Rory woke the next morning and let habit take the lead. It was easier to pretend the world hadn't ended if he followed the choreography of a normal life.
He pulled on his white school shirt, smoothing the embroidered emblem over his chest with a flat palm. Hoodie zipped halfway, jeans, sneakers. He didn't bother with neatness, only plausibility. He made Abbey breakfast, hunted down her missing shoes, and listened to her morning chatter even as the words slid off his mind like water. When they walked to the bus stop, he made sure to smile whenever she looked up, knowing she was the only person who would notice if he didn't.
They sat in their usual seats, Abbey leaning against the glass, Rory upright with his bag wedged between his feet. Around them, the bus buzzed with the typical noise of kids who still had somewhere to go. Nothing looked different, which was the most jarring part of all.
When they reached Abbey's stop, he walked her to the primary school gate as he always did when Liz or Pete were working. She squeezed his hand before darting off to join her friends.
"Bye, Rory!"
He waved, watching her until she was a speck in the distance. The bus pulled away behind him, and usually, this was the moment he'd pivot toward his own campus. Instead, he just... didn't. He lingered for a few seconds, staring at his phone and pretending he had a reason to be there. Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
That became the architecture of his days. He would bus Abbey to school, walk her to the gate, smile, wave, and then simply disappear. He sought out places where he didn't exist to the rest of the world: the park with the broken bridge, the cracked concrete behind the skate ramps, or just walking until the ache in his legs drowned out the noise in his head. He smoked when he had the chance; when he didn't, he sat with his thoughts until they grew too loud to bear.
And every hour, he opened Instagram.
Dan's profile sat at the very top of his search history. On the first day, there was nothing new, just the ghosts of their friendship. Photos of the river. The bus. A blurry shot of the two of them laughing so hard the frame was a smear of light. Rory stared at it until he had to swallow hard.
He typed: "Hey." Then deleted it.
That afternoon, he tried: "I'm sorry." He deleted that, too.
Eventually, he let one fly: "Can we talk?"
No reply.
The second day followed the same routine. Bus, gate, smile, walk away. He sat in a corner of the oval where the grass was long, scrolling through a world he was no longer part of. A new story popped up: Dan at lunch, head thrown back in a laugh. Michael was sitting beside him. Rory went perfectly still, replaying the clip over and over, telling himself it was fine, just friends filling the gap until things were okay again. His chest didn't get the message.
That night, another update appeared. A photo on the bus, Michael leaning in, Dan grinning.
Rory typed: "Please." He didn't send it.
By the third morning, Abbey insisted he wait with her until the final bell rang. He stood among the adults and older siblings, trying to look like he belonged there. When she finally skipped inside, he stayed a moment too long, staring at the gate as if it might swallow him too. Then he left for the far end of the oval, knees pulled up, hoodie half over his face.
He opened the app again to find another photo. Michael was sprawled across Dan's bed, flipping through a comic. Casual. Comfortable. Normal. The caption was one of Dan's specific brand of puns, the kind he used to test out on Rory first. Rory's stomach twisted.
He sent a message: "Hey. Can we talk? Please?"
It delivered. He watched the screen like an idiot, waiting for a typing bubble that never flickered to life. Hours passed. Nothing.
By the end of the first week, the rhythm was locked in. Uniform, bus, gate, smile, disappear. Then the smoke, the scroll, and the eventual break. He rehearsed conversations in his head, apologising, defending himself, or saying nothing at all because he didn't even know what words were left. The worst part wasn't the silence; it was realising Dan was learning to live without him, and seeing how quickly the hole he left behind had already been patched over.
Friday afternoon, Rory waited at the gate as usual. Abbey came tearing out and launched herself at him, her arms wrapping tight around his waist. He hugged her back, his grip a little too desperate.
"Rory," she laughed, wriggling. "You're squishing me."
He loosened his hold. "Sorry."
They walked home together, her voice a steady stream of schoolyard drama. When she wasn't looking, Rory's eyes drifted to the red band visible under his cuff, then to his phone. Still nothing from Dan. He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he was fine. He told himself he deserved it.
***
Sullivan was already in the room when Ethan arrived, standing by the window with her hands clasped behind her back. Her posture was immaculate, mirroring the clean, predictable patterns of the city beyond the glass, everything in its place.
Alex was tucked in her usual corner, leaning against the wall with her tablet under one arm. She gave Ethan a brief nod as he crossed the threshold.
Sullivan didn't turn around. "Owen Brown's disclosure has been corroborated."
Ethan stopped, the words landing heavy. "So everyone finally agrees Rory didn't start it."
Sullivan turned just enough to catch his eye. "We agree the episode was externally induced."
Cold phrasing. Ethan took it anyway. "Good."
"And that informs our response."
Ethan stepped closer. "Which is...?"
Sullivan moved to the table and rested her hands flat on the surface, as if grounding the whole room. "Rory Atwood remains an untrained minor with significant capability and compromised emotional regulation," she stated. "That assessment is unchanged."
"He's a teenaged boy," Alex muttered. "Of course it's compromised."
Sullivan didn't acknowledge her.
Ethan's brow furrowed. "But he's not blacklisted."
"No," Sullivan said. "He isn't disqualified."
The word landed like a gift. Ethan's shoulders dropped an inch. "Okay. Good. Then I should talk to him. Properly."
Alex's attention sharpened.
"I want to explain what happened," Ethan said. "Tell him Owen came forward. That Beau crossed a line and it's been handled. He deserves to know where he stands."
Sullivan studied him. "Yes."
Encouraged, Ethan straightened. "No pressure. No pitch. Just clarity."
"Yes," Sullivan repeated.
Alex's brow pinched. Too smooth. Too easy.
"He's been through enough," Ethan added, almost pleading. "He needs to hear we're not just... done with him."
"Karmal is not an emotional entity," Sullivan said. "We don't forgive or condemn. We assess risk and viability."
"Understood," Ethan said. "But practically speaking... he's still wanted."
"Yes."
There it was again, that careful, singular consider-it-a-permission. Ethan let out a tired breath. "Good."
Sullivan began to circle the table. "When you speak to him, emphasise stability."
Ethan's faint smile died. "Meaning?"
"Continuity. Routine. Oversight. Familiar structures."
Alex leaned forward. "Karmal."
"Yes."
Ethan's frame tensed. "Sullivan, I'm not going to sell him anything."
"I'm not asking you to."
"I just want to explain his status."
"And his status," Sullivan said smoothly, "is close to us." She tapped her tablet and data bloomed across the table, engagement arcs, probability curves, proximity maps. "He is currently unattached. That makes him vulnerable."
"To what?"
"To anyone who recognises his value," Sullivan said, "and does not share our restraint."
Alex's mouth pressed into a thin line.
Ethan watched the projections. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"I want you to re-establish contact," Sullivan replied. "Bring him back into a controlled environment. Limited. Structured. Supervised. Control work only."
"And the band?"
"It can be removed."
Ethan froze. Alex looked up sharply. "If?"
"If he agrees to return," Sullivan said. "And to remain under oversight."
"That's conditional compliance," Alex said flatly.
"It's conditional trust," Sullivan corrected.
Ethan shook his head. "You're dangling relief as a hook."
"I'm offering incentive. You know the difference."
"He'll see the catch."
"Then explain it better," Sullivan said, and turned to Alex. "That is why you're going."
Alex's jaw tightened. "You're sending me to soften the blow."
"I'm sending you because you're an empath."
Alex's hands curled at her sides. "I don't manipulate people."
"I'm not asking for manipulation," Sullivan said. "I'm asking you to listen. To attune. To help him feel safe enough to stay."
"That's still influence."
"Yes," Sullivan agreed. "That is your job."
Ethan stepped forward, blocking the line between them. "Don't do this. Don't turn concern into leverage."
Sullivan regarded him for a long moment. "I'm turning exposure into protection. If you don't secure him, someone else will. Someone without bands, without oversight, and without restraint." Her voice dropped, sharper now. "You both claim to care about his safety. Act like it."
Silence.
Ethan reminded himself to breathe. "I'll talk to him. But I won't corner him."
"I wouldn't expect you to," Sullivan said. "The feeling of choice is important."
Alex's stomach sank at the word feeling."And if he says no," Sullivan continued. "Then the band stays, and distance increases."
Ethan's head snapped up. "Meaning me."
"Yes."
The threat was clean. Quiet. Absolute.
Ethan exhaled once, jagged. "I'll go."
Sullivan nodded. "Take Alex."
Alex didn't argue. She refused to look at Sullivan as they turned to leave.
"And Ethan?" Sullivan called.
He paused at the door.
"If Rory asks whether this is about keeping him safe," she said, "you may say yes. Because it is."
In the corridor, Alex broke the silence first. "She's using me," she said. Then, sharper: "On a fifteen-year-old kid."
Ethan didn't slow. "She's using both of us."
"So what do we do?"
He stopped so abruptly Alex nearly walked into him. When he turned, his voice was low, contained, and dangerous with focus.
"We use her."
Alex blinked. "Excuse me?"
"She wants him close," Ethan said. "Observable. Tethered to Karmal."
"That's not care."
"I know." His jaw tightened. "But it is safety."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "But it's the only one we have."
Alex crossed her arms, anger finally spilling over. "So Rory stays the pawn in the middle."
Ethan's mask slipped for a second, exhaustion showing through. "He's already in the game," he said quietly. "Whether we like it or not."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"No," Ethan said. "It makes it necessary."
Alex looked away, swallowing the tightness in her throat. "You really think this helps him?"
"I think if he walks away right now, someone else will find him," Ethan said carefully, he caught her gaze. "Here, at least, we can see him. We can protect him."
"He's not going to like this. You know that right?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice softened. "He already thinks he's alone."
Alex's shoulders sagged, fight draining out. "So we just... play along?"
"We play smart," Ethan said. "We keep him close. We keep him safe. We make sure he knows he has people in his corner, even if the system doesn't."
Alex searched his face. "So this is how we play it? "
Ethan nodded once, heavy.
Alex looked down. "...I hate this."
"So do I," Ethan said.
She lifted her gaze again, steady now. "Just don't ask me to lie to him."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "I won't."
Even if Sullivan would have preferred it that way.***
The rain had settled into a thin, miserable drizzle, not enough to justify going home, not enough to wash anything clean.
Rory sat hunched at one of the concrete picnic tables under the park's old shelter. His uniform was still on, damp at the cuffs. The white collar creased, the emblem on his chest clear as day. He hadn't bothered changing. Staying in costume felt safer, like the lie only worked if he didn't break character.
A joint smouldered between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, trapped under the roof before drifting out into the grey air. His iPod sat wedged in his hoodie pocket, one earbud dangling loose, some half-forgotten track playing tinny and distant.
He scrolled.
Alternative schools. Flexible enrolments. Youth pathways. Re-engagement programs.
Every listing felt like a door that required an adult to open it.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
Ethan.
Rory's heart jumped hard enough to make him swear under his breath. He stared at the screen and didn't move. Let it ring out.
The silence after felt heavier.
He took a deeper drag, held it until his chest burned, then exhaled shakily and dropped his gaze back to the screen like the call hadn't happened.
It rang again.
Rory frowned at it, irritation slicing through the haze. He stared a second longer, then swiped to answer.
"What," he said flatly.
"Where are you?" Ethan asked.
Rory blew smoke out the side of his mouth. "Why do you care?"
A pause. Not long. Just enough.
"Because I'm at your house," Ethan said. "And you're not."
Panic hit sharp and immediate.
"What?" Rory sat up straighter, eyes flicking toward the park entrance like Ethan might already be there. "Why are you at my house?"
"I'm looking for you."
Rory let out a short, breathless huff. "Well, I'm not there. So. You can go." Then, quieter, involuntary: "Please."
Another pause, longer.
"So where are you?"
Rory clenched his jaw. "Why."
"Because I want to talk to you."
Rain pattered against the roof. A dog barked somewhere nearby. His music kept playing like it belonged to someone else's life.
"I can stay here," Ethan said evenly. "If you'd rather come home."
Rory dragged a hand through his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. Then louder, clipped: "Fine."
He rattled off the location. "The park. Three blocks away. I'll drop a pin."
He hung up before Ethan could answer.
"Fuck," he said again, softer.
He inhaled hard, fast, because he didn't have time. Sent the pin with shaking fingers, then slumped back against the cold concrete and stared at rain sliding off the shelter's edge.
He finished the joint in two quick drags, ground it out against the bench.
Ethan was on his way.
And whatever version of the day Rory had been pretending to live in was about to end.
***
Rory spotted them before they reached the shelter, two figures crossing wet grass from the path. Ethan's stride was familiar: controlled, purposeful.
The second shape beside him made Rory's stomach drop.
Alex.
He straightened instinctively, fingers curling around his phone like it gave him something to do with his hands. He hadn't expected backup. He definitely hadn't expected her.
They slowed as they approached, clocking him in the same half-second, the slouched posture, the haze still clinging to the air, and then the uniform.
The white shirt. The emblem.
Rory realised, distantly, that he'd made the whole thing worse just by forgetting to change.
"Hey," Ethan said, stopping a few feet away.
Rory swallowed. "Hey."
Alex gave a small nod. "Hey, Rory."
The silence that followed was sharp, surgical.
Ethan's gaze flicked to the logo on Rory's chest and back again. "So," he said, carefully neutral, "you're in uniform."
Rory's brain scrambled. "Yeah. Uh." He shrugged badly. "Step dad talked to the school. Sorted it."
Alex's eyebrows lifted, barely, but it was enough.
"Sorted it," Ethan repeated. "And you're... ditching?"
"I'm not ditching." Rory's voice came out too fast. "I had a free. And I just needed air."
Ethan held his gaze. "Right."
Rory's defensiveness flared. "Why are you here?"
Alex glanced at Ethan, then back to Rory. She didn't answer. She let Ethan do it.
"We know what happened," Ethan said.
Rory's shoulders locked. "Yeah I know."
"No. I mean, we know what really happened," Ethan replied. "Owen told us. Telemetry backs it up. Beau's been reprimanded."
That hit harder than Rory expected, relief and rage colliding without warning.
"So you know I didn't just... snap," Rory said, voice brittle.
"Yes," Ethan said. "We know you were pushed."
Alex watched Rory's jaw clamp like a door being held shut. Hurt sat thick under the surface, guarded and controlled.
"And it changes where you stand," Ethan continued. "With us."
Rory laughed under his breath. "Does it?"
"It does," Ethan said simply.
Rory shook his head. "I'm not coming back. If that's why you're here."
"We're here to talk," Ethan said. "That's it."
Alex stepped in, calm. "You don't owe us an answer today."
Rory's eyes snapped to her. "Then why bring you?"
The accusation came quick and sharp. "Are you here to manipulate me? I know what you do."
Alex didn't flinch. "No."
Rory scoffed.
"I'm serious," she said evenly. "If I wanted to push, you'd already feel it. And you don't."
He hesitated despite himself.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
She kept her voice even. "I was there when Ethan first brought you in. I was with you before any of this blew up. I'm invested because I care. That's all."
Ethan took a breath. "Karmal hasn't written you off, Rory. The band doesn't have to stay. Training's still on the table. Control work. Structure. Protection."
Rory's laugh was sharp this time. "Protection from who?"
Ethan met his eyes, but Rory cut in first, hard: "I'm fine."
He looked away like the word tasted bitter. "I don't need you. Or Alex. Or Karmal. Or any of this."
Ethan started to speak, but Alex lifted a hand slightly, not to stop him, just to let Rory finish.
"If you're worried I'll sign with someone else," Rory went on, voice tight, "I won't. I don't want anything to do with any of you anymore."
Alex felt the truth under it immediately, the wanting, the safety, the structure, all buried under the hurt.
She didn't call it out.
Instead she said, gently, "That might be what you want. But it doesn't mean you're done."
Rory frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Alex said gently, "that when you came in enhanced, you were told the truth. You're tied to this world now. Hector. Karmal. Oversight. Check-ins. Monitoring. That doesn't disappear just because you walk away."
Ethan nodded. "You don't get to opt out completely."
"You'll be watched either way," Alex continued. "At least with us, with Karmal, you know who's watching. You know the rules."
"And?" Rory snapped.
"And you get training that teaches you how to stay in control," she said. "That's safer than being left to figure it out alone."
Rory's hands curled into fists. "I didn't ask for any of this." he snapped. "I didn't do this." Rain hissed, rain fell softly beyond the shelter, a quiet counterpoint to the heat in his voice.
"I know," Ethan said immediately.
Rory's words came faster now, edged and brittle. "So why am I the one being punished?"
"You're not," Ethan said.
Rory scoffed.
"This isn't punishment," Ethan replied, firm but controlled. "It's responsibility. Once you're enhanced, the stakes aren't normal."
Alex nodded. "It's about safety."
"I'm not dangerous," Rory snapped.
"No," Alex agreed. "But what happened proved how fast things can become dangerous when you're pushed."
"I won't hurt anyone," Rory shot back. "I just want to forget it ever happened."
The sincerity in it made Alex's chest tighten.
"It doesn't work like that," she said quietly. "You don't get to erase it. You have to account for it."
Rory's anger collapsed inward, compact and sharp. "So what, I'm just stuck? Forever?"
"You need to check in," Alex said. "With us, or with someone else."
"And if I don't?"
Alex held his gaze. She didn't like it, but she wouldn't lie.
"Then it escalates," she said.
Ethan's voice came in low. "Oversight doesn't like uncertainty. If they don't have eyes on you, they start asking who should."
Rory went still.
The anger didn't disappear. It just folded tight against his ribs. Trapped. Cornered.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then Rory shrugged, sharp, defensive, like a wall snapping into place.
"Fine," he said flatly. "Check-ins. That's it. I don't want anything else from any of you."
Hope flickered in Ethan before he could stop it. "Rory, if you came back, even just for training, you'd have support. The band could come off. You wouldn't be alone."
"I said no," Rory cut in, immediate and absolute.
He looked at Ethan then, furious, guarded, painfully young. "I'll do the check-in because I have to. Don't pretend it's anything else."
Alex felt it settle, cold and clear: Rory wasn't agreeing. He was complying.
Ethan nodded once, reluctant. "Okay."
Rory pushed up from the bench, already closing ranks. "So are we done?"
"For today," Alex said.
Ethan hesitated. "You're scheduled next week. Official check-in. Nothing else."
Rory let out a humourless breath. "And?"
"And we can talk then," Ethan said carefully. "About options."
Rory's gaze went flat. "What's the point? My answer won't change."
"That's not what this is about," Ethan said.
Rory shrugged again, smaller this time. "Sure it isn't."
He stepped back, making distance on purpose. Not running. Not flinching.
"I'll come in," he said. "Because I have to. That's it."
Ethan opened his mouth.
Rory lifted his chin, eyes hard. "You can go now."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude.
It was final.
Ethan held his gaze for a beat, then nodded. "Okay."
Alex followed him without a word.
They didn't speak as they walked away. Ethan kept his pace measured, like he was resisting the instinct to look back. Alex stayed half a step behind him, shoulders tight, attention split between the path and the pressure she could still feel radiating from the shelter.
They didn't even make it to the end of the street before Rory's chest caved in.
He waited anyway. Counted to ten. Then twenty. Stared at wet concrete until his vision blurred.
When he was sure they were gone, he pulled another joint out of his pocket.
His hands were shaking. That annoyed him. He hated that part, hated that his body still reacted like this even when no one was yelling, no one was touching him, no one was doing anything right now.
He lit it and dragged in smoke until it burned.
It was supposed to help. It usually did.
Not today.
He should've felt better. Ethan knew now. Alex knew. They all knew he hadn't just snapped for nothing.
But knowing it wasn't his fault didn't fix anything.
Dan was still gone. School was still gone. His life was still this broken thing he couldn't explain without sounding like a liar or a screw-up.
He blew smoke out slowly and watched it disappear.
It felt like everyone had gotten what they wanted except him.
Owen got protected.Beau got a slap on the wrist and kept moving.Karmal got their hooks back in, polite, careful, pretending it was help.
And Rory just sat there. Used.
That word kept bouncing around his skull, ugly and loud.
He tugged his hood down, knees pulled tighter to his chest. The red band pressed heavy against his wrist, itchy and impossible to forget.
Proof.
That he didn't get a say.That walking away wasn't really walking away.That someone would always be watching, deciding, telling him what was "best."
He felt stupid for ever thinking anyone would help him without wanting something back.
The smoke didn't make the ache go away. Didn't make him miss Dan less. Didn't fix the empty space where normal was supposed to be.
Rory stared out at the rain, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.
He felt alone in a way that scared him.
Like there was no one he could lean on without it turning into something else. Like every person close to him had an angle, a leash they hadn't shown him yet.
He didn't trust anyone.
He didn't know if he ever would again.***
Later that night Rory sat cross-legged on his bed with his back against the wall, headphones on, iPod balanced beside his thigh. The music drifted low and steady, something familiar enough that it didn't demand his attention.
His sketchbook rested open on his knees.
He hadn't meant to draw Dan.
It had just... happened.
A few loose lines at first. The curve of a smile. The tilt of a head thrown back mid-laugh. He shaded carefully, deliberately, like if he got it right, if he captured that exact expression, it might make something inside him settle.
It didn't.
The drawing only made the absence louder.
Rory stared at it, chest tight, pencil hovering uselessly above the page. He missed him in a way that felt physical, like pressure behind the ribs. Like reaching for something that wasn't there anymore.
His thumb drifted toward his phone by sheer muscle memory.
He didn't open Instagram. He already knew the content of that digital ghost-hunt. There would be a new story or another photo of Dan leaning close to Michael, effortlessly filling the void Rory had left behind. Or, perhaps worse, there would be nothing, proof that Dan had simply moved on and stopped looking for him altogether.
He didn't need to check his messages to know the silence was still absolute.
Whatever he found would only sharpen the sting, so he locked the screen and let his hand drop back to the page. The emptiness crept in instead, dull and heavy, like fog rolling in.
He didn't hear Pete calling his name. Not the first time, nor the second.
It wasn't until a sharp, angry bang rattled the wood of his door that Rory jolted, his pencil skidding in a jagged scar across the drawing. Before he could recover, the door swung wide.
Pete stood in the doorway, a broad silhouette filling the frame. His eyes snapped from Rory to the desk, then down to the sketchbook.
"I've been calling you," Pete said, his voice edged with irritation.
Rory yanked the headphones out so violently the wire snagged his ear. His heart surged into his throat, and for one paralysed second, his mind stripped down to a single, terrifying thought: He knows.
That was the only thought there was.
This is it. This is where it all collapses.
"Sorry," Rory blurted out, already scrambling upright. "I...I didn't hear you."
Pete's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything about the desk. Or the sketchbook. Or the uniform shirt Rory was still wearing.
Instead, he said, "We're having dinner. Liz is home early. If you're in the house, you come eat."
Rory blinked.
Once.
Twice.
That...was it?
Relief hit him with a dizzying force. His shoulders slumped as a breath he'd been holding for days finally escaped.
"Oh," he said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
Pete watched him for another second, expression unreadable. Then he stepped back. "Five minutes."
The door shut.
Rory remained on the bed for a moment longer, his pulse still hammering as the echo of the scare slowly receded. He looked down at the paper, at Dan's laughing face staring back at him like a haunt.
He closed the book. Carefully. Deliberately.
Then he stood, shoved the book under his bed, and followed Pete downstairs, grateful, shaken, and acutely aware that the lie was still holding.
For now.
By the time he reached the stairs, his relief had settled into something dangerous, a loosening of the taut wire he'd been walking. His shoulders dropped. His guard slipped a notch. He was still ahead of the lie, still holding the lead.
The scent of roasted chicken hit him halfway down. Liz was setting the table, plates clinking softly. Abbey sat perched on her knees, feet swinging, narrating her day at full speed.
"...and then Mia said I couldn't because it wasn't my turn, but Mrs. Collins said-oh, Rory!" Abbey beamed. "You're here!"
He hesitated, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer enthusiasm. "Yeah."
She grinned wider. "You're eating with us!"
Rory nodded, his movements automatic. "Yeah."
Pete glanced up, his eyes flicking over Rory with an unreadable weight. "Sit," he said, jerking his chin toward an empty chair.
Rory obeyed, dropping into the seat without his usual hovering. Abbey looked as though she'd won a prize.
"Yay! You're home heaps at the moment!" she said, swinging her legs back underneath her to sit properly.
Rory froze for half a beat. Across the table, Pete's fork paused in mid air.
"You have been home a lot lately," Pete remarked. It was casual enough that it almost passed for an observation, but Rory felt his muscles coil anyway.
"Have I?"
Pete shrugged, finally taking his seat. "Used to barely see you. Now you're here every afternoon."
Abbey, oblivious to the shift in pressure, chirped, "It's good. I like it when Rory's home."
Rory offered her a grateful, fleeting smile before reaching for the water jug. He poured too fast; the water sloshed onto the placemat in a dark bloom. He didn't even realise it until Liz silently slid a napkin toward him.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"So," Pete continued, spearing a piece of chicken. "School's keeping you busy or... not so much?"
The answer came too quickly. "It's fine."
Pete looked up then, weighing the shape of the response. "Fine how?"
Rory hesitated, his fork hovering over his plate. "Just... normal."
Liz glanced between them, her voice gentle. "Anything going on? You seem a bit tired, love."
Rory shrugged, nodding a little too much. "Mm. Just long days."
Pete's eyes didn't leave him. "Long days doing what?"
The question was framed as concern, but it lacked the warmth to back it up. To Rory, it sounded like the click of a trap.
"School stuff," he said vaguely, shovelling potatoes onto his plate to give his hands a task.
"Don't hang around after?" Pete asked. "You used to."
Rory's throat tightened. "Not really."
A silence settled, not long enough for Abbey to notice, but enough for Rory to feel like he'd stepped onto a broken stair. Pete leaned back slightly, his gaze piercing. "You skipping?"
The word was blunt.
"No," Rory said immediately. He forced a breath, trying to steady his pulse. "I'm not skipping."
Pete studied him, assessing rather than angry. "What did you have today?"
Rory's brain stalled. A dozen subjects flashed by; none felt safe. "Classes. Normal stuff."
"Which ones?"
Rory stabbed a piece of chicken and chewed mechanically. "Maths. History. English."
Abbey wrinkled her nose. "English is boring."
"Yeah," Rory said, clinging to the lifeline. "I guess."
Pete wasn't done. "What book are you reading at the moment?"
Rory froze mid-bite. Liz glanced at her husband. "Pete—"
"Just asking," Pete said mildly. He didn't look away from Rory.
Rory swallowed hard. "Erm... The Justice Game."
Pete nodded once, slow and rhythmic. "Didn't you read that last term?"
The room went quiet. Abbey stopped swinging her fork. Rory felt a crawling heat climb his neck. "We... uh... we're still going over it."
Pete didn't respond immediately. He took a sip of water, his eyes fixed on Rory over the rim of the glass. Rory kept chewing, though his mouth had gone completely dry.
"You've been on The Justice Game since February?" Pete's mouth twitched.
Liz set her serving spoon down with a sharp clack. "Pete."
"I'm just talking," Pete said. He turned back to Rory. "What time did school finish today?"
Rory's stomach dropped. "Normal time. Three."
"And you came straight home?"
Rory hesitated a fraction of a second. "Yeah."
Pete leaned back, studying him with a curiosity that Rory found more terrifying than anger.
Abbey shifted in her seat. "Rory drops me off every morning at the moment. Even waits with me until the bell," she said, her voice small but proud. "He walks me to the gate."
"Thanks, honey." Liz beamed at Rory, who managed a brittle smile, his eyes glued to the table.
Pete looked at Abbey, his expression easing just a notch. "That's good." Then he turned back to Rory. "And after that?"
Rory's grip tightened on his fork. "I go to my school."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "Every day?"
"Yes."
"Funny. Because you don't talk about it anymore."
"When did I ever talk about school?" Rory snapped.
Pete lowered his fork, the movement dangerous. "You used to say something."
"There's nothing to say."
"You used to complain," Pete countered. "Teachers. Homework. Now it's like school doesn't exist unless I ask."
Liz pushed her chair back. "Pete, let it go."
"I'm letting it go," he said, but his eyes lingered on Rory for a second longer than necessary.
They ate in an uneasy hush after that, the only sound the scraping of cutlery and Abbey's stories about a girl who'd stolen her stickers. Rory murmured at the right moments, his heart thudding against his ribs.
Halfway through the meal, Pete stood to refill his glass at the sink. "You got homework tonight?" he asked, his back turned.
Rory's breath caught. "Yeah."
"What kind?"
"Just... stuff."
Pete turned slowly. "That's vague."
"Why are you interrogating me?" Rory snapped, the word hanging ugly and sharp in the air.
Pete's jaw tightened. "Because you're acting like a kid who doesn't want to be caught."
Rory's face burned. "I'm not skipping."
"Yeah..." Pete's eyes narrowed. "You already said that."
Rory shut his mouth, instantly regretting the outburst. The silence that followed was thick enough to taste. Pete didn't raise his voice; he just looked at Rory for a long, assessing second, as if filing the reaction away for later.
"Finish eating," Pete said evenly. "No one's interrogating you."
The rest of the meal passed with a forced, fragile normality. Rory didn't taste a single bite. When they were finished, Liz began stacking the plates. "I'll get dessert," she said, heading for the pantry.
Pete pushed his chair back, reasserting his presence. "Rory."
Rory stiffened. "Yeah?"
"Bring your school work into the living room after this," Pete said. "I want to have a look at what you're working on."
The words were soft, casual, and devastating.
"My...what?" Rory echoed.
Pete met his eyes with absolute certainty. "Homework. English especially, since you're still on The Justice Game. I want to see how you're tracking."
Rory's nails pressed into his denim jeans. "I usually just do it in my room."
"Tonight you can do it downstairs." Pete's mouth twitched, not a smile, but something colder.
Liz paused, glancing back. "Pete, he's had a long day-"
"It won't take long. I just want to be involved."
Rory nodded once, a sharp, automatic motion. "Okay."
Pete held his gaze for another beat, then stood to collect his glass. "Good. I'll make some tea."
He walked out of the room, leaving Rory seated too long at the empty table. The lie had held by a thread, but the margin was gone. Homework meant proof. Proof meant exposure.
Abbey leaned closer, whispering, "Are you in trouble?"
Rory forced a brittle smile. "Nah."
Liz returned with dessert, and the moment passed, but the damage was done.
***
Rory closed his bedroom door and leaned against it, the wood cool against the back of his neck. His chest felt tight, like his lungs had shrunk two sizes.
The Justice Game. Why the hell had he said that? It had been the only title that surfaced in panic, a ghost of curriculum he'd checked out of months ago.
He crossed to his desk and grabbed his bag. It was light. Terrifyingly light. When he unzipped it, the contents felt like evidence: a half-empty bag of chips, a crumpled receipt from the convenience store near the park, and a few battered spiral notebooks.
He tipped the bag over. A lone pen rolled across the desk.
"Think," he whispered, fingers trembling as he opened one of the notebooks.
The last entry was dated two weeks ago, a half-finished analysis of a poem he couldn't remember reading. After that, blank pages. Pete didn't just want to hear about work. He wanted ink-on-paper proof of a week spent in a classroom.
Rory sat, chair creaking. Scribbled the date at the top of a fresh page.
Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.
He tried to remember anything concrete, a chapter, a discussion, an assignment. All he had were images of Dan bleeding, terrified on the floor, Michael looking up at Rory and calling him a psycho.
So Rory just wrote.
He didn't think. He let the pen move, mimicking his tired handwriting, slanted, messy, believable. He summarised a chapter of The Justice Game from memory, made it sound like class discussion. Invented maths problems, long-form equations that led nowhere, crossed them out, rewrote them to look like struggle.
His ears strained for the kettle downstairs. Every clink of a mug was a countdown.
Thursday. Friday.
He tore a page from the back, crumpled it, smoothed it out, wrote "History. War in the Pacific" in a different pen. A fake handout. A prop.
His hand cramped. The handwriting came out erratic in a way that looked real for all the wrong reasons.
He stared at the band beneath his sleeve.
If Pete saw that, the homework wouldn't matter.
Rory yanked on a thick hoodie with tight elastic cuffs and pulled the sleeves over his knuckles.
"Rory?" Pete's voice drifted up the stairs, not a shout. A summons. "Get down here!"
Rory looked at the mess on his desk. The notebook looked used, but thin. The loose pages looked fake if you stared too long.
He shoved everything back into his bag, forced his expression into bored teenager, and headed for the door.
Rory came downstairs with his bag slung over one shoulder, every step measured. He felt like he was walking into a spotlight.
Pete was already in the living room, upright in his armchair, mug in hand, TV on mute. The coffee table was cleared except for a notepad and a pen he hadn't been using.
"Sit," Pete said without looking up.
Rory dropped onto the couch opposite him and pulled the bag onto his lap. His fingers fumbled with the zipper, too slow, too obvious.
Pete glanced over. "You nervous about homework now?"
"No," Rory said too quickly. "Just—"
"Just what?"
"Long day."
Pete took a slow sip of tea, like he could wait forever.
"Get it out."
Rory unzipped the bag. Pulled out the spiral notebooks and set them on the table. Then the crumpled "history" page, smoothing it out with a palm that moved too fast.
Pete didn't reach for them right away. He just looked. "That's it?"
"We do a lot on the tablets," Rory lied, voice thin even to his own ears. "These are just the long-form notes."
Pete picked up the notebook and flipped through the first pages, the real work. Rory watched his face, waiting for the moment he hit the fresh ink.
The pages sounded loud in the quiet.
Pete stopped at the new entries. Ran a thumb over the paper.
Rory's breath stalled. The ink would still be tacky if Pete pressed.
Pete didn't comment. He just turned the page. Then another, slower now, deliberate.
"You've always had messy handwriting," Pete said.
Rory nodded too fast. "Yeah."
Pete looked at him over the edge of the book. Measuring. "But this is different."
"Different?"
Pete angled the page toward the lamp, like light could reveal what Rory had missed. "Rushed," he said. "Like you wanted it done more than you wanted it right."
Rory shifted. "Teacher talks fast."
"Hm."
Pete traced a line of text with his finger, not reading aloud, just following it, and Rory had the irrational urge to snatch the book back.
"This reads like you weren't really there," Pete said.
"I was."
Pete's gaze lifted and locked. "Then why does it feel like you weren't?"
"It makes sense to me," Rory said, throat tight.
Pete leaned back, notebook still open, studying Rory instead of the work. His eyes didn't blink much. Didn't wander.
"And maths?" Pete asked.
Rory's stomach dropped. "What about it?"
Pete closed the notebook and nodded at the loose pages. "Show me."
Rory handed them over, fingers clumsy. The pages shook just enough to notice.
Pete noticed.
"These aren't finished."
"We didn't get through all of them," Rory said. "Ran out of time."
Pete tilted his head. "So you didn't finish classwork. Your notes are vague. And you're suddenly home every afternoon."
"So?" Rory snapped. "That doesn't mean anything."
Pete stood abruptly. The chair scraped. Rory flinched before he could stop himself.
Pete noticed.
His mouth twitched, not a smile. Something else.
"Sit still," Pete said.
Rory froze.
Pete paced once in front of the table, then stopped directly in front of Rory. Too close. Rory could smell his aftershave, sharp and familiar, feel the weight of his attention like a hand between his shoulders.
"You think I don't notice you?" Pete said quietly.
Rory's throat closed. "I didn't—"
"You've been hovering," Pete continued. "Home early. Lingering. Watching." His eyes flicked to Rory's wrist, then back to his face. "Like you're waiting for something."
"I'm not skipping," Rory said, fast.
Pete exhaled through his nose. Controlled. "I didn't say you were."
That was worse.
"This is how it starts," Pete went on. "Kids drift. They test how invisible they are."
His gaze dragged over Rory in a way that made his skin prickle.
"You are not invisible."
Rory pressed his hands into his thighs to stop them shaking.
Pete slapped the notebook lightly against the table, not hard, just enough to make Rory jump. Then Pete straightened, control settling back into him like a coat.
"So we're adjusting."
"Adjusting?" Rory asked, dread already rising.
"Routine," Pete said. "Supervision. You'll do homework downstairs from now on. At the dining table. Every night. No headphones. No doors closed."
Rory's chest tightened. "That's—"
"Normal," Pete cut in smoothly. "For a kid who needs watching."
"I don't need—"
"I didn't ask," Pete said, eyes hard.
Silence stretched. The muted TV flickered in the background, forgotten.
"And tomorrow," Pete added, "you'll bring home your English book."
Rory froze. "We don't always—"
"You will," Pete said. "I want to see what you're being fed. I want to know what's in your head."
The entitlement in it made Rory's skin crawl.
Pete picked up his mug. "I don't like being kept out of things, Rory."
Rory forced a nod. "Okay."
Pete paused. Looked down at him. His gaze lingered a second too long, heavy, possessive.
"You're not hard to read," Pete said quietly. "Don't make me start checking."
Then he turned and walked away.
Rory sat there long after Pete left, staring at the notebook like it was a loaded weapon.
The lie had held.
But Pete hadn't believed it.
Rory packed his bag slowly, hands shaking now. As he stood, one thought settled cold and certain in his chest: Pete wasn't waiting to catch him.
He was waiting to own him again.***
Back at Karmal, Sullivan didn't look up as they entered. She stood over the glass table, tablet in hand, telemetry reflected back like a second set of eyes.
Ethan stopped at the edge of the glow. Alex took her usual position half a step behind him.
"Well?" Sullivan asked.
Ethan didn't waste time. "He's not coming back."
Sullivan's expression didn't flicker. "Define back."
"He refused training," Ethan said. "He agreed to the check-ins."
A beat. Sullivan nodded once. "Good."
Ethan frowned. "Good?"
"It means he will show," Sullivan said, already tapping through protocol. "He still responds to requirement."
Alex shifted, irritation slicing through her restraint. "He's fifteen, Karen. Of course he responds, especially when a massive organisation is quietly implying escalation."
Sullivan finally looked up. Her gaze didn't harden; it sharpened, precise, evaluative, like Alex had confirmed a variable rather than challenged her.
"Yes," Sullivan said calmly. "That is how oversight functions."
She turned back to the table, expanded new files with a flick. Dates populated the glass in an orderly line.
"Next week," she said, "he comes in for his mandated check-in."
Ethan blinked. "We haven't agreed on—"
"Yes, we have," Sullivan replied mildly. "He has."
Alex frowned. "He agreed to check-ins. Not..." she gestured at the spread of data, "...all this."
"This," Sullivan said without looking up, "is follow-through."
Rory Atwood's profile filled the surface. Risk markers. Volatility. Engagement likelihoods.
"He'll arrive guarded," Sullivan continued. "He'll expect punishment. He'll be ready to leave the moment he feels pressured."
"So we don't pressure him," Ethan said.
"Of course not."
Alex felt the unease anyway.
"The band stays on during the visit," Sullivan went on. "He's told it's procedural, not disciplinary. Use no threat language."
Ethan exhaled slowly. "That part makes sense."
"Yes," Sullivan said. "Making sense is important."
Another panel opened, projections and pathways.
"He is not eligible for recruitment," Sullivan stated. "That does not change until he's eighteen or gets a signature."
Alex nodded. "So this is monitoring."
Sullivan paused. "This is orientation."
Ethan stiffened. "Karen—"
"I am not talking about contracts," Sullivan said calmly. "I'm talking about familiarity. Belonging. Making Karmal feel like the safest option by default." She turned the tablet toward them, simple graphs now. Clean. Clear. "If he stays connected, he stays predictable. Predictable is safer."
"You want him emotionally tied to the place," Alex said.
"I want him stable," Sullivan replied. "Attachment supports stability."
Ethan stepped closer. "He said no. If you push past check-ins, he'll bolt."
Sullivan regarded him. "Which is why you won't push."
Alex's stomach sank.
"You'll reassure," Sullivan said. "You'll make the visit feel normal. Familiar."
"That's still pressure," Alex said. "Just quieter."
"Yes," Sullivan agreed. "Quiet pressure lasts longer."
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "He's a kid."
"And he's enhanced," Sullivan countered. "And he's Atwood's kid. The world won't wait for him to feel ready." She leaned forward, palms on the table. "He already believes Karmal is watching him. Next week, we change what that feels like."
Alex frowned. "How?"
Sullivan tapped once. A new file appeared: Augmentation Access. Limited Deployment.
The room went very still.
Ethan stared at the screen, then back at Sullivan. "You're offering him upgrades?"
Alex turned sharply. "Since when does Karmal gift upgrades?"
"We don't," Sullivan said evenly.
"Then what is that?"
"Access," Sullivan replied. "Conditional."
Ethan shook his head. "He can't afford those. And Karmal doesn't do handouts."
"That's correct," Sullivan said. "Which is why this is not a gift."
Alex's voice went cold. "So what is it?"
"A stabilisation option," Sullivan said. "Contingent on engagement."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "You're dangling more power to keep him close."
"I'm offering regulated access to abilities he's already capable of manifesting," Sullivan replied. "With oversight."
Ethan frowned. "Those are serious upgrades."
"Yes."
"You don't even know if he'd want them."
"Everyone wants power," Sullivan said. "Or at least the ability to stop feeling powerless."
Alex exhaled sharply. "Where did you even get clearance for this?"
"They're already approved."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Approved by who?"
Sullivan met his gaze. "That's not relevant."
"That's not an answer," Alex snapped.
"It's a boundary," Sullivan replied, unbothered.
Ethan stepped forward. "This is manipulative."
"This is preparation," Sullivan corrected. "When he tests what we're offering, I want something that feels personal. Not institutional." Her voice sharpened, finally letting the truth show its teeth. "You think this is leverage, and it is. But it's also the only leverage that keeps everyone safe."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "He's not a threat."
"No," Sullivan agreed. "He's a risk. To himself first. Others second."
That hit home.
Sullivan turned her full attention to Ethan, deliberate and focused. "You want to protect him. You want him safe, grounded, and guided. You want adults in the room when things go wrong."
Ethan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"This is how you do that," Sullivan said quietly. "Not by letting him drift. Not by pretending check-ins are enough when you know they aren't."
Alex's voice tightened. "So this isn't about upgrades."
"No," Sullivan said. "It's about investment."
She gestured, and Rory's profile flared briefly again, curves bending, not breaking. "If he stays close, he has you. He has oversight. He has intervention before damage becomes permanent." Her gaze cut between them. "And if he doesn't, he has none of that."
Ethan looked at the clean certainty of the data and felt the familiar pull to anchor someone who was slipping.
"You've already decided where this goes."
"I've planned for where it might," Sullivan replied. "That's my job."
She dismissed the screens. The room returned to neutral.
Her gaze lingered on them both.
"And your jobs," she finished, "are to make him believe this is where he's safest."
Not where Karmal benefits. Not where he belongs.
Where he's safest.
That was what Ethan chose to latch onto.
Are you more stressed about
