Sometime before the Present …

  The museum glows under crystal chandeliers, its marble halls packed with the upper crust of society draped in couture and ego. The air hums with polite laughter, clinking glasses, and the subtle competition of status. Ancient treasures gleam beneath glass—an Egyptian scepter, scarred medieval armor, even a signet ring that allegedly graced Julius Caesar's pinky. All generously donated by the very people now sipping champagne three feet away from history.

  Akio stands with Lilian and Chris, drink in hand, as polished as the marble beneath them. Their small circle of chatter halts when Alex steps in, drawing glances like a magnet in a knife drawer. Waist-length jacket, sleek black pants, quills for hair smoothed back with uncharacteristic care—and an untied bowtie drooping around her neck like a defiant shrug to the event's dress code.

  Chris and Lilian light up. Akio peels from the group and meets her halfway, grinning.

  "When they said 'black tie,' I promise they meant it tied," he teases, flicking the loose ribbon.

  Alex sighs dramatically. "I tried. But the bowtie's like an eldritch riddle. So many loops. So much betrayal." She flaps one end like it personally offended her.

  They start walking back toward the others.

  "You couldn't have had someone knot it for you?" Akio asks, amused.

  "I like it this way, Akio." She eyes him sidelong. "Why are you publicly bullying my artistic vision?"

  "I'm not bullying," he says, palms up. "I'm editorializing."

  "Lilian!" Alex calls out, eyes on her across the room. "Akio said I look terrible!"

  "I did not say that," Akio protests.

  Lilian gasps, clutching her pearls with award-winning horror. "Akio! She looks perfect."

  Alex smirks. "See? Canonically perfect."

  "Oh please," Akio mutters, failing to hide his grin.

  Chris raises his glass. "Better than half the people here, I tell you. Some people have walked in with nothing but designer tape over their pubes. And that's just the men."

  "Chris!" Lilian scolds, though she's already laughing.

  "Come on, man," Akio groans.

  Alex chuckles. "It's the 21st century, Chris."

  "Exactly. I was promised progress, not pelvic glitter," he mutters. Then, leaning in, "Nobody look—Pinocchio incoming."

  "Did you just call a person—" Akio starts, then abruptly straightens. "Ah. Mr. Warburton."

  Neil Warburton approaches, tall and aggressively British, his suit practically stitched from a hedge fund. His default expression is that of someone forever on the verge of asking to speak to the manager of reality.

  "Akio!" he beams, hand outstretched like he invented manners. "Lovely to see the Jordan family all together again. It's been... a while."

  "'A while' being generous," Chris mutters. "I swear you have a tracking chip on me."

  Lilian intercepts smoothly. "What Chris meant was—it's always a pleasure, Neil."

  "I see a lot of Alex," Warburton muses, eyes briefly flicking her way. "What with her lazing about—"

  "I'm writing a book, actually," Alex interjects, deadpan.

  "—But you, Akio, you've been quite elusive."

  Akio shrugs. "Overseas."

  "Studying," Chris says proudly. "He's going to be a doctor."

  "How admirable," Warburton says, as if complimenting a particularly brave hamster. "Must be exhausting—being the only achiever in the family."

  He adjusts his cuffs for no one's benefit but his own, ensuring the gold catches the chandelier just so. "When I was at Oxford, the mental strain nearly broke me."

  "Short trip," Chris mutters into his glass.

  Lilian elbows him—hard.

  Warburton turns back to Akio, eyes narrowed in mock concern. "And how are you coping? Stressed?"

  "Very," Akio replies with a serene smile. "Cripplingly."

  "And yet you look positively radiant."

  His gaze darts between the siblings. "You both seem to be aging backwards. What's your secret? Really—how old are you?"

  "Twenty-three," Akio replies.

  "Twenty-five," Alex adds. Then frowns. "Wait—twenty-six? Or no, twenty-five. Somewhere in there."

  Warburton's brow lifts. "Weren't you twenty-five two years ago?"

  Alex squints, trying to math. "Twenty-six, then. Or twenty-seven. Whichever sounds responsible."

  Warburton chuckles, not kindly. "Safe to say you've been spending time with Chris."

  Lilian's laugh is too sharp around the edges. Chris just sips harder.

  Warburton gestures at the displays around them. "My wife and I donated about forty percent of the collection. All the Sasanian artifacts—that's ours."

  Chris lets out a noise into his glass that can only be described as a 'champagne growl.'

  "It's not a competition, Neil," he says.

  "Of course not," Warburton replies, all innocence. "We're here for the orphans, after all."

  His eyes land squarely on Alex. Which, hilarious as hell, seeing as Akio—his example of what the perfect golden child should be was one as well.

  She rolls her eyes so hard, several patrons nearby blink from the breeze.

  "Do enjoy the fundraiser," Warburton says, puffing up. "My wife planned it. We had to bring in Mindy Weiss, you know."

  Alex blinks. "No clue who that is."

  "She's the Kardashians' event planner," Akio whispers.

  Chris leans to Lilian, frowning. "What the hell is a Kardashian?"

  Lilian wisely ignores him. "Is your Wife about? I'd love to say hello."

  Warburton scans the crowd. "If you can find her among the sea of people."

  Chris mutters, "Oh no. We couldn't find her. Darn. Guess we'll just keep standing here."

  Warburton frowns slightly, the corners of his mouth dipping like someone just served him a lukewarm tea. "No matter how hard I try, I never seem to understand your sense of humor, Chris."

  Chris flashes a megawatt grin and throws his head back in a thunderclap of exaggerated laughter. "Only a select few are blessed, Neil."

  Akio and Alex snort, failing at discretion. Warburton smiles back with the warmth of a tax audit.

  "I'm going to find my wife," he says. His eyes sweep over Alex one last time, pausing just long enough to make it uncomfortable. "Interesting choice."

  Alex beams. All teeth, no soul. "Thank you."

  Once he's out of earshot, her smile drops like a guillotine.

  "Calling him Pinocchio is too merciful," she mutters. "I'd call him something worse if I could think of something worse."

  Akio shrugs. "What are you talking about? I think he's lovely."

  Chris chokes on his drink. "Lovely? That man would throw you into a volcano if it meant a better tax break."

  Alex nods solemnly. "He does adore you, though. Doctor Jordan. Golden boy."

  Akio watches Warburton's retreating back. "I mean... he does have that tall, angular, vaguely wooden vibe."

  "I call him Pinocchio because he's a lying bastard," Chris explains. "If he also looks like the toy, that's just dumb luck from the universe."

  "Uh, Chris?" Akio raises an eyebrow. "Pinocchio wasn't a liar. He just... lied sometimes."

  Lilian groans. "No, no, no—we are not doing this again."

  Chris looks genuinely affronted. "What are you talking about? Of course he was. His nose grew. That was his thing!"

  "Yeah, but like—three times," Alex says. "He was curious. Gullible. Kind of a dumbass, but not malicious."

  "I've tried to explain this," Lilian sighs. "For years."

  "When people say you've got a 'Pinocchio complex,'" Chris insists, "they're not talking about woodwork. It means you lie like it's your job."

  "No," Alex, Akio, and Lilian chorus in weary unison.

  Akio tacks on, "That's not a real thing."

  Chris throws his hands up. "You guys do realize I've seen the cartoon, right?"

  Akio raises a hand like he's about to deliver a TED Talk. "Not to name-drop, but I knew Carlo Collodi."

  Dead silence.

  Alex blinks. "Wait—the author?"

  Akio shrugs with suspicious modesty. "He was chill."

  Chris gapes. "And that's not name-dropping?"

  "Moving on," Akio replies breezily.

  Their bickering slips into white noise as Alex drifts away, drawn by something else. The laughter, the clinking of glasses—all of it fades. Her gaze locks onto a far display across the room.

  The Macedonian collection.

  Golds like firelight. Purples rich as bruises. Artifacts cracked and worn but still humming with the ache of centuries. She steps forward slowly, the way one approaches a grave or a ghost. Something stirs beneath her ribcage. Not nostalgia—something sharper. Older.

  Then she sees it.

  A glint of purple metal beneath glass. Subtle. Sleek. Ancient. Familiar in a way that steals her breath.

  Recognition slams into her like a freight train doing 90.

  "Oh fuck."

  Akio appears beside her like a shadow.

  "Isn't that your knife?"

  She nearly decks him. Stops just short.

  It is her knife.

  Before she can answer, the world detonates.

  Two shots split the air.

  Screams erupt. Champagne flutes shatter like brittle bones. Guests scatter in a wave of panic.

  Ten armed figures flood the room from every entrance. Black tuxedos. Kevlar. Full-face masks modeled after dead U.S. presidents.

  "Hands in the air, everybody!" bellows Lincoln. "This is a robbery!"

  ~~~

  The moment JFK swipes the access card over the sleek digital alarm panel, the museum transforms. With a groan and a hiss of hydraulics, thick steel barriers slam down over every exit. The sound of locking metal rings through the marble hall like a guillotine snapping shut.

  Guests gasp. Champagne flutes hit the floor. Fear climbs the walls like ivy.

  At the center of the chaos, a man in a George Washington mask steps forward. His posture is calm, almost elegant—but his voice carries the chill of someone very comfortable with violence.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he says smoothly, like a man welcoming guests to dinner instead of a hostage situation. "Sorry to crash this lovely event, but we're gonna need you to throw your phones forward."

  No one moves

  The sharp crack of a gunshot detonates in the air like a bomb. Screams erupt. Washington doesn't flinch.

  "Now. Please," he says again, the civility in his voice clashing with the pistol in his hand.

  Phones rain down in a chorus of shattering glass and clattering cases. Nixon, Jefferson, and Grant kick them into a pile, their movements efficient, impersonal. Then the real work begins—grimy hands stripping diamonds from ears, heirlooms from necks, timepieces from wrists. Velvet bags swell with treasure.

  "I assure you," Washington says, strolling past a sobbing socialite, "we're professionals. This will all be over quickly... provided everyone cooperates."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Hoover, Reagan, Ford, and JFK fan out like a military unit gone rogue. Priceless relics vanish into black duffels—Persian blades, jade idols, Sumerian artifacts. They treat the exhibits like a buffet line. Roosevelt and Jefferson corral the crowd toward the center, guns swaying in rhythm with their boots.

  A woman cries as she unclasps her pearls and drops them into a velvet sack. Jefferson gives her a condescending pat on the head. "That wasn't so difficult, was it, Grandma?" He turns to Roosevelt. "That's the last one."

  "Everyone down. Hands behind your head," Roosevelt commands.

  Like dominos, the glittering guests fold to the marble floor. Frantic whispers swirl. No one dares move.

  Near the Macedonian exhibit, Alex Jordan crouches beside her brother, heart pounding—not from fear, but recognition. Her eyes lock on a glass display case. Inside, cradled by velvet and museum lighting, lies a blade with a faintly glowing violet stone crowned at the golden hilt.

  That blasted knife.

  Of all the goddamn places for it to reappear.

  In the wrong hands—or the right hands, which was often worse—that cursed dagger could end the world. And no, she wasn't being dramatic.

  Curse Warlocks and their tendency to create grand scale problems. Akio exempted, of course.

  "They're almost at the knife," she whispers.

  Akio follows her line of sight and swears under his breath. "I thought you gave that thing to Albus."

  "I did," Alex mutters. "His kids must've donated it after he died. Probably thought it was just... antique garbage."

  "The old fool." Akio hisses through his teeth. "He couldn't have buried it? Burned it? Shot it into orbit?"

  "Please. This is Albus we're talking about. The man probably labeled his will in Elvish. No, what we need is a plan."

  They duck lower as one of the thieves lingers near the Macedonian artifacts, eyes scanning.

  Akio's eyes dart between the masked thieves and the display case. "Working on it."

  "Work faster." Alex's gaze cuts back to the case, then to Akio, her brow furrowing. "You always look like that when you're trying to poop out a solution."

  Akio bristles. "Maybe if someone else helped brainstorm instead of heckling me—"

  "I have a plan, I always have a plan. Alex says primly. "I just don't love the cameras. And the witnesses."

  Akio flicks a glance toward the black domes on the ceiling, then back to her. "And if I take care of the cameras?"

  Her eyes gleam. "Then we have that plan."

  He hesitates—tampering with the museum's digital infrastructure was risky enough. Messing with people's minds afterward? Worse. But letting that dagger fall into some wannabe revolutionary's hands?

  That was apocalypse-on-a-budget level stupid.

  Curse Warlocks and their penchant to not do things halfway. Him excluded, of course.

  He groans low in his throat before spewing some colorful commentary, that has even Alex hitching a reprimanding brow.

  "Fine," he mutters, fingertips beginning to glow faint violet. "But I swear, if I have to do cleanup on this—"

  "Love you too, sunshine."

  A new figure suddenly slithers beside them, crouching low—Chris, somehow grinning in a situation absolutely not worthy of grinning.

  "Hey, I don't mean to break up your little Rebel Alliance moment, but could we maybe speed things along? I've got to pee and I'd really like to live long enough to do it."

  Alex doesn't look at him. "Chris, I swear to every old god and new—"

  "Be careful," Akio says to Alex, eyes flicking toward the case.

  "I'm always careful."

  Chris snorts.

  "No, you're not," he and Akio say in perfect unison.

  Alex flashes them a thin, dangerous smile. "Then it's a good thing I'm also good."

  She rises slowly, hands in the air.

  "Hey! Hey! Stay down!" Lincoln's voice slices through the tension.

  She offers a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Your President-ship-ness, sir. But my dad really has to pee."

  "He can hold it."

  "You don't understand." Her voice is full of innocent concern, and Akio—still crouched—rolls his eyes at the theatrics. "He's got the bladder of a two-year-old—"

  "Sit your ass down!" Roosevelt snaps.

  Alex forges ahead, cool and persistent. "He just kept drinking. Glass after glass—sparkling water, you know how it is—"

  "GET. DOWN," Nixon snarls.

  Lincoln raises his gun. "This is your last warning!"

  Alex presses a hand to her heart, aghast. "I absolutely cannot, in good conscience, let a grown man wet himself in public."

  Jefferson mutters, "I'm done with this." His weapon rises.

  "No!" Roosevelt barks. "He said no one dies—!"

  Too late.

  Jefferson fires.

  Alex twists aside as the bullets leave the barrel—and then time halts.

  The bullets hang midair, frozen in place like metal snowflakes. Gasps ripple through the guests like a wave.

  "What the fuck?!" Roosevelt yells, staring at the impossibility before him.

  Alex smiles faintly as she makes a sharp gesture. The bullets fall like lead insects, clinking against marble.

  Akio rises beside her, violet light rippling from his fingertips. He lifts a hand—and with a sound like static ripping cloth, every camera in the room explodes in a cascade of sparks.

  Lincoln fires at him.

  The bullets curve midair—then whip back toward him.

  The masked men scatter in panic.

  Alex snatches a butter knife from a nearby table. With a flick of her wrist, it zips through the air and buries itself in Jefferson's arm. He screams, gun flying from his hand—right into hers.

  She catches it, dismantles it midair, and lets the pieces clatter to the floor.

  "These are bad for you," she mutters.

  Another flick—and every weapon in the room yanks free of criminal hands, sliding, skittering, sailing across the floor out of reach.

  Washington's gun slams into the wall and drops, useless.

  He stares at her, frozen beneath his mask.

  Roosevelt grabs him. "This was not part of the plan!"

  "The hell is going on?!" JFK yells in a panic.

  Washington curses, pulls a backup pistol—and has it smacked away by a glowing lash of energy. Akio, again.

  Three more weapons fly upward, Washington's included, suspended by Alex's power.

  "Do you surrender?" she asks, eyes dark with pressure. "Or are we doing this the hard way?"

  The thieves hesitate—then cluster in a tight huddle.

  And then: chaos.

  Five charge Alex. Five barrel toward Akio.

  Alex sighs. "Hard way it is."

  She surges forward. Bone hits bone—snapping, cracking. Her movements are brutal, elegant, terrifying. Akio tears through his group with sharp waves of violet force, sending men flying like rag dolls.

  In minutes, it's over.

  Ten bodies lie groaning, twitching, stunned on the ground.

  Alex wipes a smear of blood from under her nose. Her hand twitches, still vibrating faintly with energy.

  "That wasn't so bad."

  Akio turns to the crowd, now wide-eyed and disheveled. "Is everyone okay?"

  A few nods. Others stumble to their feet. Murmurs rise like smoke.

  Mr. Warburton stares, stunned. Then he rounds on Chris, face a mask of outrage.

  "Chris... I demand an explanation!"

  Chris cackles incredulously, ready to unleash a slew of words at Warburton, while Lilian tries to instill some semblance of calm.

  Akio nudges Alex gently, tearing her away from what is certain to be a cinematic rendition of some grand duel.

  "Hey, Alex?" He asks.

  She hums a distracted response.

  "Weren't there ten of these guys?"

  She blinks. "Yeah. Why?"

  A scream shatters the moment.

  They whip around.

  Washington—mask askew, bloodied—has a woman in a chokehold, a pencil jammed to her throat like a shiv.

  "I'll kill her!" he roars. "Nobody move!"

  Guests shriek. The woman's husband sobs, reaching helplessly.

  Alex's expression ices over. The room trembles ever so slightly.

  Alex exhales slowly. "I have to admit, his commitment to bad decisions is astounding."

  Akio exhales hard. "Alex, can you?"

  She eyes the pencil in Washington's hand, unimpressed. "It's a pencil, Akio. Can't you just take him out?"

  "Not without hitting her," he replies, deadpan. "Everyone knows I'm a terrible shot."

  Alex lets out a theatrical huff, scanning the room for something—anything—resembling a solution.

  Her eyes narrow on a 17th-century pirate pistol mounted in a nearby display. Without hesitation, she strides toward it.

  The fact that no one hears the glass shatter as her fist punches clean through the case is a testament to how seriously Washington is selling his "deranged hostage taker" routine.

  Akio's beside her in an instant, stepping over the glass and peering down at her bleeding knuckles, which are already stitching themselves back together.

  "Really?" he says. "Museum-grade vandalism?"

  "I'll donate something anonymously," she replies, plucking the tiny metal ball that served as the bullet. "Maybe even write them a nice card."

  He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. Fair enough.

  She weighs the ball in her hand. It's light. Old. Imperfect. But it'll do.

  Closing one eye, she locks onto the target.

  Washington is still holding the woman tight, practically fused to her back. The crowd clustered around him is far too close for comfort. A blast from Akio would work—if Akio had ever listened during target practice.

  So she handles it herself.

  Her fingers twitch. The ball hovers, glinting as she lines up the shot. Wrist, not head. No need to traumatize the civilians more than they already are.

  She exhales slowly. Then—flick.

  It launches from her fingertips like a missile, whistling through the air. It slips cleanly through the extravagant layers of a woman's updo without mussing a single pin and drills through Washington's wrist—in one side, out the other.

  He screams, releasing the woman as the pencil clatters to the marble floor.

  Chris, bless his timing, appears out of nowhere and promptly shuts Washington up with a satisfying left hook. The masked man drops like a sack of potatoes.

  Akio whistles low. "Nice shot."

  Alex brushes glass from her sleeve, cool as ever. "Was there ever a doubt?"

  Chris and Lilian rush over. Lilian instantly starts patting them down for injuries, which is sweet but also redundant. Alex is already halfway healed. Still, the gesture earns her a warm smirk.

  "That," Chris breathes, eyes gleaming, "was awesome."

  Alex scans the room—guests watching them, gaping, whispering. A phone or two might've been recovered. Not good.

  "Akio," she says. "You got that plan ready?"

  Warburton shoves through the crowd like an angry mall Santa. "Chris! I demand an explana—!"

  Akio doesn't wait. He conjures three pairs of sunglasses and tosses them to Chris, Lilian, and Alex.

  Chris slips his on like he's in a slow-motion action movie, adjusting them with exaggerated care directly in front of Warburton's face. "And lo! An explanation you shall receive." He grins, because of course he does.

  Warburton blinks, somehow still finding the time to scold in between his crippling fear. "Why are you wearing sunglasses at night?"

  He startles when Alex appears beside him, ghostlike. She passes by him, avoiding even brushing his coat, before giving him an awkward thumbs-up.

  "I'll get the doors," she says, and strolls off like none of this is particularly urgent.

  Meanwhile, Akio raises a violet-glowing orb the size of a basketball. It hovers, pulsing with soft, hypnotic light.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he announces with air-hostess charm. "If you'd be so kind as to look directly at the orb... all will be explained."

  Predictably, every eye in the room snaps to the sphere.

  Glazed stares. Slack jaws. The kind of focus usually reserved for lottery numbers and reality show finales. Perfect.

  Alex, at the doors, grips the steel barriers and lifts—no strain, no ceremony, just raw strength. The thousand-pound slabs groan open, metal screaming, but nothing breaks their attention.

  The orb flares.

  And then, white.

  Light floods the room, devouring every shadow.

  Then silence.

  ~~~

  The night splits under the pulse of red and blue lights.

  Police cruisers crowd the street outside the museum like vultures circling a fresh kill. Sirens whine low and steady, casting harsh flashes across the marble steps and the dazed, slowly evacuating guests. Ambulances idle with doors wide open like waiting jaws, ready to swallow up trauma.

  People stumble out, stunned—some weeping, others ranting, most blinking like they've just woken up from a bizarre dream. Paramedics sweep in, efficient and quiet, pressing blankets into hands and checking pulses while officers attempt the Herculean task of sorting truth from panic.

  One particularly done-with-everything officer stands just outside the cordon, notepad in hand, squinting skeptically at a very loud Mr. Warburton.

  "So you're telling me," the officer says, monotone, "a guy in red and blue spandex did this?"

  Warburton nods, sweating through his collar, face still frozen in disbelief. "I—I don't know who he was. But he just flew in—smacked the crap out of those criminals—and then poof. Gone."

  The officer raises a brow. "Right. And did he happen to have a cape?"

  "I think so? Maybe?" Warburton frowns, trying very hard to remember something that never happened. "He was fast."

  Across the barricade, a sharp whistle slices through the air like a command. A tall, sharp-eyed Black woman in a trench coat that looks like it's seen more action than most precincts gestures him over.

  Her presence alone says do not bullshit me. Her expression says especially not tonight.

  "Be right back," the officer says to Warburton, deadpan. "Gotta go radio Clark Kent."

  He strides over, already bracing himself.

  "What's the story?" she asks without looking at him, eyes locked on the chaos behind the tape.

  "Witnesses say a guy in tights did it. Red and blue suit. No one can quite agree whether there was a cape or not."

  She exhales slowly. Not amused.

  "That's what they're all saying," she mutters.

  He snorts. "Mass hallucination? Laced champagne?"

  "Maybe." She isn't convinced. Her gaze lingers on the shattered glass, the long scuff marks on the museum floor like something had dragged or slammed.

  Then, quietly: "Or maybe we've got a local superhero."

  He stares at her. "You too, huh?"

  The lady doesn't take the bait.

  "The good news," the officer continues, trying to salvage some normalcy, "nothing was stolen. Not a single artifact. We've got a half-cut plexiglass case—probably done before Superman made his dramatic entrance."

  They both glance toward the exhibit.

  The knife sits quietly under the fractured casing. Silent. Still. But the air thickens around it, like the pressure before a storm. The officer blinks. A whisper—not quite sound, more like thought—brushes his ear.

  He spins. "Did you say something?"

  The Detective frowns at him. "No."

  She steps closer, reaching a gloved hand into the splintered display. The blade's violet gem flares—faint, but pulsing—as her fingers near it.

  "Excuse me!"

  Both heads snap up.

  A lady approaches—Alex. Calm. Collected. Not a button out of place. Her dark jacket still crisp, boots spotless. In sharp contrast to the disheveled guests staggering into ambulances, she looks like she just left a board meeting, not a warzone.

  "Beg your pardon," she says with an accent sharp enough to cut glass, "but that's actually mine." She gestures delicately toward the knife in the case.

  The officer stares. He has to physically restrain his reaction to the utter disconnect between her posh Oxford cadence and her general ambience, most especially her hair—voluminous and styled like a riot in slow motion.

  The detective folds her arms. "That's actually evidence."

  Alex clicks her tongue, just once—soft, but pointed. The kind of noise made when a far sharper response is being stuffed down for the sake of peace. "I understand," she says smoothly. "But I donated it—"

  "You can retrieve it from the precinct," The Detective interrupts flatly. She doesn't wait for rebuttal. Just reaches in, grips the hilt—gently, as if she knows—and slides the blade into a sleek evidence bag.

  The violet gem pulses. Faintly. Just once.

  The officer swears the hilt glows. Just a bit. Enough to raise every hair on his arms.

  The Detective shoves the bag inside her coat, where it disappears into the fold like contraband. Her tone leaves no room for further conversation.

  She turns, heels crunching over broken tile, and walks toward the waiting cruisers without a backward glance.

  Alex stares after her, jaw tight.

  The officer clears his throat, trying for something vaguely reassuring. "Well. Uh. At least everyone's alright?"

  Alex doesn't respond. Doesn't flinch. Just gives him a long look—a calm, regal sort of contempt—and strides off into the night without a word.

  He scoffs quietly.

  "Fucking rich snobs."

  ~~~

  Across the lot, tucked between flashing sirens, Chris is perched on the edge of an ambulance's open bay, legs swinging like a kid on a playground, though his face screams 'someone please kill me before I die of boredom.' A paramedic unclips the blood pressure cuff from his arm with professional detachment.

  "You're good to go, sir," the paramedic says.

  Chris yanks his arm away like he's offended it was ever touched. "Mm. Total waste of time. Honestly, this whole thing could've been avoided if you people just listened to me."

  The paramedic ignores him entirely, turning to Lilian with the weariness of a man who's already heard too much tonight. "He's alright."

  "I know I'm alright," Chris mutters, louder. "I said I was alright."

  A few feet away, Alex approaches like a stormfront—calm on the surface, but everything under her skin still crackling. She tosses a final glance back at the museum, where the red-and-blue haze makes everything look apocalyptic.

  "She tucked the knife in her coat and told me to come down to the precinct," she says bitterly to Akio, who's leaned back against a car, hands in his pockets, looking half like a spy and half like someone who hasn't slept in a week.

  He gives her a sideways glance. "You do realize you could just steal it later, right?"

  Alex blinks, stunned for half a second. Then snaps her fingers and nods in agreement.

  Akio just sighs through his nose and looks away, mentally filing that under reasons Alex should not be left unsupervised.

  "So. Superman saved the day?" she says, shoulder brushing his as she leans next to him.

  "I thought Spiderman," Akio replies, eyes flicking across the street. "But I'm flexible."

  Alex exhales hard. "All that action. The chaos. The detailed planning. And what—poof. All gone. Nothing for the history books."

  Akio shrugs. "It's not forgotten. We remember."

  "Yeah, well. We're not writing the history books, are we?" she murmurs.

  He gives her a long look. "We're done with the books, remember? We're retired."

  Alex lets out a single, sarcastic laugh. "Please. I'm far too cool to stay out of history forever."

  He rolls his eyes, and she grins.

  Lilian and Chris approach. Lilian looks tired, but alert. Chris just looks annoyed that he's still vertical.

  "We should go," Lilian says, quiet but firm.

  "I second that," Chris adds, adjusting his blazer like he hadn't just been threatening to sue the entire ambulance crew. "Before someone gets any bright ideas involving tubes and personal space."

  "Ezra's here?" Akio asks.

  Lilian points across the street.

  A sleek black limo waits under a busted streetlamp like a ghost. Its engine purrs low and dangerous. Windows tinted. Tires clean. The kind of ride that doesn't stop for traffic, just moves through it.

  "Perfect," Alex mutters, already peeling herself from the car. "I need a hot shower and an even hotter meal."

  "Food sounds great," Akio agrees.

  "I vote shower," Lilian says, rubbing at a smear of dried blood near her elbow.

  Together, the four of them move through the fog of sirens and flashing lights, silhouettes sliding like shadows through the chaos. No one stops them. No one even looks twice.

  They disappear into the night like they were never there. No goodbyes. No handshakes. No debrief. Just gone.

  And later—long after the evidence room has locked for the night, and the detective on duty has clocked out—when Alex breaks in with all the precision of someone who's very good at being bad...

  The knife is gone.

  Not misplaced.

  Gone.