Wait."
She settled back into the seat, not looking at him.
"I owe you an apology," he said. The words came out rough, like they'd been scraping against his throat the whole drive. "For the office. When I heard you'd hit Emma — I..." He exhaled through his nose. "I took her side."
Taylor said nothing.
"I should have listened to you first. I should have asked what happened before I started lecturing you." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "I'll be better about that. From now on."
She nodded. "It's fine, Dad."
It wasn't fine.
The apology was genuine — she could hear it in his voice. He meant every word. He was sorry for taking Emma's side at the office.
Yet, unfairly, it didn't feel like enough, because he didn't know.
Her dad was apologizing for one moment because he thought this was an isolated incident — two friends who got into a fight, an escalation that came out of nowhere. He didn't know it was one incident in a very long, very deliberate bullying campaign.
And the worst part — the part that sat in Taylor's chest like a stone — was that she could have told him. Anytime. She could have walked downstairs any night this past year, sat across from him at the kitchen table, and said Dad, Emma is destroying me.
Mrs. Barnes's reaction today had proven that some adults would listen, if given the chance. But Taylor hadn't given him that chance. She'd bet everything on patience, on the hope that Emma would change back, and she'd lost. The cost wasn't just the bullying — it was the walls she'd built to survive it. She'd gotten so used to handling things alone, to being failed by the adults in her life, that she didn't know how to let him in anymore. Even when she wanted to.
"I'm going to go lie down," she said, opening the truck door. "I'm tired."
Danny was out of his seat and around the hood in three strides. "I'll stay. Take care of you — I can call the Dockworkers, tell them—"
"Dad. I'm fine." She managed a smile that felt fragile on her face. "You should go back to work. They need you."
He stopped. She saw his jaw work, saw the way his shoulders curled inward — the familiar posture of a man who wanted to reach out but didn't know how. He looked like he wanted to argue, to insist, but the guilt from the office was still too raw. He was terrified of getting it wrong again.
So he did what he always did when he was hurt or lost. He retreated.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll be home by six. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will."
She walked up the front steps without looking back, and the door closed between them.
The house was quiet and empty, as usual. Taylor made her way upstairs, each step sending a dull throb through her ribs, and closed her bedroom door behind her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands. Her knuckles were raw. Emma's blood — or maybe her own — had crusted under her fingernails. She should wash up. She should do something.
Instead, she pulled out her phone and typed a message to the Lookout group chat.
Taylor: Home. Thanks for having my back today.
The replies came in fragments over the next few minutes. Heart emojis from Samantha. "Anytime" from Nate, followed by a photo of his swollen eye with the caption "battle scars." Brandon sent a thumbs up and a joke about all of them being white knights now. Henry wished her well.
And then, a separate message from Samantha: Isaac got pulled early too. His dad came for him.
His dad. Mr. Dax. She'd only seen the man from afar and never really met him — Isaac had mentioned him a few times in passing but never said much on him. She wondered why he'd been pulled out. Did Isaac get in trouble? Given what she knew about the principal and the Dax family's "donation," probably not.
She set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her ribs screamed in protest, so she shifted onto her side, curling slightly. Just a nap. She'd feel better after a nap.
She didn't want to fall asleep, but the exhaustion of the day — the fight, the adrenaline crash, the guilt— dragged her under like a riptide.
-------------------
When Taylor woke, the light in her room had gone gold. Late afternoon, she registered, pushing herself upright with a wince. She'd been out for maybe two hours.
She made her way to the bathroom mirror and stopped.
The face looking back at her was still a mess — the bruise on her jaw was an ugly thing, mottled purple and green at the edges, and her lip was still swollen where Sophia's knee had connected. The scratch marks on her neck were still visible.
But.
She tilted her head, examining herself. The swelling was less than it should have been. The kind of recovery that shouldn't happen after a two-hour nap. Her lip still throbbed, but the split had already started closing. Likewise, the bruising on her jaw, while still ugly, had receded from what she remembered in the car.
Taylor stared at her reflection for a long moment. Then it clicked.
The healing.
During training, Tenno had healed her more times than she could remember. It wasn't far-fetched to think that exposure to his power had jumpstarted her own recovery. Or maybe it was just residual energy running its course.
She prodded her ribs experimentally. Still tender, but the sharp, grinding pain from earlier had faded to a dull ache. Definitely better than it should be.
She made a mental note to ask Tenno about it later.
She went back to her room after cleaning up and taking some painkillers. She sat on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through nothing in particular. She didn't feel like training — plus if she showed up, Tenno would heal her, and walking into school tomorrow looking fresh after a beating like that would raise too many questions. She didn't feel like reading or watching anything, either.
Then there was the odd yet all too familiar feeling swirling in her chest.
Loneliness.
It was a strange emotion to start noticing after so long. She'd spent the better part of two years alone — eating lunch in bathroom stalls, walking the hallways like a ghost, avoiding anyone who tried to get close. She'd gotten used to it. She'd even told herself she preferred it.
But the fight today had changed something. It quieted the thoughts that told her Lookout was just waiting to stab her in the back. They had fought for her — not because they had to, but because they chose to.
And yet, she wasn't thinking about sending a text to the group chat.
Her mind drifted back to the hallway. Not to the fight. The aftermath. Isaac, and what he'd said.
"I'm… familiar with loss."
The words had stuck with her. So did his reaction to Emma's cruelty. It had been echoing in the back of her head all afternoon. About him.
Taylor pulled up his contact. She wanted to talk to him. More than that — she wanted to talk to someone who might actually get it. And he had promised to check up on her, hadn't he?
Taylor: Hey Isaac, do you mind if we meet up today?
His reply came faster than she expected.
Isaac: Sure. Boardwalk?
She frowned slightly.
The Boardwalk?
It felt… oddly public for the kind of private conversation she wanted to have, but Isaac was still new to Brockton Bay. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to explore the city or just didn't know the city well enough to know quieter spots.
Either way, she'd be talking with him.
Taylor: Yeah. That's good.
Isaac: Alright, I'll meet you there in an hour. [Address]
She stared at the address for a moment, then switched over to a different conversation.
Taylor: Hey Tenno, can I skip training today?
Tenno: Sure.
Tenno: Tomorrow's session will account for today's absence though.
She nearly sighed. Account for it. Right. That was Tenno-speak for "I'm going to make you wish you'd shown up today." She'd deal with it when it came.
Taylor looked down at herself. Bruised face, scratched neck, swollen jaw. She'd been about to pick out something nicer — something appropriate for a hangout — but her reflection in the phone screen killed that idea before it formed. She ended up in jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled up to cover the worst of the damage.
-----------------------
She arrived at the Boardwalk twenty minutes early.
The crowd was thicker than usual, which made sense — according to PHO, her boss had made a very public spectacle of himself not that long ago. She could see people clustering around their phones, showing each other clips.
Taylor found the bench Isaac had specified and sat down, pulling out her phone. Might as well wait productively.
She opened PHO.
The front page was, predictably, dominated by the same topic as everyone else's conversations. The new Khora thread had exploded — already on its fourth lock-and-continue cycle, with thousands of posts debating powers, the ships, and the ever-popular question of what exactly Ten-Zero was.
She scrolled until she found VoidCowboy's latest contribution.
VoidCowboy: I know they're martians! Think about it! We've never seen them show even a hint of skin! Probably because the Earth's atmosphere isn't suited for them.
TacticalComanda: So you're saying Khora's a human shaped, hot, alien dominatrix, that speaks perfect English despite coming from a civilization light years away? Do you hear how you sound dude?
Aliens. Taylor smirked in amusement. She had made that same assumption. It was wrong though. Refugees from other dimensions was more accurate. But that information would shock everyone less than finding out Khora was actually a Lost Boy.
She was halfway through another rebuttal from a user named Bagrat when a shadow fell across her screen.
"You're early."
Taylor looked up. Isaac stood in front of the bench, hands in his jacket pockets, a half-smile on his face. He looked unfairly put-together and carefree for someone who'd also been pulled out of school today — dark jacket, plain shirt and black jeans.
"Look who's talking," she said, pocketing her phone.
He dropped onto the bench beside her, leaving a comfortable amount of space. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine."
"Uh-huh." He tilted his head, giving her a look that said he didn't believe her but wasn't going to push. "How's your first real fight treating you? The after-effects, I mean."
"It was..." She searched for the right word. "Messy."
"That's one word for it." He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench. "How's the ribs?"
"Sore."
"The jaw?"
"Also sore."
"The—"
"If you're about to list body parts, they're all sore."
He laughed.
"Okay, I get it. But just in case. Hold still for me really quick." He reached for her face, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers to examine the bruising along her jaw. His brow furrowed. "The swelling's better than I expected, but this is still— let me see your neck."
His hand moved toward her hoodie, and Taylor jerked back, her face going warm.
"I'm fine," she said, too quickly. "Really, you don't have to—"
"You got clawed up by Barnes and took a knee to the face from someone with something resembling combat training. Let me check the—"
She swatted his hand away softly, her cheeks burning. "Isaac. I'm fine. Stop. The nurse already checked me and I have a… Doctor I can see for a second opinion."
He blinked, registering the flush on her face.
"Sorry," he said, pulling back with a sheepish grin. "I'll stop fussing. Scout's honor, as they say."
Taylor exhaled, the embarrassment fading. "Were you ever a scout?"
"Something of the sort. So trust that I more than qualify." He stood up, the grin settling into something more casual. "Come on. I'm new to the city and I've got a native guide with me on the Boardwalk. You might as well show me around."
"Me?" Taylor raised an eyebrow as she stood. She had expected this, but was still caught off guard. "I don't exactly frequent the Boardwalk."
"Doesn't matter. You've been here more than me. That makes you the expert by default." He started walking, and after a beat, she followed.
----------------------------
She tried to be a good guide. She really did. But Taylor's Boardwalk knowledge extended to "that one ice cream place" and "the bookshop near the corner," neither of which felt like proper tour material for someone who apparently had an unlimited capacity for finding interesting things.
They had barely made it two blocks before Isaac slowed down, nudging her elbow.
"See that guy?" he asked, nodding toward a street performer running a classic shell game. A small crowd had gathered, watching the man shuffle a pea under three thimbles with practiced sleight of hand. "Watch the guy in the red jacket. He's part of it."
Taylor watched. Sure enough, the man in the red jacket won big, cheering loudly and waving his cash around, goading others to bet. When a tourist stepped up and placed money down, he lost instantly.
"Hustler's working with a shill," Isaac said, sounding amused rather than judgmental. "Classic."
"You didn't strike me as the gambling type," Taylor noted.
"Well I guess that means you know a little more about me." He gave the scene one last look before they moved on.
They wandered further, weaving between the thicker crowds, and eventually ended up at the railing along the waterfront. The Rig sat on the horizon, gleaming in the late afternoon sun — the Protectorate ENE headquarters, hovering out over the water like an impenetrable fortress.
Taylor stared at it, and for a moment, she wasn't just a girl on a boardwalk looking at a building. She was imagining herself out there. The big leagues. To be a hero who mattered, who protected whole cities and fought the threats that nobody else could handle.
"Wow," Isaac said beside her.
She blinked, the daydream fading. He wasn't looking at the Rig, though — he was watching a seagull steal someone's french fries from a nearby bench with evident fascination. "That bird just committed a full-on robbery and nobody did anything."
"It's Brockton Bay," Taylor said dryly. "Even the wildlife will rob you."
He laughed.
"You're funnier than I thought Taylor," he said as he pushed off the railing, turning to walk. "Come on. Let's keep moving. I don't know about you, but staring at a forcefield isn't why I came to the Boardwalk."
Taylor had seen the view a thousand times, but she still found the sight impressive. Still, she saw his point and followed after him.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, watching the crowd thin as they moved away from the main thoroughfare.
Taylor glanced at the crowd, then back at Isaac, who seemed content to just enjoy the walk. She was fine with the quiet—honestly, just being near someone without the pressure to talk was nice—but that wasn't why she'd asked to meet. She wanted to know more about him. About who Isaac was when he wasn't in school.
"So," she started, trying to sound casual. "Did you see the news? About Ten-Zero?"
Isaac nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I saw some of it. Khora was the highlight, right?"
"Yeah." Taylor continued. "PHO is going crazy. They're trying to figure out where she came from. Some people think she's a new member, others think she's been around for a while and just wasn't public."
Isaac hummed. "What do you think?"
Taylor shrugged, pretending not to know too much. "I don't know. She seemed... confident. Like she's been doing this for a long time."
"She did make an entrance," Isaac agreed, his smile growing wider. "Princess carrying Miss Militia was unexpected."
Taylor snorted. "I saw that. PHO is already making memes and shipping the two together."
Isaac chuckled. "I'll have to look those up."
"I recommend avoiding fanfiction," she warned darkly. "I promise you, curiosity is not worth the sanity you'll lose."
"Oooh," he shivered dramatically. "Spooky. But noted."
They passed a storefront with a bright neon sign. Half the display was dedicated to tourist trinkets—keychains, mugs, t-shirts—while the other half was filled with costume pieces and superhero memorabilia.
Isaac stopped. His entire demeanor shifted.
A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.
Taylor knew that grin. She'd seen it in the cafeteria, in the hallways, in the moments right before Isaac would convince someone to step out of their comfort zone and make a new friend or join Lookout.
"No," she said preemptively.
"I haven't said anything."
"You're thinking it."
"And the PRT says mind readers don't exist. I always knew better, though." His grin widened into a full smirk as he slowly backed up toward the store. "So, Ms. Mind Reader, what's my next move?"
"Isaac—"
She tried to say no. She meant to say no. But the smile made it impossible to refuse. She'd known it for a while now, but in moments like this, it was impossible not to acknowledge that this guy was annoyingly charming.
Even knowing he would have backed off if she really put her foot down, she followed him in.
The inside was exactly as chaotic as the exterior promised. Regular clothing racks lined the left wall — jeans, jackets, bland department store fare — while the right side exploded into a kaleidoscope of cosplay. Full-body suits on mannequins, shelves of accessories, racks of wigs in every color of the rainbow and a few colors that didn't exist in nature.
Isaac made a beeline for the costume section like a heat-seeking missile, and Taylor trailed behind, already regretting every decision that had led her to this moment. This wasn't what she had in mind when she asked him to meet up.
Within sixty seconds, he'd found a fur coat.
It was monstrous — ankle-length, synthetic brown fur that looked like someone had skinned a Muppet and decided to wear the pelt. He threw it on over his jacket, then grabbed a cowboy hat from a nearby shelf and settled it on his head at a rakish angle.
"Howdy, partner," he said, deadpan.
Taylor pressed her lips together and shrank into her hoodie. "Take it off before you embarrass yourself, please."
"I don't think I will." He turned to the full-length mirror, adjusting the hat. "This is the new me. Embrace it."
Why did he have to be so ridiculous?
A guy browsing nearby — mid-twenties, with his girlfriend tugging at his sleeve — glanced over at Isaac's outfit and let out a snort of amusement. Isaac caught the look.
"Something funny, pardner?" he drawled, affecting an accent so thick it practically had dirt on it.
The guy smirked. "Just the outfit. Didn't know the wild west was in town."
"Round these parts, it's always the wild west." Isaac snagged two neon-orange cap guns from a bin on the shelf and tossed one to the man. "Tell you what. Quick draw. You and me. Winner gets braggin' rights."
The guy caught the plastic gun, looked at his girlfriend, who rolled her eyes but smiled, then looked back at Isaac. "You're on."
They squared off in the narrow aisle between racks — two men in a cosplay store at four in the afternoon, plastic revolvers hovering at their hips like they were in a spaghetti western. The girlfriend counted down from three.
On zero, both men went for the draw.
Isaac's arm was a blur. The plastic gun cleared his holster, snapped up, and was aimed dead-center on the guy's chest before the other man's had even cleared his waistband. It wasn't close. It wasn't even remotely close.
Taylor blinked, momentarily thrown.
How is he that fast?
She dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it appeared. Isaac was good at things. Uncannily, absurdly good at things. She'd stopped trying to categorize it after the third time he'd casually demonstrated competence in something that should have been years outside a high schooler's experience. It was just... who he was.
The other guy stared at Isaac's gun, his eyes wide, then at his own gun. He was quiet for a second before he nervously laughed and shook his head. "Jesus, kid. Are you a magician or something?"
"Ain't no magic, pardner," Isaac drawled, tipping the cowboy hat. "I'm a proper cowboy."
The girlfriend laughed and dragged her boyfriend away with an amused wave, and Isaac turned back to the racks with the energy of someone who had barely gotten started.
What followed was the most unhinged fashion show Taylor had ever witnessed.
Isaac tried on everything. A Victorian suit, which he wore with the poise of someone who'd attended actual balls — he'd even tried to dance with her, but she refused. Then a pirate costume, complete with a plastic cutlass that he wielded with competent footwork. A lab coat and goggles, under which he affected a distracted, muttering scientist persona so convincing that Taylor half-expected him to start writing the alchemical equations he was muttering about on the walls.
He slipped into each character like water taking the shape of a container — different tones of voice, different postures, different ways of holding his hands. It was acting, obviously, but it was the kind of acting that went beyond performance. Like he wasn't pretending to be someone else so much as remembering how to be them.
There was something disturbingly familiar about it. But like all things concerning him, her mind let it go. So instead of questioning it, Taylor laughed.
Not a polite chuckle or small giggle. A real, full, unguarded laugh — the kind that made her ribs scream in protest, but she didn't care. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like this. Over a year, maybe. Probably longer.
Isaac emerged from behind a changing curtain wearing a Dragon onesie — the full-body kind with the hood that had little wings on the sides and a tail dragging behind him — and the laugh got worse. He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, expression deadly serious.
"You dare mock me, girl? I am Lung," he announced. "The great dragon! Hear me roar."
"You're an idiot," Taylor managed, wiping her eyes.
"Well, I am pretending to be Lung." He crossed to the costume rack, tail swishing behind him, and grabbed two outfits. An Alexandria costume — the classic one-piece with the cape — and a Miss Militia getup. He held both out to her.
"Your turn."
"Absolutely not."
"Come on. Fair's fair."
"I'm not putting on a cape while you're wearing a onesie with wings."
"Exactly. You'll look dignified by comparison." He waggled the Alexandria costume. "Live a little, Taylor."
She looked at the costume. She looked at his stupid Dragon onesie. She looked at his face, set in an expression of pure, irrepressible enthusiasm, and she realized she was going to do this.
"Fine."
She took the Alexandria costume and ducked behind a changing screen. The suit fit surprisingly well — snug across the shoulders, which was... new. She'd never thought of herself as someone with shoulders. But between the training with Tenno and the running, she had apparently developed definition.
She came out from behind the screen, arms crossed awkwardly, the helmet fitting snug over her head with the visor covering most of her upper face.
Isaac looked at her and nodded approvingly. "Not bad. I can see you've got arms on you. Have you been hitting the gym?"
She appreciated that he was acknowledging the effort. It took months of discipline. And recently, blood, sweat, and tears.
Though it's not like I have much else going for me, she thought idly. A flat chest, a mouth that's too wide. Might as well have the arms.
And then, for one disorienting half-second, another reading surfaced — wait, is he checking me out? — before she stuffed it down so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
No. Definitely not. Isaac was polite to a fault. He wouldn't do something like that. Her mind going there was probably Nate and Brandon's fault. Those two idiots and their "loverboy" routine had polluted her brain. Now she was seeing things that weren't there.
Taylor changed back into her own clothes and stepped out of the fitting area, still trying not to think too hard about the weird warmth lingering in her chest from laughing so much.
That lasted all of ten seconds.
Near the back of the store sat a smaller rack separated from the louder costume displays. Less capes and armor, more actual clothing. Her attention caught on a green dress hanging near the end.
It was simple. No sequins or glitter or anything flashy. Fitted at the waist, softer around the hem, the color somewhere between emerald and forest green.
Taylor slowed near it before she realized she was doing it. Her fingers brushed lightly against the fabric.
"That caught your eye, huh?" Isaac said from behind her.
Taylor glanced back at him. "Maybe."
"Good taste," he said easily. "You should try it on."
She looked back at the dress. "…I don't really wear stuff like this."
"So?" Isaac shrugged. "First time for everything."
Taylor huffed quietly through her nose, but there wasn't much resistance behind it this time. Honestly, after the Alexandria costume and the Dragon onesie, this barely even registered on the embarrassment scale anymore.
Isaac lifted the hanger off the rack and held it out to her.
"You already know you want to."
Taylor stared at him for a second before rolling her eyes and taking the dress.
She went behind the screen. Changed.
The mirror inside the changing area was small and slightly warped, but it was enough. She turned in front of it, examining herself with the critical eye of someone who had spent years cataloging her own flaws. The bruising on her jaw was still visible. Her lip was still puffy. Her face was still a mess.
But the dress...
The dress was good. It hung right, moved right, made her look like someone who hadn't spent the afternoon getting beaten up in a school hallway. At least as much as that was possible. Despite everything, when she looked at her reflection, she thought: I look good.
She found that she really meant it.
Isaac looked at her when she stepped out, and his expression shifted from neutral, to surprise, to knowingly smug. Like seeing her in it confirmed something he knew all along.
"I knew you'd be beautiful in that dress," he said it like he was stating a fact and not expressing an opinion. "Baggy clothes just don't do you justice."
Taylor opened her mouth. Closed it. The heat in her cheeks was back, and she was suddenly very aware of the scratches on her neck and the bruise on her jaw and the fact that she was standing in a Boardwalk shop while a boy told her she was beautiful.
"Ya know, since you like it so much..." He reached for his pocket. "...Let me get it for you."
"No." The word came out sharper than she intended.
It wasn't about the money. It was just that she already owed him so much—for the fight, for the friendship, for being here. She couldn't let him add a dress to the pile of debts she might never be able to pay back.
She softened her voice. "It's too expensive. I'm not letting you buy me a dress, Isaac."
He held her gaze for a moment, surprise in his eyes, then shrugged. "Alright."
She went back behind the screen and changed into her hoodie and jeans, folding the green dress carefully and returning it to the rack. She let her fingers rest on the fabric for just a second before letting go.
The store clerk — a harried-looking woman who had been watching the fur coat/Dragon onesie extravaganza with mounting irritation — appeared at the end of the aisle with her arms crossed.
"Out," she said flatly. "Both of you. Now."
"We were going to buy—" Isaac started.
"You've been here for forty minutes and you've tried on half my inventory. If you were going to buy something, you would have. Now out."
Isaac raised his hands in surrender while Taylor was already heading for the door.
They spilled out onto the Boardwalk, and the cool evening air hit her face.
"I think she was jealous of you, Taylor," Isaac whispered.
Taylor just rolled her eyes.
------------------
They walked for a while more after that, drifting along the waterfront with no particular destination. The crowd was thinning as the day shifted toward evening.
Just as she was ready to sit down and talk some more, he found a bike rental stand.
Taylor stood beside the rickety-looking contraption he'd rented — an old beach Cruiser with a basket on the front and a seat that was clearly not designed for two — and raised an eyebrow.
"Where am I supposed to sit?"
"The back. I didn't bring enough cash to rent two, so you're gonna have to hold on."
Taylor wasn't so sure about this, but she climbed on behind him anyway, looping her arms around his waist. He was solid under her grip — muscular in the way that probably came from actual training rather than gym aesthetics.
He kicked off, and the bike lurched forward.
The waterfront unfolded beside them as they picked up speed. The boardwalk's shops and restaurants gave way to an open promenade, the bay stretching out to their right. The late sun painted everything in shades of gold and amber, casting long, stretching shadows that danced alongside them. The wind hit Taylor's face, cool and smelling faintly of salt, and she pulled the hood down without thinking, letting it tug at her hair.
It felt good. The speed, the air, the simple movement of the bike.
She tightened her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his back. He was warm, a steady anchor against the rushing wind, and for a few blissful minutes, the rest of the world fell away. There was just the rhythm of the pedals, the creak of the chain, and the solid warm feeling of the boy in front of her.
It was the kind of moment that belonged in a montage —where the camera pans out over the water, the music swells, and everything feels possible.
He took a steep turn, leaning into it like the bike was an extension of his body, and she yelped, pressing her forehead against his shoulder blade and hugging him tighter.
"Relax," he called back over the wind. "I've got this."
"You'd better," she shouted into his shirt. "If we crash, I'm slapping you!"
"Don't worry then, I never crash!"
Then he did a wheelie.
"Isaac!"
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into her arms, and brought the front wheel back down with a bump. She should have been angry, terrified even. But the adrenaline was singing in her veins, mixing with the absurdity of the moment, and she found herself laughing along with him, her grip tightening not out of fear, but exhilaration.
A park came up on their left — one of the clean ones, with intact playground equipment and grass that wasn't dotted with cigarette butts. The proximity to the Boardwalk meant the city actually maintained it, which in Brockton Bay was practically a luxury.
Isaac steered the bike onto the grass, bringing them to a halt under a large oak tree.
"Last stop," he said, grinning over his shoulder.
Taylor slid off the back of the bike. Her legs were a little wobbly, and her ribs gave a dull throb of protest, but she found she didn't care. Her face hurt from smiling, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind and the adrenaline. She stood there for a second, breathless and grinning, feeling lighter than she had in months.
She looked at the playground with a mix of amusement and disbelief. A normal person would see a place to sit and rest. Isaac, she was learning, wasn't a normal person. In fact, he seemed intent on becoming the most abnormal person she knew, given half the chance.
"Really?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"You're never too old for a playground," he replied, already heading for the slide.
He went down it without a hint of self-consciousness, long legs splaying at the bottom, and Taylor followed because apparently this was her life now. The slide was cold under her thighs and too short for someone her height, but it was worth it.
They didn't stop there. Isaac spotted a spinning merry-go-round and gestured for her to hop on. They spun until the world blurred and Taylor's stomach did flips, her laughter mixing with his as they stumbled off, dizzy and listing sideways like drunks.
It felt like she was going back in time to a better place in her life, before the bullying, the cape stuff, and the heavy depression that had settled over her house like a fog.
Next were the monkey bars. Isaac crossed them in about four seconds, swinging hand-over-hand with effortless grace. Taylor made it halfway across before her ribs seized up, a sharp spike of pain lancing through her side. Her grip slipped.
Isaac was there before she registered the fall. His hands caught her waist, steadying her, and he lowered her to the ground slowly and carefully.
"You okay?" He was looking at her ribs with that same concern from the bench. "Your side?"
"I'm fine," she said with a wince. "Don't worry, I just pulled a muscle. It's really nothing."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.
"How about something less straining, like the swings?" he offered.
------------------------------------
The sun was going down by the time they settled into the swings, the sky bruising orange and pink over the bay. The park had emptied out — a few dog walkers in the distance, the occasional passing car, but mostly just the two of them and the creak of chains and the sound of wind through leaves.
Taylor pumped her legs absently, swaying back and forth in a gentle arc. The manic energy from the costume shop, the bike ride, and the playing had settled into another comfortable quiet.
Isaac dragged his heels in the dirt, slowing his swing to a stop. He looked over at her.
"Soo," he drawled. He wasn't staring, but she could feel his attention shift. "You've had something on your mind all afternoon. It's why you asked to meet up, isn't it?"
Taylor stiffened slightly. "Is it that obvious?"
"I'm good at reading people." He turned his swing slightly, facing her. "I figured I'd wait until you weren't looking like you were about to jump out of your skin. So... what's up?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The question felt heavier now that the fun was over, but he'd given her the opening she needed.
"Earlier. When you were carrying me to the nurse," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "You said you were familiar with loss. What did you mean?"
The playful confidence Isaac usually wore fell away, replaced by something quieter. More guarded.
Taylor saw hesitation in his eyes — an expression she had never seen on him before. She'd never seen him unsure. Not in the videos she saw of when he fought the E88. Not when he'd dropped Sophia with a single punch. Not even when he was wearing a fur coat and challenging strangers to quick-draw contests. Isaac was always sure — effortlessly, almost infuriatingly sure of himself.
Now he was still, and the stillness scared her a little.
"You don't have to answer," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to— I shouldn't have asked. Forget it."
"No." He exhaled. "No, it's — you should know. You told me about your mom." He looked at her, and his eyes were steady but heavier than she'd ever seen them. "It's only fair I do the same. Besides, I want you to know I'm not just offering empty platitudes when I tell you I understand."
Isaac didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if examining the lines on his palms, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. Carefully empty.
"I'm an orphan, Taylor. Twice over."
Taylor blinked, the words not quite registering. "Twice?"
"My current dad is part of the third family I've had. Two families. Two lives." He let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Third time's the charm, right?"
The casual way he said it — like he was commenting on the weather — made Taylor's chest tighten.
"My first parents," he continued, staring past her at the darkening sky. "When I was younger, they got sick. We were aboard a ship. There was... something in the air. It made them waste away. Not just their bodies — their minds too. Piece by piece, until there was nothing left."
His face was plain. His voice was even. He could have been reading a grocery list.
"I can hardly remember them now. If I didn't have pictures, I don't think I'd remember their faces at all."
Taylor didn't know what to say. She thought about her own mom — the way the loss had hollowed her dad out, the way it had broken their family in half. She couldn't imagine being able to function again if she lost him too. Going through that twice, seemed impossible to ever recover from.
"Then there was Margulis," Isaac said, and something shifted in his tone. "My adopted mother. She took me in at the lowest point in my life. I was... broken. Messed up in ways I can't really explain. She helped me become a functioning person again. Taught me how to be human."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She had a partner, though. A rich man. Arrogant. A petulant child in a man's skin who threw tantrums when he didn't get his way."
The smile vanished.
"He hated me. Hated the other children she'd adopted, too. Because we 'took her love away' from him. And if he couldn't have all of it — every single piece — he was angry."
Taylor watched his hands curl into fists on his knees.
"Members of his extended family didn't like her either. They hated that despite being with him, she wasn't like them. She was kind. Good. They couldn't stand it."
His voice hardened.
"So they set her up to die."
Taylor felt the words land in her chest, cold and sharp. Her breath caught.
Isaac's jaw tightened. The even tone cracked, and something rawer bled through. Anger. Old and deep and still burning.
"And that man—the one who wanted all her love, who couldn't stand sharing her—he sat back like a coward and let it happen. He didn't lift a finger to stop them. Just... watched."
The swings creaked in the silence. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves overhead.
Isaac stared at the ground, fists still clenched.
"The day she died was horrible on all of us," he said. His voice was steady, but his hands on the chains weren't quite still. "But it was also the catalyst. Without her, we had no reason to protect them from the justice they deserved. I made..." He trailed off. Shook his head slightly, like the rest of the sentence wasn't something he could put into words. "Anyways, a lot of things happened. But the part that matters now was that I later found my dad and we moved to the states. Now here I am. A well-adjusted member of society trying to cheer up his friend."
The silence that followed was different from the comfortable one they'd shared earlier. This one had weight. It pressed against Taylor's chest..
Once again, she didn't know what to say. She didn't even know if she should say something. But Taylor knew, just like him, she shouldn't offer empty comfort. She'd received enough of those when her mother died to know how useless they were.
Instead, she reached over. Her fingers found his hand on the swing chain, and she covered it with her own.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For telling me."
Isaac didn't look at her. He kept his gaze on the horizon, where the last sliver of the sun was dipping below the water.
"Margulis..." Taylor hesitated, testing the unfamiliar name. "She sounds like a wonderful mom."
Isaac's expression shifted. A faint, sad smile touched his lips.
"Thanks, Taylor. She was. More than you know," he said softly. "Margulis wasn't perfect. She had her flaws, her mistakes. But she tried. Always. Even when it cost her."
He turned his head to look at Taylor. "I'm sure your dad is trying to do the same thing."
Taylor's eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat.
"How did you—?"
Isaac looked at her face, and the sad smile vanished, replaced by that familiar, cocky grin.
"Well, I guessed it was either something about your dad or the fight with Emma that had you really feeling down," he said, his tone lighter. "Looks like I guessed right."
Taylor stared at him, a mix of disbelief and endearment warring in her chest. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'perceptive,'" Isaac corrected. He hopped off the swing, landing lightly on the ground. He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popping audibly. "Come on. Spill. I burdened you with my tragic backstory, so you're allowed to vent to me."
Taylor hesitated. The swing creaked as she shifted her weight, the chains cold against her palms.
"I don't know. Compared to yours, my problems seem... underwhelming."
Isaac snorted. "Taylor, that's stupid logic. Look, my past is just that—past. I've had years to get over it. Your pain is happening right now. It's fresh, and in my book, that makes it a lot harder to carry than some old tragedy."
The tension in her shoulders loosened. She could tell Isaac wasn't just saying that to be nice; he actually meant it.
So she told him.
She started with the history—gave him more insight on how Emma had been her sister in everything but blood, and how that had shattered overnight. She gave him the shape of the year and a half of hell that followed. The Trio. The campaign of harassment that the school had refused to acknowledge. She even mentioned the Locker, but skimmed over the details; she didn't want to relive that mess.
Then she moved to what happened in the office.
"Emma spun this sob story," Taylor said, her voice rough. "Crying, acting terrified. She told my dad I snapped. That I attacked her out of nowhere."
Isaac's expression darkened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
"My dad... he didn't know she was one of my bullies. He knows I've been having a hard time, but he has no idea Emma is the one causing it. He thinks she's still my best friend. So when she told him I was being 'negatively influenced'—" Taylor made air quotes, her tone bitter "—by you guys, he believed her."
She stared at the ground.
"He bought it. For a minute, he actually looked at me like I was the villain. He didn't ask for my side. He just assumed I was the one in the wrong because he thought I was hurting my 'best friend.'"
She kicked at the dirt.
"I told him the truth about what Emma said right after, and it devastated him. He apologized. Said he should have listened first. And I know he's trying. I know he feels guilty. But it hurts that his first instinct was to believe her tears over his own daughter."
Her voice grew quieter.
"And yet… I feel guilty too. Because it's my fault he believed her. I never told him anything. Not even when they put me in the hospital."
She took a shaky breath.
"Part of that was because after Mom died... he was never the same. He didn't just grieve. He stopped caring about anything. For months, he was just a body in the house. He'd come home from work, stare at the TV, and nod if I spoke, but he wasn't there. It was like he died with her."
Taylor hugged herself, the memory of that silence—the oppressive, awful quiet of the house—washing over her.
"I learned pretty quickly that if I had a problem, I had to fix it myself. He was too broken to help me with mine. By the time he started coming back—started actually acting like a dad again—I'd already gotten used to the silence. I didn't know how to break it. I thought by keeping quiet I was protecting him from worrying. Or maybe I was just protecting myself from being ignored again."
She stared at the ground. The confession hung in the air between them. She felt the guilt, the anger, the betrayal, and the disappointment in herself all at once.
"And the worst part is," she continued, her voice barely a whisper, "I know I can change that. I should go home tonight, sit him down, and tell him everything. The locker, the names of every bully, how long it's been going on. But I can't."
She finally looked up, her eyes stinging.
"Even knowing I'm just making it worse by staying quiet, I can't bring myself to tell him."
She didn't look at Isaac. She couldn't. She felt exposed, raw, and ridiculously naive. He probably thought she was an idiot for letting it go on this long.
The silence stretched, broken only by the creak of the swings and the distant hum of the city. When Isaac finally spoke, his voice was stripped of all its usual teasing edges.
"Taylor, look at me."
She hesitated, then slowly lifted her gaze. He wasn't looking at her with pity. He was looking at her with a steady, serious intensity.
"You're scared," he said. It wasn't a question. "You're terrified that if you sit him down and tell him the truth—all of it—he's going to shut down again. Like he did when your mom died. You think it'll break him."
Taylor flinched. He'd seen right through her. She nodded miserably. "He barely survived the first time. If I tell him he let this happen... if I tell him I needed him and he wasn't there... I don't know if he can take it. I don't know if WE can take it."
Isaac exhaled, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. He stared at the ground for a long moment, his jaw tight.
"You know... for a long time, I hated the man who let Margulis die," Isaac said quietly. "I hated him for his cowardice. For his selfishness. But do you know what the worst part was?"
Taylor shook her head silently.
"The worst part was realizing that it wasn't the hate that made it impossible to forgive him. It was the indifference. If he had even tried—if his love for her had been strong enough to make him stand up to his family—I could have found it in me to forgive him for her death. Even if he ultimately failed, it wouldn't have mattered so long as he tried."
He looked up, meeting her eyes.
"That's the difference between that coward and your dad, Taylor. Your dad did shut down. He failed you when you needed him. But he apologized today. He's trying to climb out of that hole. He's still fighting."
Isaac reached out, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder.
"You're scared he'll break. But he's a father, Taylor. If he's even half the man you've told me he is—the one who loves you, who hates himself for making a mistake—then he'll find the strength. Because he'd rather be hurt by the truth than lose his daughter to a lie."
Taylor felt a lump form in her throat. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that her dad was strong enough to carry the weight of the truth, that he could handle the guilt without collapsing back into that hollow silence.
"You really think so?" she whispered.
"I know so," Isaac said softly. "Give him the chance to make it right. Don't take that choice away from him. You owe him that much, and he owes you the effort."
He offered her a hand. A small encouraging smile that felt far more genuine was now on his face.
"Now, come on. It's getting late. I'll get you home before your dad gets worried."
Taylor nodded and stood up, brushing off her jeans.
Isaac began walking back toward the bike, then paused. He looked over his shoulder at her.
He looked over his shoulder at her. "Maybe next time," he said, his voice softer now, "I can hear about Mrs. Hebert. She must have been a great woman to have given you such fine literary taste and resilience."
Taylor felt a lump form in her throat.
"She was," she managed.
Isaac nodded and smiled. He mounted the bike, waiting for her to climb onto the back rack.
"Hold on tight."
Taylor wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.
As they rode back along the Boardwalk, the wind cool against her face, Taylor thought about the boy in front of her—about his losses, the secrets he hadn't said, and the quiet strength he carried.
She didn't know the full story about his family or the woman who had saved him. Part of her doubted she ever would.
But she knew one thing for certain.
She knew Isaac Dax just a little better today.