“Sir, I have serious reservations about this procedure,” Clifford mutters, fingers adjusting his pristine glasses.

  The General exhales sharply, fingers failing to rub the frustration out of his eyes. What was it with geniuses trying to drive him insane today? He had barely had a moment to enjoy being rid of Chris before this new headache had reared its head.

  He casts an unimpressed glance at the jittery scientist, whose hands won’t stop fidgeting with his damn glasses. If the man didn’t need them to see, the General might have tossed them into the bubbling vat of chemicals across the room. Glass panel be damned.

  Inside, two hazmat-clad figures move with clinical precision, adjusting dials and feeding a fresh stream of liquid through the tangle of tubes protruding from the tank. The mixture churns, releasing an iridescent shimmer as another chemical is introduced.

  Clifford shifts beside him again, palms smudging the glass in front of them. The General growls.

  “Will you relax, Clifford?” He yanks the man back by the collar of his ever-present lab coat. “This procedure was successfully tested in the sixties—by people who barely had color television.”

  Clifford swallows, hands smoothing down his coat. “Technically, the first color television was invented in 1925—”

  The General cuts him a glare so sharp it could slice steel.

  “Right. Sorry.” Clifford clears his throat. “I just—factoring in the new upgrades, plus the crystal, which also hasn’t been tested, we’re dealing with a whole new level of unpredictability—”

  The General grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, once, just enough to jolt the words loose from his skull.

  “We have aliens among us now, Clifford!” He punctuates the statement with another firm shake. “Aliens who, if left unchecked, could send a distress signal straight into the stars!”

  Clifford’s hand flies to his glasses again. “But Chris said—”

  “Chris,” the General snaps, smacking his hand away before he can reach for his glasses again. God was it satisfying. “has been harboring our other enormous problem. Why the hell should we listen to anything he has to say?”

  The Professor quakes, The General savoring it.

  “This is our country. Our Planet.” His grip tightens slightly. “We can’t sit back and let these things take over.”

  With surprising gentleness, he adjusts Clifford’s glasses—warranted this time, as they were sliding down his sweat-slick nose. Then he claps the man on the back and steps away, resuming his usual parade-rest stance.

  “Now—who’s our candidate?”

  Clifford straightens with effort, flipping through the dossier. “Corporal John Fraker. Top of his squad, highest endurance levels on record.”

  The General hums approvingly. “Bring him in.”

  The door opens.

  In steps a man in a sky-blue bathrobe.

  Lean, muscular, standing at an easy 5’12”—a little over six feet if you were feeling generous. His fitness scores are off the charts, but endurance is what really matters.

  The previous test subjects never lasted long enough to integrate. Clifford—if you could tune out all his incessant whining—believed the crystal could change that.

  The General eyes him. “John Fraker?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man salutes, stance rigid.

  “You know why you’re here?”

  Fraker nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that saves us some time.” The General shuts the file, hands it back to Clifford—who, predictably, clears his throat. Right. Terms and conditions.

  “You understand we’re not responsible for any side effects, et cetera, et cetera?” He rolls a hand, hoping to speed things along.

  “I was extensively debriefed, sir.” Fraker’s voice is crisp and aware.

  The General studies him for a beat. “And you’re sure this is what you want?”

  He wasn’t a monster. If Fraker wasn’t here of his own volition, the deal was off. No point wasting good American men.

  “I am here voluntarily, sir.” Fraker nods, shoulders squared.

  Before the General can respond, one of the hazmats steps in. The rubber suit, the clinical precision—it all lends the moment an uncanny weight.

  “We’re ready for him now, General.”

  Fraker turns to leave, but the General lifts a hand, stopping him.

  “Any family to contact? In case things go south?”

  “None, sir. It’s just me.”

  The General nods. “Good luck, kid.”

  Fraker salutes. “Anything to serve my country, sir.”

  Fraker follows the Hazmat into the room that would change his life—or end it—in the next 15 minutes. They watch from behind the glass as he shrugs off the robe.

  Only test subjects were allowed in the room without protective gear.

  As a man over six feet tall, he sure as hell wasn't going to be confined to a full body rubber suit.

  Hazmat Two presses a button. The tubes sticking out of the tub pulse as a cocktail of chemicals and crystal-infused compounds surge into the tank.

  The chamber thrums with energy, the low mechanical hum vibrating through the reinforced walls. The General stands with his hands behind his back, face carved from stone, watching as the vat hisses and seals itself around Fraker. Beside him, Clifford fidgets, fingers twitching toward his glasses again. The General exhales through his nose, resisting the urge to slap them clean off his face.

  Inside, Fraker lies still at first. Then his fingers twitch. The first round of injections flood his bloodstream, and the liquid in the vat darkens, growing thick, dense. His body jerks—once, twice—his muscles spasming involuntarily.

  “Heart rate spiking,” Clifford mutters, voice strained. “This is happening faster than expected.”

  The General barely reacts. “Because he’s strong.”

  Or at least, he hopes he is.

  Inside the vat, Fraker convulses, back arching as the energy from the crystal flows through the tubes and flood his system. His veins glow beneath his skin, an eerie, electric blue. The liquid swirls around him, dragging at his limbs like it wants him. Clifford swallows hard, eyes locked on the monitors.

  “Neural activity is off the charts,” he breathes, adjusting his glasses. Again. “I don’t—this isn’t normal.”

  “Neither is what we’re making,” the General replies, gaze steady.

  Fraker’s body spasms harder now. His mouth opens in a silent scream, but the liquid presses in, fills him. His fingers claw at the vat’s smooth interior, muscles locking. The blue glow pulses brighter, the hum rising to something shrill and unbearable.

  Then the screaming starts.

  Muffled, underwater agony. Clifford flinches. The General does not.

  Fraker seizes once—twice—then—stops moving.

  An alarm blares. Clifford lurches forward. “No, no—his heart stopped!”

  The General’s voice is calm. “Increase the charge.”

  “What?! We should be shutting it down!” Clifford spins, eyes wild. “The human body can only take so much—”

  “Increase. The. Charge.”

  Clifford hesitates a fraction too long.

  The General reaches past him and slams the dial forward himself.

  The blue glow flowing through the tubes flares—too bright—blue shifting to searing white. The entire facility flickers, lights dimming as the power surges. The hum becomes a roar. The liquid in the vat boils.

  Fraker jolts.

  His fingers curl into fists, back arching in blinding pain, and then he stills.

  The alarms cut off.

  For a moment, there is only silence.

  Then the vat hisses as its locks disengage. Steam rolls out in thick waves. The liquid inside should spill—but it clings to him, still shifting, still alive. He lifts his head, eyes snapping open—not blue anymore.

  Fraker sits upright, the viscous fluid sloughing off his skin in slow, heavy drips. He breathes in deep. Controlled. Steady. His fingers flex, curling and uncurling. Testing.

  Clifford stares, mouth slightly open.

  The General finally allows himself the hint of a smirk.

  Chris glares furiously at the seven oversized moving vans clogging his driveway.

  Magic? He had accepted.

  Warlocks? Fine.

  Immortal lunatics with no sense of boundaries? He had adapted.

  But this?

  This was a new kind of crime.

  For a fleeting second, he entertains the idea that he might secretly possess magic—some dormant talent capable of making all the parked trucks spontaneously combust into a glorious, burning wreck. A satisfying thought.

  “Look, man!” a gruff voice snaps him out of his wishful destruction. The head truck driver, a stout man radiating a permanent layer of sweat—adjusts his dusty baseball cap and swipes the moisture from his forehead. A thick drop splats onto the ground. Chris grimaces, suddenly grateful for the concept of personal space.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “All we got were instructions to deliver this stuff to this address…” Baldy fishes a crumpled paper out of his back pocket, extending it toward him.

  Chris’ attorney and the last tether to his sanity, thankfully plucks the note from Baldy with a mild look of distaste before unfolding it. Good thing, because Chris wasn’t touching that note even if his fingers suddenly turned into surgical forceps.

  “… Which is here, isn’t it?” Baldy presses, impatience creeping into his tone. His gaze shifts between the three men before him, daring them to argue.

  Chris huffs, snatching Arthur’s reading glasses straight off his face to peer at the note himself. His own pair had wandered off—again—and he wasn’t about to let Baldy get the upper hand in this.

  Arthur doesn’t protest, merely smooths his lapel as he confirms, “It’s here, all right.”

  The truck driver’s chest puffs slightly in triumph. He jerks his chin toward his crew, who loiter near the far end of the closest van, waiting for a signal.

  “But…” Chris interjects, his voice dangerously slow, reveling in the way Baldy’s confidence falters. “None of these are mine, so I honestly don’t know what to tell you.”

  The driver's brief moment of delight clouds over once again. “We've got another job in an hour, we gotta unload now.”

  Chris sighs sharply, tilting his head toward the sky as if seeking divine intervention. If there weren’t seven of them and only one George, he’d have his security toss them out.

  “I just told you they don’t belong to me, why would you possibly want to unload?” He clasps his hands together over his face, inhaling deeply through his nose. His patience is a fragile, fraying thread.

  “Bub,” Baldy reaches out, aiming for some kind of reassuring shoulder pat, but Chris sidesteps smoothly, expression curling in revulsion. “I really don’t give a shit what belongs to who, as long as I get paid. And the instructions were to unload here and get paid.”

  “Get paid by whom exactly?!”

  Before the driver can answer, the roar of an approaching engine drowns out the tension. A sleek black 1969 Plymouth Barracuda screeches to a halt, obnoxious rock music blasting from its speakers.

  Chris already knows. Of course, it’s her.

  Alex steps out with infuriating ease, the reflection of the sun glinting off her cool blue Aviator glasses. There’s a casualness to her stride, as if she has no care in the world.

  “Hello, Chris,” she greets, her tone light, almost amused. She tilts her head just enough to peer over the rim of her sunglasses at the movers, then flicks a glance at Baldy. “Well, what are you waiting for? Unload the stuff.”

  Baldy doesn’t hesitate. He lets out a sharp whistle between his fingers, and his crew snaps into action.

  “You heard the lady, hop to it!” He sends Chris one last triumphant look before joining his men.

  Chris turns slowly, arms folding across his chest as he levels Alex with an exasperated stare. “Of course, they belong to you.”

  She blinks, head tilting as if only now realizing the issue. “Did I forget to tell you?” A pause. A brief scan of her own memory. “Shit, I forgot to tell you.”

  Chris exhales sharply, waving a dismissive hand toward George. “Our dilemma has been quelled, George. You may go now.”

  George nods and retreats without a word, leaving Chris alone with the chaos unfolding before him.

  His gaze drags over Alex, studying her with quiet scrutiny. Her shoulder—previously an open wound—moves easily, the vicious injury fully healed.

  The upcoming name change however still loomed over her, Arthur here to assist in the necessary legalities, smoothing the transition into her new identity as a ‘Jordan.’

  Lilian, predictably, had been relentless in trying to convince Alex to move in with them.

  A massive grey velvet armchair—ornate, ridiculously heavy, and looking like it belonged to some brooding medieval tyrant—is heaved onto a dolly. It groans under the weight.

  It appears Alex had been successfully worn down, afterall.

  Chris watches the procession of furniture with increasing dismay. His eyes narrow at another particularly gaudy piece—a baroque monstrosity that looks like it was looted from a European palace.

  “Please tell me you did not rob a history museum.”

  “Relax, these are all my stuff,” Alex assures him, waving off his concern with a flick of her fingers. “I haven’t stolen a thing in 700— I mean, uh…” She catches herself, glancing quickly at Arthur before clearing her throat. “What feels like 700 years.”

  Her eyes dart warily from the man back to the movers. Chris smothers a laugh.

  “These are all yours?” he asks, voice edged with disbelief.

  Alex elbows him playfully. “Hopefully, you have a huge-ass storeroom.” She smirks, clearly enjoying his reaction. “Told you I was rich. Possibly even richer than you.”

  Chris scoffs. “It’s not a competition.”

  “You’re right.” Alex sniffs imperiously. “If it was, I’d have won.”

  Thankfully, Arthur, ever the lawyer, chooses that exact moment to clear his throat loudly, a pointed ahem that demands attention.

  “Right. This is Arthur, my personal attorney,” Chris introduces, shaking his head slightly when Arthur extends a hand to Alex. She doesn’t take it, and Arthur smoothly retracts it as if it never happened. “He’s here to legalize the things you’d prefer we keep hush-hush.”

  Alex grins. “Pleased to meet you, Artie. Can I call you Artie?”

  Arthur chuckles, slipping a hand into his jacket and producing a business card. “You can call me whatever you want. Since today has been converted into an impromptu moving day, how about you give me a call, and we can reschedule sometime before next week?”

  Alex plucks the card from his fingers, flashing him a grin. “Done. Done. London.”

  Chris and Alex watch as Arthur bows his head slightly before striding to his car. Within moments, he’s pulling out of the driveway, tires crunching softly over the pavement.

  “So. You didn’t inform me you’d be staging a medieval invasion in my driveway.” Chris says suddenly, belatedly hoping he didn't come off too strong and wind up offending Alex.

  Alex hums knowingly, reading between the lines. There’s no flicker of offense on her face, just an easy smile. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  And a surprise it truly was.

  “You want to see surprised, wait till Lilian gets home,” Chris mutters, shaking his head.

  Before Alex can respond, an SUV rolls to a slow stop in front of them. Chris’s eyes narrow, tracking the unfamiliar vehicle with a cautious scrutiny.

  “Yours?” he asks.

  “Nope. Albie’s.”

  His head snaps toward her just in time to catch the shift in her expression. Her usual smirk softens into something lighter, something unmistakably fond. His gaze follows hers as the driver’s door opens, and a tall, elderly man steps out, leaning slightly on an intricately carved walking stick.

  Chris blinks.

  Then blinks again.

  His brain takes a second longer than usual to process what he’s seeing because Albert Wesson—co-owner of Smith & Wesson Law Firm, a veritable ghost in modern history—is standing in his driveway like it’s nothing.

  Chris’ mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He stares, wide-eyed, as the man—who was rumored to have died in the eighties—exchanges easy conversation with Alex. A nickname even. She had called him Albie.

  “Wait, wait, hold on.” Chris finally regains control of his tongue, though his brain still scrambles to keep up. He turns to Alex. “How the hell do you know Albert Wesson?”

  To Albert he asks, “And how the hell are you still alive almost 30 years after your greatly publicized death?”

  Alex raises a brow and glances at the man beside her, ignoring Chris. “Albert?” she repeats.

  The old man sighs, shifting his weight on his cane. “I look like a white-haired nonagenarian,” he grumbles. “The Harry Potter jokes would practically write themselves.”

  Alex’s grin spreads wider. Chris, meanwhile, is too busy short-circuiting to react immediately. Harry Potter—wait.

  His breath catches as realization slams into him.

  “Albus,” he murmurs, eyes flicking back to the man, scanning his features with renewed scrutiny. “Really, your real name is Albus?”

  Albus rolls his eyes.

  “Hey, Albie, think fast,” Alex says suddenly.

  Chris has a moment of panic where he thinks whatever Alex tossed would clunk Albert–Albus over the head. Rearing back in shock instead, when his withered hand snatches the object effortlessly from midair.

  A low, resonant hum fills the space around them, vibrating through Chris’s bones. He winces as a sudden flash of bright purple light erupts from Albus’s hand, forcing him to avert his gaze for just a second.

  When he looks back, the old man is gone.

  Standing in his place is a dapper young man—jet-black hair, sharp features, dressed in the exact same clothes as before. Even the walking stick remains, though it now seems less like a necessity and more like an accessory.

  Chris stares, blinking rapidly. His mind whirls, struggling to reconcile what he just saw. His body, however, reacts on instinct, arms shifting into a defensive stance, ready for a fight.

  “What just happened?” he crows, voice pitching higher than he’d like.

  Alex immediately steps between them, her hands raised in a pacifying gesture, making sure Chris’s focus is entirely on her. “Relax,” she soothes, voice calm, grounding.

  Albus, now free of both his cane—and what Chris has identified as the dagger that made him overturn everything he thought he knew in life—offers an easy smile to the truck driver who had just stepped out of the house.

  The man’s face scrunches in confusion, eyes darting between Albus and the spot where elderly Albus had once stood. His lips part, as if to question it, but after a beat, he merely shakes his head and mutters something under his breath before returning to his work.

  Albus rightfully takes the opportunity to make his exit. “I’ll be sure to fulfill my part of the deal, Alex.”

  “Yeah.” Alex keeps her attention on Chris, still making sure his heart rate is at an acceptable two digit number. “I’ll call you.”

  Albus nods once, slipping back into his SUV. A moment later, the vehicle disappears down the street, leaving Chris standing there, still trying to remember how to breathe.

  Chris feels like he’s burning up. His pulse pounds against his temple as he tries to piece together what just happened.

  A ninety-year-old man had just de-aged before his eyes.

  “Are you alright?” Alex’s voice is calm, grounding, but Chris barely registers it.

  He sucks in a breath. “I’m not crazy, right? A ninety-something-year-old man just regressed back to his thirties. Right?!” His eyes dart wildly, searching for any sign that reality was still intact.

  “Twenties, actually, But, yes.” Alex corrects.

  “I’m crazy?!”

  Alex shakes her head, glancing at the movers bustling around the house. “No, no, you’re not crazy,” she assures him, voice lowering. “Why don’t we take this enlightening discussion inside?” She flashes a tight smile, the universal signal for not in front of the mortals.

  Chris nods stiffly, letting her guide him through the front door. They dodge two movers struggling under the weight of a vintage sofa, nearly getting clipped by them on the way in.

  His fingers twitch as he steps inside, gaze landing on a framed painting propped against a stack of furniture. His hands move on their own, picking it up, his brows furrowing at the familiar face staring back at him.

  “Why do you have a painting of Lincoln?”

  Alex plops onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. “Because he gave it to me.”

  Chris blinks. “Abraham Lincoln gave you this picture?” His voice cracks on the last word.

  Alex shoots up and motions for him to lower his voice. “Yes, he did,” she says in a hushed tone, eyes flicking around to make sure none of the movers are within earshot. “Check the lower left corner. He signed it.”

  Chris tilts the frame, angling it under the light. His breath catches. Holy shit. He actually did.

  “You knew Lincoln?” His fingers stroke the edge of the painting like it’s some sacred relic.

  Alex smirks. “Of course I did. Who do you think spawned the Civil War?”

  Chris lets out a short laugh, staring at her like she just told him she was the one who built the pyramids. Then again… “So, he knew about you?”

  She hums in confirmation, leaning back into the cushions. “A lot of people through time have known about me.”

  Chris smacks her feet off the coffee table before sinking into the armchair across from her, still gripping the painting. His mind races with too many questions, all of them fighting for dominance.

  “I have so many questions,” he murmurs, rubbing his temples.

  “Take your time,” Alex says, stretching out lazily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chris inhales, mouth opening to speak when the front door swings open.

  “Oh my!” Lilian’s voice rings through the house, her hand flying to her chest as she takes in the sheer volume of furniture and antiques scattered around them. Her gaze flicks from the movers to the absurd collection of vintage belongings cluttering the living room.

  Chris immediately sets the Lincoln painting down, while Alex lifts a lazy hand in greeting.

  “Hey, Lilian.” Alex grins.

  “Hi, honey,”

  Lilian steps further inside, still absorbing the chaos. Her eyes widen when a mover walks past her, weilding an honest-to-God Viking axe. She points at it in alarm. “Chris, that man has an axe.”

  Chris exhales through his nose. “Don’t look at me,” he mutters. “You asked her to move in.”

  Alex sputters, waving a hand defensively. “I have a lot of stuff! I’ve been around a while!”

  Lilian levels her with a long, unreadable look before turning back to Chris. “I might have slightly underestimated exactly how much a while was… and what it consisted of.” She leans down and plants a hello kiss on Chris’ head, like that somehow makes this whole situation any less absurd.

  Chris tilts his head at her, smirking. “Bet you’re loving the Jaguar and car collection now, huh?”

  Lilian straightens, her posture shifting into something more dangerous. “Speaking of cars,” she says, voice taking on a warning edge, “please tell me that’s not a new one parked outside.”

  Chris gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like she’s mortally wounded him.

  Before he can fully launch into his guilt-tripping act, Alex cuts in. “No, that one’s mine.”

  Lilian’s sharp gaze softens instantly. Favoritism. Clear and blatant favoritism.

  “It looks expensive,” she says, brows knitting together in concern.

  Chris grins. “Didn’t you hear, honey? She’s Batman-rich.”

  Alex smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “Actually, I spent a hundred dollars on that car.” She lets the disbelief settle before continuing, “It was ’69, and Woodstock was in full swing.”

  Chris seizes the opportunity like a man starved. “So, technically, you’ve never actually had to work for your money? Just a couple of things you’ve amassed over time?” He gestures wildly, waiting for his moment of victory.

  Alex arches a brow, dragging out her words deliberately. “‘Technically’…” she pauses, watching Chris’ expectant face. “I’ve worked for literally everything I own. Even the gifts. My payments just so happened to shoot up in value over time.”

  Chris groans, looking to Lilian for backup. She merely raises her hands in surrender, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  Alex grins triumphantly and rises from the couch. “I win this round. Good talk, Chris.” She pats his shoulder condescendingly before eyeing the entrance for a second, gaze finally settling on a plush gray velvet armchair beside her. “I think I’m going to take this upstairs.”

  Chris barely has time to register what she’s about to do before she hoists the massive chair—the one that had needed the efforts of three men and a dolly to transport inside—with one arm like a feather pillow and casually ascends the stairs.

  Lilian’s hand flies to cover her gaping mouth. Chris just stares, completely deadpan.

  It was one thing to hear about Alex’s strength, to experience bits of it in dimly lit moments of chaos. Watching it happen in broad daylight, with no supernatural shadows to blur the lines, was a different kind of trip altogether.

  He snorts, suddenly remembering his own reaction from earlier. If only Lilian had been here for the actual magic show.

  His gaze flicks back to his wife, and he sighs dramatically. “Really, Lilian? ‘To have and to hold’? ‘To love and to cherish’?” His voice drips with mock betrayal. “Any of these statements ringing any bells?”

  Lilian hums indulgently, leaning down to plant a bribe of a peck on his cheek. "It was an argument about who had the most money," she murmurs before heading upstairs. “I’m sure God will understand.”