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, or moral conflict, are fictional representations created for storytelling purposes only.
I do not condone or encourage any harmful, violent, or unethical behavior outside of this story.
This story should be taken seriously. It is neither satire and not comedy. The Heroes is a realistic fictional series that explores moral, emotional, and ethical struggles. It seeks to promote good, expose evil, and reflect the truth of the world raw, uncensored, and unfiltered.
Every moral and ethical issue addressed in this story exists to raise awareness, not to mock or glorify it. As you read, please keep an open mind and understand that the intent behind every chapter is to inspire thought, empathy, and change.
This chapter contains violence, strong language, emotional trauma, and references to alcohol and vaping. Reader discretion is advised. Suitable for ages 14 and up.
OPENING SCENE: THE MISSING
It was around 5 a.m.
The world was still caught between night and dawn, that fragile silence before the first birds dared to sing. The air was cool, whispering through the trees outside like an unfinished thought. Branches creaked. A loose shutter tapped against a wall. The faint light of the moon spilled through the window of a small, cluttered bedroom and landed squarely across Connor's face.
He stirred beneath the blanket, a low groan escaping him. His jaw flexed as if he were fighting off a dream he didn't want to see again. But it came clearer this time. Alex, running from him. Her voice echoes through the trees. Her hair caught flashes of moonlight. The look on her face that quiet panic as she turned back one last time before disappearing into the woods.
He should've said something.
He could've stopped her.
His hand clenched beneath the blanket, the veins in his forearm tightening as the regret twisted deeper into his chest. "I should've told her," he whispered to the empty room. His eyes pinched shut. I should've told her I liked her… that I wanted to run away with her…
The scene replayed faster, harsher until it changed. Until her silhouette was replaced by two towering figures dragging her away through the dirt. One wore a red suit streaked with gold, light glinting off the metallic trim. The other — a blur of shadow and lightning his mask dark blue with a single red bolt splitting through the center.
Connor's eyes snapped open.
His heart slammed against his ribs. He sat up fast, sweat glistening down his temple, chest heaving. "No…" he breathed. His hands trembled as he looked toward the window, the dream's image still flickering behind his eyes. "It… can't be…" His voice cracked as if saying the words might make them true. "Is that… Electric Strike…?"
Silence.
Then the distant sound of birds began to stir.
Cut to black.
FADE IN – THE WOODS.
The same woods where Alex was last seen. Now they're flooded with lights — harsh white beams cutting through mist and fog. Red and blue strobes flash across tree trunks, mixing with the shimmer of dew-covered leaves. Officers comb the area, their voices muffled under the hum of generators and the static of police radios.
Yellow tape flutters against the breeze. Camera crews move between officers, cables dragging through the mud.
"Alright, we're live in three… two… one"
The voice belonged to Alan McAllister, Channel 7's morning reporter. He stood framed by the chaotic scene behind him, his smile stiff and tired, his tie crooked from rushing.
"Good morning," he began, his tone fighting to sound professional as the sunrise bled orange through the trees. "I'm Alan McAllister, reporting live from Maplewood Forest, where tragedy has struck this quiet community. Late last night, fifteen-year-old Alex Compton disappeared right here behind me."
The camera panned slowly, officers moving, dogs barking faintly, the faint sound of a mother screaming beyond the barricade.
Alan's voice faltered slightly. "We're told she was last seen near the north trail, around 9:45 p.m. What happened next remains a mystery."
The cameraman followed him as Alan stepped toward the edge of the taped perimeter, where Alex's mother, Sarah Compton, was fighting to push past an officer.
She was hysterical. Her hair stuck to her face, tears streaming freely. Her hands clawed at the barricade as if her nails alone could dig her daughter out of the woods.
"Please!" she sobbed, voice hoarse, raw. "My baby, please let me through! I just want to see where she was!"
Her knees buckled; an officer caught her before she fell.
Alan hesitated, then approached carefully, mic lowered. "Mrs. Compton… I know this is hard, but could you tell us what Alex was doing out here last night?"
Sarah's lips quivered. Her eyes darted away, trying to pull herself together. Her breath came in shaky bursts.
"She… she said she was playing… laser tag… with some friends." She swallowed hard. "They said she'd be home by ten. But she didn't come home."
Her voice cracked. "She always comes home…"
Alan nodded softly, his usual on-air confidence giving way to human sympathy. But before he could speak again
A low scoff cut through the air.
The camera turned.
Alex's father, Daniel Compton, stood nearby, arms crossed, face unreadable. The look in his eyes was something colder than grief, something detached.
Alan frowned. "Sir, could we"
Daniel spoke before he finished. His voice was calm, almost eerily so. "I told her to stay there I was going to pick her up. She didn't listen." He looked out into the woods, jaw tight. "This is what happens when kids don't follow rules."
Alan blinked. "Excuse me?"
Daniel didn't even look at him. "Maybe now she'll learn." A faint, cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
For a moment, even the forest seemed to go still.
Alan's face hardened. "Did you just? This is what she deserves? She's your daughter."
Daniel turned sharply toward the camera, his eyes narrowing. "Get that thing out of my face."
"Sir"
"GET IT OUT!" He swung a hand toward the lens
SMASH CUT.
The video freezes mid-motion, Daniel's hand blurring across the screen.
Pause.
Inside a dimly lit treehouse, the only sound was the faint click of the TV remote.
Zack stood in front of the small, flickering screen, his reflection caught in the glow. His face was tense, lips pressed tight, brows furrowed. The light from the TV flickered against his eyes, making them look glassy and distant.
He exhaled, the sound heavy. "That's why I called this meeting."
Around him, the treehouse was a wreck of snack wrappers, posters, and half-finished homework. The old wood creaked beneath their weight. Dust hung in the beams of sunlight sneaking through the cracks.
Mark, sprawled on a bean bag, leaned forward. His usual cocky grin was gone. His knee bounced nervously, fingers digging into the fabric. "She's our friend…" His voice was quite shaky in a way that didn't sound like him. "I… I shouldn't have said what I did to her yesterday."
On the couch, Connor sat motionless. His eyes were locked on the floorboards, shoulders hunched forward, fingers twisting anxiously together. He hadn't said a word since the video ended.
In his head, the footage replayed. The forest. The crying mother. The father's voice. And above it all — that dream. Those two figures dragged Alex into the dark.
A sharp pang of guilt knotted his stomach. It's my fault. The thought came again and again. I should've gone after her. I should've protected her.
Zack noticed the tremor in Connor's hand. He walked closer, the wooden floor creaking under his boots. "Hey," he said softly. "You were her best friend. This isn't on you."
Connor's throat tightened. He didn't look up. "Then why does it feel like it is?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Mark's jaw flexed. He rubbed his palms over his jeans, trying to ground himself. "The cops searched everywhere, right? They said they didn't find anything."
Zack shook his head, pacing now, energy burning behind his eyes. "No. Not everywhere."
Mark frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Zack stopped pacing and turned toward them, that stubborn spark returning to his face. "They looked in the forest. They looked near the trails. But they didn't check beyond the east ridge."
Connor finally glanced up. "That's miles away. Why would she go there?"
"Because," Zack said, lowering his voice, "that's where the power lines end. And you remember what Alex said last week about seeing flashes out there?"
Mark's brow furrowed. "You think she was telling the truth? That she really saw someone out there?"
Zack nodded. "I think she saw something she wasn't supposed to."
A beat.
Connor's pulse quickened. He remembered Alex's laughter when she said it — the way she joked about "superhumans hiding in the woods" while everyone else laughed it off. His stomach sank.
"What are you saying?" Connor muttered. "That someone took her? That… those people from my dream," He stopped himself.
Zack turned sharply. "What people?"
Connor hesitated. "Never mind."
Zack stepped closer. "Connor. Tell me."
Connor swallowed hard, then spoke, voice trembling. "I saw her… in my dream. Last night. Two people were dragging her away. One in red and gold… the other in blue with a lightning bolt on his mask."
Mark froze. "That's… Electric Strike. And Inferno."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Zack exhaled slowly, eyes widening. "You're saying they took her?"
Connor shook his head, rubbing his face. "It doesn't make sense. They're supposed to be heroes."
Mark scoffed. "Yeah? Tell that to Alex's dad. He looked like he'd sell his soul for attention."
"Or already did," Zack muttered.
The room went still again. The weight of their words pressed down hard, the treehouse suddenly too small to hold all that fear and confusion.
Connor stood up abruptly. His voice was quiet but fierce. "Then we find her."
Zack looked at him. "Connor"
"I don't care what's out there. I'm not waiting for the police. If she's still alive, she's scared and alone, and" his voice cracked, "she needs someone."
Mark ran a hand through his hair, nerves kicking in. "You're talking about searching the woods at night? When there might be superhumans involved?"
Zack's eyes met Connor's. That same fire, reckless, brave, stupid, burned between them.
"Then we don't go at night," Zack said finally. "We go now."
Mark blinked. "Now? School starts in an hour."
"Then we skip." Zack grabbed a flashlight from the shelf, tossing another to Connor. "If the cops won't look past the ridge, we will."
Mark hesitated. "This is insane."
Connor's expression hardened. "So is doing nothing."
The tension held for a long moment until Mark finally sighed, standing up. "Fine. But if we die out there, I'm haunting both of you."
Zack smirked faintly. "Deal."
He opened the treehouse hatch, the early morning light spilling in soft and golden, cutting across their faces. The wind rustled the trees below, carrying the faint hum of sirens in the distance.
Connor looked back once at the frozen TV screen, Daniel Compton's face still twisted mid-motion. His stomach turned.
Then he climbed down the ladder after Zack, boots hitting the damp ground.
The three friends, bound by guilt and fear, disappeared into the trees as the camera panned up toward the sunrise breaking through the clouds.
They cut across the long, open road like a shot three bikes, tires whining on cold asphalt, breath fogging in front of them. Dawn was a thin line on the horizon; the world smelled like crushed grass and gasoline. Wind clawed at their jackets, slapped their faces raw with cold; the speed made everything clearer and crueler, like the truth was arriving faster than they were ready for.
Zack rode in front, leaning low over his handlebars, legs a blur. He pointed to a stand of trees ahead where cops and lights still glowed like a distant bonfire. "There!" he shouted, voice nearly lost to the air. He pushed his pedals harder. "I think it's right over hurry!"
Mark answered with a shove of speed, wheel beside Zack's, breath coming in sharp bursts. Connor came up just behind them, one gear too slow, heart thudding in his ears as if it tried to outrun his feet. The guilt was a stone in his throat; every bump in the road made it rattle.
"Who wants to live in the deep woods?" Mark muttered under his breath, sarcasm thin as paper. The question hung because none of them wanted it, but all of them were heading there anyway.
They hit the edge of the treeline and turned, brakes whining, boots slamming to the dirt. The yellow-and-black barricade came into view, tape fluttering like a nervous animal, a metal sign bolted to a post. They leaned their bikes against the tape, the frames clacking softly.
Zack was first to the barricade. He walked up, boots crunching on wet leaves, and read the sign aloud as if it were a joke: DO NOT TRESPASS. THIS GROUND IS UNDER GOVERNMENT CONTROL. He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Government my ass." He stepped over without hesitating, the tape snapping back as if offended.
"Alright — pick a side," Zack said, scanning the gloom. He pointed left, then right, eyes sharp. "If you find anything — Alex's jacket, her phone, her watch yell."
Connor climbed down after him, mind trying to juggle two heavy truths: the world outside was searching, and inside him a private verdict had already been handed. If I'd stayed with her… It circled like a vulture. He could feel the others looking at him sometimes not because they suspected, but because they were all smaller now, fragile, waiting for someone to say the next thing that would either snap them or hold them together.
Zack heard him before he spoke. He set his palm on a low branch he'd been bending back to look for tracks, then turned toward Connor. "Hey" He didn't finish; his hand hovered midair, the movement interrupted by a memory. For a second, Zack's hand twitched like an old habit and he reached to the pocket of his jacket. His fingers closed on the silver tube he'd been carrying — a vape — and then they fell away when Alex's voice echoed in his head, sharp as a slap: Don't.
He shrugged that sensation off and spoke with a quiet ferocity. "She would do anything for us," Zack said. "Now it's time for us to do the same." His voice was small but steady. Connor watched him, oddly grateful and disoriented that the boy who used to make jokes now sounded like a drumbeat marching them forward.
Connor started to speak, an excuse shaping in his mouth the police, the government, the risk but Zack cut him off without turning. "You need to stop worrying. They ain't gonna do shit. If the so-called government cared, they would've found her by now. They care about headlines, not people. I'm not waiting months for them. I want her back."
Mark rolled his shoulders, trying to show confidence but looking like a kid putting on a brave suit. "Okay, then let's go."
"Hey!" Mark's shout broke the moment; he was crouched by a mud track, finger pressed to the ground. "Look at this!"
Zack and Connor ran to his side. Mark pointed a small piece of fabric pinned to a thorn, soaked with dew and torn ragged. It was blue, carbon-fiber weave, the kind used in elite suit armor. A jagged red bolt embroidered across it, sliced cleanly through the blue like a wound.
Zack picked it up with two fingers, like it might blow away. He turned it in the weak light. His mouth opened. He laughed at Connor, half disbelief, half bravado: "You serious, man? That's" He stopped. The laugh died in his throat.
Connor's hand flew to his mouth. He backed up until his heels hit the barricade, breath catching. His knees trembled as if the ground itself wanted to let him go.
Mark stared at the cloth, then at Connor. "You know who that does this belong to?" He didn't need to finish; the look he gave was hot with accusation and disbelief.
Zack placed the cloth in his palm, then held it up like evidence in a courtroom. "If there's something you're not telling us, tell us now," he said, voice tight. "Who is this?"
Connor swallowed until it hurt. The world narrowed to the three faces around him, the way light fell off Zack's brow, the way Mark's fingers trembled where they clenched into a fist. He thought of Alex laughing, the curve of her mouth, how she'd told them about strange lights near the power lines the week before. He thought of his dream, the red-and-gold suit, the blue mask with the bolt, a memory he had sworn he would bury, but here it was, tangible and accusing in Zack's hand.
"I—" The word came thin. "It… it belongs to Electric Strike."
For a second, the forest swallowed the sound, then Mark exploded. He fell to his knees like someone who'd been punched, then doubled over, laughter spilling out first as incredulity, then as nervousness. "Electric Strike?" he choked between breaths. "You're joking. The guy on the cover of every magazine? The 'most trusted hero in the world'? Come on."
Zack's laugh was shorter, brittle. "You're serious, Connor?" He looked like he wanted to believe it was a joke, wanted the world to be simple again, but he couldn't. "You think one of the Nine—?"
Connor shrank back as they laughed, their voices ricocheting off the trunks like pebbles against a tin. He didn't join. He couldn't. The fabric felt heavier the longer he watched them hold it between them, a small, bloody star reminding him that pieces of people could be found and still be whole enough to accuse.
"It wasn't just him," Connor said finally, quiet as a confession. "It was… Roadrunner, too."
Mark hiccupped a laugh that tried to be scoffed and failed. "Roadrunner? That guy's a myth."
"You're insane," Mark said, half-angry, half-scared, slapping the fabric from Zack's hand so it fluttered back to the ground. "This is some market costume or something."
But Zack looked at Connor differently now, not mocking, not cruel; it was a look that had teeth. The joke dissolved. For one awful second, they all understood they had stepped beyond childhood's edge: a piece of cloth, a shred of truth, and a world that had been safe yesterday began to tilt.
"You sure about this?" Zack asked. He knelt, staring at the strip of blue like it could tell a story if he only listened hard enough.
Connor nodded, and the motion shook him. "I'm sure."
Silence spread like ink. The trees listened.
Mark inhaled, the breath loud. "Okay," he said finally, voice small. "We find the trail. We find where these suits were. And if we see anything weird, we run. Promise?"
Zack stood, folding the strip into his pocket like a talisman or a threat. "Promise."
Connor crouched and touched the soil where the fragment had been. The dirt was cold and damp under his palm. He could smell pine, machine oil, and something iron beneath everything that made his mouth water like fear.
He felt the weight of the world press into his ribs, and for a moment, just one whisper of time, all the noise fell away. In that house, his sorrow rounded into resolve.
"Hold on, Alex," he whispered, just to the dirt, to the wind, to the little blue scrap. "We're going to find you."
Hudson Yards glittered awake under early light. Inside Macy's, the department store felt half-empty and private, the perfect excuse for four girls to take their time. Neon signs threw pale rectangles across racks of sequins and chiffon; the fitting rooms were a small kingdom of mirrors and mannequins.
Charlotte, the youngest, had already claimed her throne in front of a rack of red. She pressed her palm to a dress dripping with tiny rubied beads and squealed. "Oh my god," she breathed, eyes wide. Her fingers trembled as she stroked the fabric. "It's… so pretty. Sam's going to be breathless."
Lydia laughed, the sound warm and brittle. Across the aisle, Emma scrolled through HeroesBids on her phone with one hand while clutching a tiny paper bag with the other, another purchase checked off. Ava was murmuring under her breath about points and the latest bid wars.
Lydia wrestled into the blue dress she'd wanted for months. It was long, just daring enough at the right places; she loved the way it hugged her hips. She wobbled on a heel, swore when the strap caught, and tugged until the fabric settled. She turned, checking the mirror, judged, adjusted, tried again. "Come on," she muttered under her breath, forcing a smile into place.
A polite rap at the curtain: "Lydia? Everything good in there?" Charlotte's voice, impatient and excited.
"One second." Lydia flipped her hair, bit her lip, then eased the curtain open with a little showgirl flourish. The light caught the blue silk, and for a second, she was certain this was it.
Charlotte's face exploded. "Oh my gosh, Lydia, you look!" Hands flying to her mouth, she danced back and forth like the dress was a present.
Emma didn't look up from her screen. "Yeah, hot," she said, voice distracted. "Vortex is trending again. Points are through the roof."
Ava snorted. "Why do points cost so damn much?" She tapped, tapped, feeding another bid like it was candy.
Charlotte's grin faded when Emma's phone became the center of gravity. "Wait, weren't we picking dresses?" she said, shy and suddenly small.
"We are," Ava said without looking up. "We're bonding. We're just… doing it the modern way." Emma's thumb flicked faster. "Done. I just sent points to Inferno. Done deal."
Charlotte blinked. "Points?"
Lydia explained before she could stop herself. "HeroesBids you bid points to… to control a hero for a day. The more points, the more famous they look. It's stupid, but it's what people care about."
Emma's eyes sparkled. "Guess who's on top? Inferno. Twenty-three billion and climbing." She looked up like a small goddess surveying her kingdom. "Imagine a day with him."
Charlotte forced a laugh and let it go. Lydia dialed down the smile; the dress had softened something inside her, but there was a gulf in the room now that none of them tried to cross.
Then a distant metallic crash, wrong. It sliced through the boutique chatter like a thrown shard. A scream followed: wet, ragged, not a practiced cry. The air shifted.
They all froze.
Lydia's heart slammed. She kicked her other heel on. "What?" She yanked the curtain and ran out into the main aisle.
Light. Mirrors. Perfume. And then the bodies.
They were piled, grotesque and still, a human tangle on the marble, her friends among them. She stumbled back as if a hand had shoved her. Sound tunneled; the world narrowed to the ragged intake of breath she could not force.
Her fingers groped for a hand that wasn't there. Tears burned hot and instantaneous. She made a sound, an animal sound, turned to scream for help, to call someone, anyone, and pain exploded across the back of her head.
White-hot stars. The world folded.
When Lydia woke, the mall was a hushed war zone. Police tape cut through display windows like a permanent scar. The lights were harsh, clinical. Someone draped a blanket nearby. A stretcher waited.
She lay on a cot in the ambulance bay, knees pulled up against her chest, hair a dark curtain across a face she didn't recognize. Her throat felt raw. Her mouth tasted like pennies. A medic murmured reassurances that fell away into fog.
"Lydia." A familiar voice cracked across the distance. Ryan. He was there, rushing, breathless, eyes wide with half-formed fury and fear. He crouched beside her cot and kept a small, careful distance like he was honoring whatever space trauma demanded.
"I was told to come," he said, voice tight. "What happened? Are you okay?"
She tried to laugh, a single, broken sound. "I… I'm fine," she lied, because the truth was too heavy for air. "They're gone. My parents… my friends. I saw them, Ryan. I saw"
Ryan's face was protective until the edges frayed. He put his hand on hers, solid and warm. "Hey. Hey. It's okay. You still have me, okay? We'll get through this. Whoever did this, they'll pay. I'll make sure." He swallowed. "You rest. We've got a long week, but we'll face it together."
Lydia watched the officers move, watched the bodies carried away, watched the bright cameras flash and the murmured voices of witnesses. The mall, once a bubble of mundane adolescence, was now a place that would never again hold the same light.
She closed her eyes and let Ryan's hand anchor her. In the dark behind her eyelids, a single thought cut through: Connor. She wanted to tell him she was okay, to tell him she forgave him, or hated him, or both, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she clung to the hand beside hers and let the siren song wash over her like distant thunder.
The door slammed so hard the picture frames rattled.
Sarah flinched, keys slipping from her fingers as they clattered to the tile. The sound echoed like glass in the silence. She stood still for a moment in the dark entryway, the air heavy with disinfectant and police tape memory. Her eyes were swollen from hours at the station.
Behind her, Daniel Compton threw his coat onto the counter, his movements jagged like he didn't know where his arms should go anymore. He smelled of bourbon and the cold night air. His shirt was half untucked, his eyes rimmed red.
"Jesus," he muttered, pacing. "Those cops are useless. Useless, all of them. We sit there for hours while they feed us bullshit. 'We're doing everything we can.' Everything they can?" He barked a laugh that was more a snarl. "She's gone, Sarah. Our daughter's gone, and they're writing reports."
Sarah closed her eyes, clutching the counter for balance. "Daniel… stop."
"Stop? How do I stop?" He spun, jabbing a finger toward the window as if the world outside had insulted him. "They think we'll just move on. You saw them pitying eyes, that tone. Like we're another headline. I'm not letting them make her another case file."
Sarah's voice cracked like paper. "You let her go."
The silence afterward was sharp enough to bleed.
He turned slowly, disbelief spreading across his face. "What did you say?"
Tears ran down her cheeks before she could stop them. "You told her it was fine to go hiking. You told her to 'stop being dramatic' when she said she didn't feel safe out there. You let her go"
"Don't you dare." His tone dropped into something low and dangerous.
"I begged you to drive her that day!" she cried, stepping toward him. "But no, you had to work late, you had to take another meeting, another goddamn phone call while our daughter walked into the woods alone!"
"Shut up."
"You don't get to tell me to shut up! Not after this, not after"
"I said shut up!"
He slammed his hand onto the counter, a thunderclap of sound. A mug fell and shattered, coffee stains crawling like veins across the white tile.
Sarah froze. His chest heaved; veins corded at his neck. The veins at his temple pulsed with fury and grief blurred into one.
"You think I don't blame myself?" he growled. "You think I sleep? You think I don't see her face every time I close my eyes? Don't you ever stand there and act like I wanted this."
Her voice came back smaller, trembling. "Then why are you taking it out on me?"
He took a slow step forward. "Because you won't stop reminding me."
Her breath hitched. "Daniel…"
Another step. His shadow swallowed hers.
"I lost her, too," she whispered.
Something in him snapped. His hand twitched; the veins in his forearm flexed like cords about to tear. His voice dropped to a low growl, words shaking. "If you ever say it's my fault again, I swear to God"
"Or what?" she said, trembling but defiant.
He slammed both palms on the counter beside her face. The walls shook. Dishes clattered. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts. For a split second, the distance between them was inches, just enough for her to see how broken he was.
Sarah turned her face away, whispering through tears, "You're not the man I married."
He stared at her, trembling hands curling into fists. "You took her side," he muttered, half to himself. "Even now."
She moved quickly, grabbed her purse, the keys, and her jacket. He reached out, not gently, but his hand stopped midair when he realized what he was doing. His fingers hovered in the air, shaking.
"Don't walk out that door," he said.
She turned. "You already did."
The front door opened, letting in a gust of night wind that fluttered the curtains. Margaret stepped out into the dark, the sound of her heels fading across the driveway.
Daniel stood alone, the light from the hallway flickering across his face. His hands dropped to the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. He stared at the broken mug on the floor, its shattered pieces glinting like teeth, and sank slowly to his knees.
The house finally fell silent, save for the sound of his breathing ragged, uneven, and somewhere outside, a siren calling far away.
Miles from New York, beyond the last ribbon of highway and the neat suburban sprawl, the Monroe Complex sat like a wound stitched into the earth long and low, more corridor than tower, a ribbon of metal and glass that refused to be picturesque. It was not meant to be seen: satellite angles blurred at its edges, drone flight paths misdirected, maps that once pointed the way now smeared with corporate redactions. On approach, the building's profile was unremarkable; up close, it hummed with purpose.
People wore coats here that hung like uniforms of weatherless authority. Badges glinted beneath lapels, IDs flashed with soft, private green. They moved with the calm efficiency of people who had learned to make the world obey their schedules. The main entrance opened on a lobby whose floor was not tile but a slab of polished quartz. The surface caught the light and read the living pattern of any footfall, a fingerprint in stone that whispered identity to the building. Walk across it, and the floor answered quietly in a way only the system could understand; access gates tilted open when the quartz confirmed you belonged, and the quiet doors stayed shut for those it did not.
The walls were not just walls. Their sleek skin hid cartography in low relief: interlocking glyphs that, to new arrivals, appeared ornamental, abstract waves, spirals, and repeating arcs. The old hands knew the truth: the patterns were pathways, a guide to secret seams that opened only if you'd earned the map. Newcomers could respect the surface and little more. Trust earned you access not by keys but by geometry: the building asked a question; you answered in code.
At the main concourse, vehicles hovered inches off the ground, chrome shells floating on a soft electromagnetic breath. They glided with the politeness of modern things, sliding aside to let suited couriers pass without a sound. Staff moved through the halls like currents in a well-designed river; some doors opened, some did not; some labs were glass and eloquent, others were shutters and secrets. Near the public sectors, a plaque read Project Sectors: Secure. Authorized Personnel Only. Deeper corridors branched like arteries, and beyond them, the facility became vertical in the opposite sense: long hallways giving way to elevators that swallowed you and took you down.
Down, down, through levels that smelled faintly of ozone and chemical sterility. The mechanical thrum changed subtly the further you descended; pressure altered, air cooled. Somewhere down there, doors with triple-authentication plates and iris scanners guarded rooms that government committees only dreamed of. Lab sector 576 was one of a dozen walled-off promises: a room with reinforced glass, an arsenal of quantum matrices, a hum that said they were trying to write the laws of physics in a language new to the universe. In that room, men and women bent over machinery half-dreamt of, working to open corridors between worlds, calibrating instruments that would, if allowed, let someone claim power like a myth.
But further still, beneath the dreaming workshops and buzzing matrixes, past the stacks of sealed projects and the biometric checkpoints, there was a stair no emergency ever used and an elevator that spoke softer than the others. The bottommost level belonged to a man who had not simply built a laboratory; he had built a throne room for knowledge and control.
His office took up the span of a small manor. Dark oak floorboards stretched wide and deep, the kind of wood that drank light and returned it tempered. A giant circular rug lay at the center, ringed in a pattern of obscure symbols that would look decorative to anyone else, but to the builder read like the names of lost cities. A long brown table stood at the back, an island of executive gravity, and in front of it, a couch like a throne, low and broad, upholstered in leather that bore the imprint of a thousand meetings. To the left, bookshelves climbed to the ceiling, an absurd forest of spines: some new and clinical, others ancient and cracked at the edge, a first edition Bible among them, its gold leaf dulled by hands that had read it for reasons both devout and clinical.
He sat on that couch like a man with the patience of a god. He did not smoke; there was no ashtray. But someone had once said he collected silence the way others collect art. A grid of monitors rolled in front of him in a ribbon like a private night sky. Cameras fed into the array from every latitude he thought mattered: city streets, towers, suburban porches, a hundred places where secrets like to hide. Every angle he wanted to see, he had set a lens on. He watched without flinching.
Two figures entered. The blue-masked man moved like someone used to shrinking into the background, even when he was front and center, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders pulled taut. The mask was a calm blue, expressionless, fitted; a small lightning bolt, trimmed in a near-invisible metal, traced from temple to cheek. The man in the red suit carried himself like someone who had been tailored for command: broad shoulders, measured steps, a presence that made other people's breath slow down. His suit caught the low light and reflected it in subtle gold stripes.
They did not need to remove their badges. The quartz floor registered them, sang its private music, and the office responded by shifting its light a degree colder.
The blue-masked man stepped closer, eyes flicking up to the monitors, then back, hands never leaving where they were. He spoke with a voice that kept itself under control, each word chosen to be a single brick. "Sir," he said, "we have the girl."
The man on the couch did not lean forward. He did not need to. The monitors rolled images; in one pane, the crowd at Hudson Yards blurred, red and blue flashes, the awful finality of a public scene. His hand found a remote on the leather beside him and tapped the surface once, twice — not to change the images but to select. The screen responded with a zoomed frame: three boys on a dirt path at the edge of a wood. The world held them in grainy resolution: one tall and loose, one shy and watchful, the third a blur of movement. He watched them in a way that felt like factoring them into an equation.
"Good," he said at last. The single syllable was a seal and a knife. "Any notice? Any deviation from plan?"
The red-suited man, who had been watching the live feeds with the clinical detachment of an auditor, glanced at a pad clipped to his forearm and then back to the screens. "No, sir," he said. "No interference. The local forces have contained the area. Witness traffic has been reduced."
The blue-masked man's eyes, visible through the mask, dropped to a screen where a small scrap of textile lay blue, with a red bolt embroidered into it, pinned to a thorn. For a moment, he did not look away. It was a tiny thing, the kind of shard that would be easy to overlook if you did not know how to read meaning into wounds.
Perfect, the man on the couch said without ceremony. He tapped the remote with a thumb, and the image expanded, showing grain, sweat, and the boys' faces in more detail. The topology of youth: the awkward set of shoulder blades, the misplaced confidence, the guilt thin as paper across one face.
"Those children are getting too close," he said. His voice grew colder like the turning of a key. "I want them… exterminated."
It was not a question. The request folded into the room like an order. The two masked figures exchanged a glance only long enough to be polite. They both inclined their heads and turned toward the door as if their next step were as inevitable as sunrise.
Then he stopped them with a hand, not because he had any doubt, but because malicious precision pleased him. A slow smile ghosted across the corner of his mouth. "And one more thing," he added, "left of center, Connor. He knows. He has a piece."
For a moment, the two men hesitated, the smallest sign of attention. The blue mask craned its head fractionally, a mechanical line of curiosity. The red suit's jaw tightened. A single flash on the monitor showed the scrap of fabric again: there, an embroidered bolt, the missing section where someone, not the owner's had torn it loose.
The man on the couch watched the reflection of the boys, their small bright movements a web he had not bothered to burn away yet. "Make no mistakes," he said, voice velvet over steel. "Remove the variables. Quiet, clean as if the world had caught a cold and then forgotten to mention it."
They bowed their heads, the movement solemn and efficient, and then they left their steps measured, the echo of their passage swallowed by the lab's breathing walls. The door closed with a softness that made the room seem larger, more ominous.