The last bell rang, sharp and final, and the hallway loosened into noise.
Ethan was already packing his bag when Paige leaned over his desk, blocking his escape route with practiced ease.
"Before you vanish," she said, tapping the wood twice, "we're seein' Rachel. She's bein' discharged today."
Amy hovered just behind her, hands folded tight around her notebook. She didn't interrupt, but her eyes were hopeful in that careful way she'd learned since discovering some hope needed permission.
Ethan paused, then nodded once. "Alright, you're the boss."
Rachel was already dressed when they arrived.
Not in a gown. Not tucked into bed. Real clothes—jeans, boots, a hoodie that looked borrowed and too big. She was standing by the window when they entered, sunlight catching in her hair, one hand braced on the glass like she was grounding herself.
She turned when she heard them.
And smiled first.
"Hey, you guys didn't need to come see me be discharged," she said. No tremor. No hesitation.
Paige froze mid-step. "…well I'll be damned."
Amy's shoulders sagged with relief.
Rachel laughed quietly. "That's a good sign, right?"
Paige crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into a careful hug. Rachel hugged back just as firmly.
"You look—" Paige searched for the word, then shrugged. "Like you, I guess."
"Yeah," Rachel said. "I feel like me. It's been so long since I could say that."
They settled into chairs instead of crowding the bed that wasn't there anymore. A nurse passed by the door, glanced in, smiled, and kept walking.
Ethan leaned against the wall, arms folded, observing without intruding.
Rachel noticed anyway and smiled at him.
"So," Rachel said, turning slightly toward Amy, "I wanted to say thank you. For before. For… everything."
Amy flushed. "You don't owe me anything. We're friends after all, and friends don't need to worry about stuff like that."
"I know," Rachel said gently. "That's why I'm saying it."
There was a pause.
Amy hesitated, then took a small breath. "I thought about… doing it again. But I didn't want to assume. Or push."
Rachel nodded. "I thought about that too."
She took a breath, steadying herself. "What you did helped me get my feet back under me. But this part?" She tapped her chest once. "This part has to be mine. I can't keep relying on others to fix me. I need to put some effort in on my part, too."
Amy swallowed, then smiled—soft, proud, and a little sad. "That makes sense."
Ethan felt something shift.
While there was some slight disappointment for not being able to see Amy's powers at work again, there was more.
There was respect. Respect for Rachel and her decision.
They walked out together an hour later.
Rachel's mom, who came to pick her up, signed the discharge papers, thanked the staff, as Rachel slung her bag over her shoulder like she was walking out of school instead of a hospital wing that smelled like antiseptic and second chances.
At the doors, she stopped.
"I'm not going straight home," she said.
Paige frowned. "You sure?"
"Yeah, I told my mom. I need… air. Normal. I'm staying with my aunt for a bit. Somewhere quiet."
Amy nodded. "That's probably good."
Rachel looked at Ethan last. "You told me something before. That no one gets to decide who I am but me."
He inclined his head slightly. "Did I? I guess if I did, then I was right. I'll treat you to a meal when you get back from your aunt's place."
"Yeah," she said. "I'll hold you to that."
Then she stepped outside alone.
That, more than anything, told Ethan she was going to be fine.
Paige stretched as they headed down the block. "Well. That went better than expected. I miss her, though."
Amy hugged her notebook to her chest. "I think… this was the right choice for Rachel."
Ethan didn't answer immediately.
They stopped at the corner where Paige's bus pulled up.
She turned back to him, eyebrow raised. "You okay, Ethan? You're quiet. Well, quieter than usual."
"Just thinking," he said.
She smirked. "Dangerous habit. You should spend more time seeing the real world rather than always being inside your head."
Ethan lightly scoffed, "Spoken like a muscle brain."
The three laughed as Paige waved, boarded, and was soon gone.
Amy lingered a moment longer.
"I didn't need to use my power," she said quietly.
"I noticed," Ethan replied.
She studied him, searching for something. Approval, maybe. Or judgment.
"In my dreams, the Goddess told me 'that all healing has a cost'," she said. "I don't know what that cost will be or if Rachel or I will have to pay it. Maybe I made it worse without knowing."
Ethan met her gaze. "I think the cost is that you'll never be who you were before the damage. In that sense, I believe Rachel has already paid the price. You helped her, so don't burden yourself with these types of thoughts, okay. Trust me when I say you're too good of a person."
She blinked, startled, "I didn't expect you to say something so nice to me."
Then she smiled as she took a cab home.
Soon, Ethan heard a ringing phone from his backpack.
He ducked into a side alley, scanning for cameras. Empty. He unzipped the bag, pulled out the burner phone and voice changer, and answered in the measured cadence of Luc Moreau.
On the other end, Robert Hughes's nervous voice spilled out. "Mr. Moreau—it's done. Both properties secured. The warehouse is under your name, but the… the house—well, I wasn't sure if you wanted it the same way."
Ethan's lips curved faintly. "Non. The warehouse belongs to me. But the house…" He paused, savoring the irony. "…put it under the name Fiore Artino."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "Fiore—? But that's…"
"Spare me your thoughts, Robert. I have little to no interest in them," Ethan cut in smoothly. "I'll send you the documentation tonight. All you need to do is file it. Do that, and your… personal life remains intact."
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Robert's voice trembled. "I'll take care of it immediately."
"Good." Ethan ended the call without farewells, slipping the phone and voice changer back into the hidden pocket.
By the time he reached the hotel, his parents still hadn't returned from their meeting with the inspector. Perfect. He went straight to his room, locked the door, and pulled out his laptop and files.
On the screen, the bones of a new identity flickered into shape:
Name: Fiore Artino.
Background: Italian immigrant, forged academic history seeded across minor U.S. records. Sparse but credible.
Age: Matches Delilah's apparent years.
Occupation: Freelance consultant—ambiguous enough to cover comings and goings.
Every keystroke was deliberate. Cross-referencing databases, planting breadcrumbs, weaving a digital shadow. By the time he finished, "Fiore Artino" would be as real as anyone who had ever walked the Newark streets.
Sighing, Ethan emailed the details corresponding to Robert so he could finalize the sale of the property. Since Robert, as the agent, could handle the legal documents, Ethan used an account under Luc to wire $465,000. The breakdown was $170,000 for the mistress's house plus the bribe, $280,000 for the warehouse, and an extra $15,000 to placate Robert for now, in case he had future use for the man.