After months under Victoire's steady presence, the jagged pieces of Leo's past started to soften. The hard edges blurred into something that almost looked like hope—the kind of ordinary happiness most kids took for granted but that felt impossible for someone like him.

Sleep wasn't rest anymore. It was an ambush. The nights pressed down heavier each time, and the dream kept coming back, hitting him like pain from a wound that didn't exist but somehow lived in his bones. This isn't mine. It can't be mine. But it felt carved into his DNA, permanent and inescapable.

He was back on that street again, frozen solid. His feet were glued to the cracked pavement, and pure terror locked him in place. He could only watch. A woman disappearing into the alley's shadows, her struggle swallowed by the attacker's grunts and the sickening rhythm of violence. Move. Yell. Do something. Just move. But he was a ghost trapped inside his own body, screaming into emptiness. His mind commanded his arms to swing, his voice to tear through the night, but nothing responded. He was paralyzed, forced to witness every brutal second. The rape. The beating. The hands closing around her throat. NO. NO. NO.

He tried to scream at the man—just a faceless shape of pure evil, a blur of rage. Nothing came out. Not a sound.

Then a desperate whisper cut through the fog, snagging on something in his memory. A voice he recognized. A voice that broke through his paralysis like lightning.

Victoire.

The name hit him like a building collapsing inside his chest.

He exploded upright in bed, a raw sound ripping from his throat. Not quite a scream—something deeper, more animal. The sound physically crashed through the room, rattling the dresser and sending a sharp crack spiderwebbing across the windowpane.

His hands were still outstretched, trembling in the cold air. Reaching. Trying to push forward. Trying to save her. He gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, the city lights painting broken patterns across the fractured glass. The dream was gone, but the freezing dread was wide awake, sitting right next to him in the darkness.

The door swung open fast, yanking him back to reality. Victoire stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway, still pulling on her robe. She heard it. Of course she heard it. The whole building probably heard it.

Her eyes found his, and there was no panic. No shock. Just a deep, worn-in understanding. She knew this routine. She'd been through this before, and the exhaustion showed. Her gaze moved from his shaking hands to the cracked window, then back to his face.

"Another one, sweetie?" Her voice was gentle but tired. Not really a question—just acknowledgment.

He tried to answer, to explain the horror that was still clinging to him. It was you. I saw you. But his throat was raw and hollow from the scream. The words wouldn't form. He just nodded, a jerky movement that felt disconnected from his body, the dread still wrapped around him like a second skin.

She didn't hesitate. She just moved, crossing the small room in two steps. The mattress dipped under her weight, familiar and grounding. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him back from the edge of the memory.

He didn't just hug her back. He grabbed onto her like she was the only solid thing in a collapsing world, his hands clutching fists full of her robe. She's here. She's warm. Not the shadow. Not the concrete. Real. She was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

"Still can't talk about it?" Her voice was low, right against his ear.

He shook his head, burying his face against her shoulder, trying to smother the images before they could reform. Talk? How do I put words to that? How do I say 'I just watched you die'? The thought itself felt like touching a live wire. A violent tremor ripped through him, his lungs seizing up. Can't breathe. Can't stop shaking.

She felt him coming apart. "Breathe, Leo." Her hand moved in firm circles on his back. "You're okay. You're right here. It's over." It's not over. It's just reloading. "There's nothing to worry about..."

He felt her hesitate then—a tiny pause in her breathing. She's weighing something. Deciding if this is the right move. He wasn't a little kid anymore. But right now, hollowed out by terror too big for his body, he felt like one. She made her choice.

"Mommy is here for you."

The words cut through everything.

Mommy.

It was like a switch flipped inside him.

The screaming static in his head just... stopped. The tremors shaking through his bones faded. His lungs, locked tight in panic, finally pulled in a deep breath of cool night air. She's here. She's solid. She's not the shadow in the alley. The nightmare finally released its grip, its claws sliding off reluctantly.

He eased back, his hands unclenching from her robe, which he'd twisted into knots. He looked up at her, studying the familiar lines of her face, trying to make sense of the word she'd used. The freezing dread was gone, replaced by sharp confusion.

"But... you're not my mother." His voice came out as a raw whisper. Why that word? Why now? "Why would you say that?"

Victoire didn't pull away. A small sound escaped her—almost a laugh, but heavier. A sound that carried weight.

"Yeah, you have a point." She shifted, her gaze steady and direct. No games. "I'm not."

Silence hung in the air between them. She's aiming for something. This isn't just about calming me down.

"But do you see me as one?"

His silence was answer enough. She didn't need him to say it.

"I've been the only one taking care of you after all," she added. Not an accusation. Not a plea. Just a fact, cold and undeniable as concrete.

The question hung heavy and raw—a truth that had lived between them for years without being spoken. She's right. She's the only one. Always has been.

He didn't answer with words. He just moved. Whatever strength he had left, whatever will was keeping him together, just gave out. He leaned forward, burying his face against her, shutting out the cracked window, the city noise, the lingering shadow of the dream. He wasn't a man or a kid in that moment. He was just safe. He breathed in the familiar smell of soap and sleep. This is the anchor. This is what's real.

She tensed immediately. An awkward heat flooded through her. Whoa. Okay. This is different. He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a young man, solid and real, pressed against her in a way that scrambled all the unspoken boundaries. "Umm, sweetie?" Her voice was suddenly strained. "You're not really supposed to—"

"Yes..."

His voice was low, muffled by her robe, but it cut straight through her words.

It stopped her cold. Yes? Yes to what? The shift was too sudden. She'd been expecting embarrassment, not this.

"What?"

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were still haunted, but the terror was gone, replaced by something fragile and clear.

"If you don't mind..." He swallowed hard. The words felt foreign and heavy. "I would like to call you... my mom."

He watched her, holding his breath. This is it. This is the real test. She's going to laugh. She's going to say no. "If... if that's okay?"

Victoire's breath caught. The awkwardness, the embarrassment—it didn't just fade. It evaporated, burned away by a sudden rush of warmth that punched the air from her lungs.

His mom. All those years of patching him up, of late-night meals, of just being there when no one else was—they weren't just actions. They were building blocks. They had built this. Her heart, so practiced at staying guarded, so ready for the next crisis, felt like it was cracking open. Not breaking like the glass, but opening like something that had been locked too long.

The words barely left his mouth before she inhaled, a sharp, sudden gasp. Then she was moving, grabbing him, pulling him off balance and into an embrace so tight it drove the air from his lungs. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate.

He was rigid, shocked by the force. She’s… she’s not angry. She’s...

"Yes!" Her voice was thick, cracking, pressed right against his ear. "I'll love to be your mommy! Yes, Leo. So, so, SO MUCH!"

She wasn't just hugging him; she was clinging. This means something to her, too. He knew her story. The doctors, the quiet apartment, the space in her life that had stayed painfully, stubbornly empty. And he knew his own—the raw, gaping hole left by the mother who hadn't wanted him. She’s the only one who ever stayed. The only one who ever patched me up. For the first time, maybe ever, that cold, abandoned space inside his chest felt... warm. Someone actually wanted him.

The moment was a bubble, perfect and fragile. And then it burst.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

A violent, angry pounding hammered their apartment door, making the whole frame rattle. "WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE!?"

The voice was gravel and rage. Byron, from 3B.

Victoire ripped herself from the hug, the blinding, fragile joy on her face instantly snapping into a mask of cold, hard annoyance. The world always floods back in. It never, ever waits. She gave his shoulder a quick, tight squeeze. "Hold on, sweetie. I'll be right back."

She slid off the bed, pulling her robe tight as she stalked out of the bedroom. He heard her footsteps in the hall, then the sound of the deadbolt sliding back.

"You're being very loud right now, Byron," Victoire’s voice was low, controlled. Ice. "It's the middle of the night."

A harsh, barking laugh echoed from the hallway. "I'M BEING LOUD!? Your kid just blew out every window on the floor! My own glass is rattling, Victoire! And I'm the one who's loud in this hoe!? Get outta here with that."

There was a heavy sigh, the sound of a man trying to wrestle his own temper. "Look..." Byron’s voice dropped, but the frayed, exhausted anger was still there. "I know the kid is having nightmares. We all do. But we have to resolve it. Everyone here is pissed. They all woke up because of that."

He was still on the bed, listening. The warmth of her hug, the stunning, fragile hope of that one word—mommy—was already evaporating, being sucked out into the hallway like a vacuum. This is my fault. This is always my fault.

"I know that, Byron." Victoire’s voice was low, tight. She was trying to keep the neighbors out of it, trying to shrink the fight. "But I'm really trying not to just... pill him up and call it a day." He's my kid, not a problem.

"I understand that, Doc. I really do." Byron’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble, the sound of a man holding onto the last thread of his patience. He was trying. He was really trying. "But something's got to give. He did this shit twenty times."

A sharp, disbelieving scoff from Victoire. "Come on now. Don't exaggerate. There's no way he did it that many—"

Thwack.

A sound cut her off. The sound of a heavy stack of paper hitting the wall, or maybe the doorframe.

"Don't exaggerate?" Byron's voice wasn't reasonable anymore. It was frayed, raw, and insulted. "I brought the invoices. Twenty of 'em. You know what these are for? Level 6 Bulletproof Glass. The shit they use in banks, Doc!"

Oh God. No. Leo squeezed his eyes shut.

"He breaks two hundred panels every time he screams! That's $1,449.00 each!" Byron was building steam, the numbers stacking up in the dead-quiet hallway like bricks. "That's $289,800 a night! You know what twenty times that is? Do you!?"

A dead, heavy silence. Leo could almost hear Victoire doing the math.

"That's $5,796,000!" Byron finally roared, the number itself an obscenity, an impossible, crushing weight that shattered the 3 AM quiet. "This month, Victoire! From him!"

Leo felt the floor drop out from under him. He wasn't just a kid with nightmares. He was a walking catastrophe. A multi-million dollar liability.

A tiny, strained sound came from Victoire. A nervous half-laugh. Don't, Victoire. Please don't.

"Oh... um..." she tried, her voice going light, trying to find an angle, trying to be cute. "Yeah... I should do a little more, huh?"

It was the worst possible move. It was gasoline on a raging, five-million-dollar fire.

"Yeah!" Byron's voice exploded, a pure, unadulterated blast of rage that rattled the door in its frame. "YEAH, YOU SHOULD!"

That night changed the math. The argument with Byron, the impossible, crushing number he’d thrown at her—$5,796,000—it wasn’t a complaint. It was a death sentence. One more scream like that and we’re done. They won't just evict us. They'll 'solve' this problem for good.

So she’d folded.

She’d gone against every instinct, every promise she’d made to herself. 'I'm really trying not to just pill him up.' But the alternative was a target on his back. A risk she couldn't gamble on.

The small prescription bottle felt like a brick in her hand. Prazosin. A tiny orange pill to hold back a multi-million dollar earthquake.

The past week? Silence.

No 3 AM explosions of terror. No splintering glass. No vibrations shaking the rebar in the concrete. Just... quiet.

It was working. Thank God, it was actually working. He was sleeping through the night, the drug acting like a bouncer for his memory, keeping the trauma outside the velvet rope. He’s not in that alley tonight. He’s just... sleeping. The absolute, suffocating relief that rolled over her each morning was so heavy it almost felt like dread.

I didn't have a choice. The thought was a bitter, repeating loop. It was this, or him. A chemical truce. And as much as she hated the compromise, she was just so glad he was better. Glad he was safe, even if it was a safety she had to buy from a pharmacy.

February 20th

The office air was stale, thick with the smell of old files and the low, buzzing anxiety of too much paperwork. Cross was deep in it, his pen scratching across a form, just another line item in a life built on them.

The door swung open. He didn't even look up. He didn't have to. The angry, frustrated static coming off Byron was loud enough.

Here we go. Round three on the kid. He probably heard the pharmacy bill.

"If you're here about Leo, then fuck off," Cross said, his voice flat, his eyes still glued to the paper. "We can't kill the boy anymore. He's got the blood of Thutmose in him. Management's orders. It's done."

"What? No." Byron's voice was a tight knot of irritation, but it wasn't aimed at Leo. Even though I wouldn't have minded that option a week ago... he thought, the five-million-dollar echo still ringing in his ears. "It's not even that."

He stepped fully into the room, his shadow falling across the desk. "Chief Pat Englade is here to see you. Again."

A heavy, painful sigh ripped out of Cross. He finally dropped the pen and rubbed his eyes, the grinding exhaustion hitting him all at once. "Oh, my fucking god." He leaned back, the old chair groaning in protest. "It's about the murders, huh?"

Byron just nodded, his face grim. That was all the answer Cross needed.

"You want me to get him outta here?" Byron asked, his hand already moving toward the door, ready to bounce the chief like any other problem.

Cross shook his head. Can't keep ducking the cops. It just makes them sniff harder. "No. I got this." He straightened the files on his desk, putting on the armor. "Send him in."

Byron shut the door, and the air in the office immediately felt ten degrees heavier.

Chief Pat Englade stood in the middle of the room, not moving. He looked like a man holding his own insides together with sheer willpower. His uniform is pressed, but his eyes are wrecked. The suffocating, sticky desperation of the entire city was balled up inside him, and he’d brought it right here, to Cross’s desk.

Cross just watched him, his face a mask of cold, professional disinterest. Another fire. Not my fire.

"Cross," Pat said, and his voice was all gravel and sleepless nights. He wasn't a chief right now. He was just a man at the absolute end of his rope. "I'm begging you. This... this animal... he's tearing my city apart. He's a ghost. We can't catch him. But your people..."

Cross leaned back, the old chair groaning. "No."

The word was flat. Hard. A steel door slamming shut.

"You don't get it, Chief. We don't do local issues. The Fraternity's task is... bigger." We're here to keep the balance. "Basically, we're here to stop every power in the world from nuking the fuck outta each other. Your serial killer? He's not on the radar."

Pat's face twisted, the desperation souring into pure, unadulterated frustration. "Bullshit. That's absolute bullshit." He stalked forward, his hand slapping the desk. "What about the San Antonio parade? What about '66, the UT Tower? What about Columbine? You were there. You stopped them. Why was that on the radar, and this isn't?"

"I was just there at the right time," Cross said, his voice dangerously smooth. "All of 'em were just coincidence. Nothing more." A necessary lie. A simple one. "I'm just not a dick who lets people die around me when I can stop it."

"When you can stop it?" Pat’s voice dropped, and he leaned in, his eyes pinning Cross. "You're letting people die around you right now, Cross."

That was the one. The switch. Cross's cold calm didn't break; it hardened. It turned into something else, a vibrating, pressurized rage.

"You..." He stood up, slow, every movement deliberate. "You wanna come in my office and talk to me about letting people die? About morality?"

He walked around the desk, and Pat instinctively took a step back.

"You, who trains thugs for a living? You give 'em a badge and a gun, make 'em swear an oath to the U.S. Constitution, and I guarantee you not one of 'em knows what the fuck it actually says."

His voice was a low, rhythmic growl. "And when they fuck up? When they break the same laws they're supposed to uphold? They get 'qualified immunity.' A fucking bailout card that the people you're 'protecting' don't get. I lived through Jim Crow, Pat. I saw it firsthand. And today, in 2003, it's the damn same as it was back then, just with better PR."

He was in Pat's face now, the air between them electric.

"So don't fucking come at me about morality. Y'all suck at your fuckin' job, and now you're here asking us for help."

Pat just stared at him, the anger draining out of his face, leaving it hollow and gray. He's right. But he's wrong. He didn't argue. He just reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and turned it upside down.

Photos spilled across the desk. Glossy, 4x6 coroner's photos.

"Randi Mebruer. 28-years-old." Slap. "Gina Wilson Green. 41." Slap. "Geralyn Barr DeSoto. 21." "Charlotte Murray Pace. 22." "Dianne Alexander. 46." "Pam Kinamore. 44." "Dené Colomb. 23."

The names hit the air like stones. The pictures stared up. A mosaic of unspeakable violence.

"All of them," Pat said, his voice dead. "Beaten. Raped. Strangled."

He straightened his uniform, becoming the Chief again. He looked at Cross, his eyes empty. "Now, I have a good feeling someone you know might be next. So don't come bitching to us when it does."

He turned to leave. The calculated, cold-blooded finality of the threat—someone you know—it bypassed every defense Cross had. The control didn't just break; it vaporized.

The room exploded.

"GET THE FUCK UP OUTTA MY OFFICE, YOU BITCH ASS, HOE ASS, HOUSE NIGGA!"

The yell was a raw, primal excavation of rage, so loud it rattled the blinds.

Pat didn't even turn around. He just opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut.

Cross was left alone, his chest heaving, his fists planted on the desk. He was surrounded by the crushing, absolute silence and the smiling, lifeless faces of the dead.

The echo of the slam, of his own roar, hung in the office, thick and sour. The adrenalized, violent rage drained out of him, leaving a cold, hollow space.

He slumped back into his chair, the leather groaning. His eyes fell on the desk. On them.

The photos. The names. The faces.

His hand, shaking almost imperceptibly, reached out. He picked up the top one. Geralyn Barr DeSoto. 21. Younger than some of his recruits. He'd killed. God, he’d killed so many people. But that was work. Clean. A bullet, a blade, a purpose.

This... this was rot. This was brutal. This was a coward's sickness smeared all over these women. He looked at the next. Charlotte Murray Pace. 22. He felt the familiar cold-iron fury of his own, but this time it was mixed with a thick, gagging disgust.

The door creaked open. Byron. He didn't come all the way in, just leaned against the frame, sensing the toxic atmosphere.

"Damn, that sounded heated," Byron said, his voice low. "You good, Cross?"

"No..." Cross growled, sweeping the photos together, shoving them into his desk drawer. Out of sight. Not out of mind. He slammed it shut. "I don't like getting fucking guilt-tripped." That slick, bitch-ass house nigga knew exactly what he was doing. "But I also can't stand serial killers, man. They make me fuckin' sick."

Byron nodded, his face unreadable. He was the anchor. He was the rules. "But that's not our problem, Cross. That's their job. If they really felt like they needed the extra help, they could call the National Guard. But they just don't want to scare the public."

"Yeah." Cross stared at the closed drawer. He's right. It's not our fight. The mission. The balance. Keep the nukes from flying.

But Pat’s voice was still in his ear. 'Someone you know might be next.' A direct, calculated hit. And it had landed.

He turned to his computer, his face hardening, the Headmaster shoving the man back down. "But just in case," he said, his voice flat and cold, an order. "No female staff are to be left alone at night outside the compound. By NO means."

Byron’s face twisted, a flicker of logic cutting through the tension. "Right," he said, "but what about Boon-Nam and Elara?"

The question hung in the air for a second, and then the pure, stark absurdity of it hit them both. A dry chuckle started in Byron’s chest. Cross caught it, and a raw, sharp laugh ripped out of him, cutting right through the grim energy in the room.

Boon-Nam? Elara? Worried about them?

"Oh, shit," Cross gasped, rubbing a hand over his face, the first genuine relief he'd felt all day. "That's the pick-me-up I needed." He shook his head, the mental image of some local thug trying to corner Elara playing out in his mind. That's not a fight; that's pest control. And she's the damn exterminator. "Like some random-ass killer can just... take them out? That's fucking funny."

The laughter faded, and the cold, hard reality settled back in. He sat up, the Headmaster back in the chair.

"Nah," Cross said, his voice flat. "Just the normal staff will do. The people who just punch a clock, not a face."

His gaze drifted, finding a spot on the wall. The photos in the drawer felt like they were burning a hole right through the wood. 'Someone you know might be next.' Pat's voice again. That calculated, cold-blooded shot in the dark.

"And Byron..." His voice dropped, losing all its humor. "Keep a good eye on Victoire, too. Since she lives outside the compound." She’s not a killer. She’s not a weapon. She’s just a docter. And she’s exposed.

The office was quiet, the only sound the scratching of her pen. Victoire was lost in the data, Leo’s files spread across her desk. Cognitive leaps... off the charts. Emotional empathy... delayed, but...

Knock knock.

She didn't look up, just called out, "It's open, but I'm busy."

The door creaked. The footsteps were light, hesitant. Not Cross, he just barges in. Not Byron, his steps are heavier. She finally looked up, and her pen froze.

Suhal.

He stood in the doorway, not the swaggering, designer-clad asshole from the courtyard, but a kid in a clean hoodie, his arm in a fresh sling. His usual cocky, venomous smirk was gone, replaced by... nothing. He was just... there.

Victoire’s face went cold. Pure, unadulterated annoyance. "What do you want?"

I am not in the mood for this. I swear to God, if he’s here to start round two...

"Dr. Odette," he started, his voice low. He wouldn't meet her eyes. He was looking at his sneakers, at the floor, at the wall. Anywhere but at her.

"Look, I..." He swallowed, and she could see the effort. "I just... I came to say I'm sorry."

Victoire blinked. She put her pen down, slow. Oh, I see. A command performance. "Did Cross send you?" she asked, her voice flat. "Or did Elara threaten to finish the job? Because if this is some kind of forced, 'let's-build-character' bullshit, you can save it."

"No!" He shook his head, fast, finally looking at her. His eyes were clear, just... exhausted. "Nobody sent me. Cross... he said some things in the med bay. And Elara... she... yeah." He winced, a flash of memory. "But this is me. What I said... in the courtyard... it was fucked up."

He took a step into the room. "You were right. About... Tshepo. About all of it. I was just... lashing out 'cause you hit the nail on the head. But what I said about you... and about... you know..." The 'whore' comment. The 'can't have kids' comment. "That was... that was low."

Victoire just watched him, her arms crossed. He actually looks ashamed.

"And," he said, shifting his weight, "I brought you something."

From behind his back, he pulled out a small, simple pot. In it was a single, impossibly large, white flower. It looked like it was made of silk, ethereal and glowing in the dim office light, its petals like delicate feathers. It was breathtaking.

"What... is that?" she breathed.

"It's a Kadupul flower," he mumbled, suddenly looking intensely embarrassed. "They're from Sri Lanka. They only bloom at night, and they're dead by sunrise. You... you can't buy them. They're priceless, or whatever. I had to pull in a... a lot of favors to get a preserved one here this fast."

He held it out. "To show I'm... genuine."

Victoire stared at the flower, then at him. The ice-cold wall she’d built against this kid, the one who’d called Leo a retarded freak, it started to get hairline cracks. This... this is a hell of a gesture. This isn't forced.

Cross was right. He's just a kid. A stupid, broken, arrogant kid who thinks the only way to show he's sorry is to move heaven and earth for an impossible flower.

She took it from him, her fingers brushing his. Her voice was softer now. "Suhal... I..."

"And I need to apologize to Leo, too," he cut in, the words rushing out. "I know you said he has hawk-ears. I know he heard me. I... I'd like to tell him I was wrong. If... if that's okay with you."

That was it. That was the one. Apologizing to her was pride. Apologizing to Leo was character.

A slow, tired smile touched her lips. "I accept your apology, Suhal. Thank you. This is..." She looked at the flower. "This is... a lot."

She could see the massive, visible relief roll off him. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.

"You know," she said, setting the flower carefully on her desk, "I like this side of you a lot more."

Suhal’s face, which had been pale and serious, suddenly went bright red. He ducked his head, a genuine, flushed-to-the-roots blush.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, backing toward the door, his swagger totally gone. "Whatever. Just... yeah. Sorry."

He practically fled the room.

Victoire stood there for a long time, just looking at the impossible flower.

Later that afternoon, Victoire found Leo in the daycare, his focus absolute, his small hands a blur on the PS2 controller. Spyro. He’d already mastered Crash.

Suhal hovered by the door, his good hand jammed deep in his hoodie pocket, his arm in the sling a physical reminder of his education. He looked small. All that razor-wire bravado , all that 'brokie' and 'peasant' noise, it was all gone. In its place was a 19-year-old about to apologize to a toddler. He looks terrified.

"Leo," Victoire said softly.

The game didn't stop. Wumpa fruits. Spins. Boxes exploding.

"Leo, sweetie," she tried again, "pause the game. Suhal needs to talk to you."

The music stopped. The silence in the room felt suddenly heavy, charged.

Leo turned. His face was a perfect, blank slate. No anger. No fear. Just... watching. Those unreadable, analytical eyes fixed on Suhal.

Suhal’s composure, what was left of it, visibly cracked. This is worse than apologizing to her. He’s not even mad. He’s just… looking right through me. Like I’m a puzzle.

He scrubbed his good hand over his face and then crouched down, wincing as the movement pulled at Elara’s handiwork. He was now eye-level with the kid he’d called a monster , a freak.

"Hey... uh... Leo." His voice was rough, dry. "Listen, man..." He took a breath. "The other day. I said some... stuff." He couldn't say the words. Couldn't bring 'retarded' or 'monster' back into the air.

"I was just... I was pissed," he pushed on, "at her," he hooked his thumb at Victoire, "at myself. And I said something stupid. And mean."

Leo just tilted his head, processing.

"You're not... what I said," Suhal finished, the words feeling heavy and true in his mouth. "You're... smart as hell. And... I'm sorry. For real."

The silence stretched. Suhal was just about to stand up, to flee the burning, awkward shame crawling up his neck, when Leo's small hands moved.

(You were emotionally dysregulated.)

Suhal stared. "What?"

Victoire’s hand flew to her mouth, a small, choked laugh escaping. Her eyes were shining. "He said... 'You were emotionally dysregulated'."

Suhal looked back at Leo, absolutely floored. This kid, who looked like a toddler, had just diagnosed him, not with malice, but with the cold, flat precision of a medical chart.

Then, Leo picked up the second controller. He held it out.

(Do you want to play?)

Suhal stared at the controller, then at Leo’s blank, expectant face. A real, actual laugh—not a scoff, not a taunt—bubbled up. It was rusty, but it was real.

He took the controller with his good hand. "Yeah. Alright, kid." He settled onto the floor, wincing. "But I'm warning you... I don't go easy."

Victoire leaned against the doorframe, her gaze drifting to the impossible, priceless Kadupul flower she’d set on a high shelf. She watched Suhal, the Fraternity’s S-Class Weapon Specialist, get systematically and silently demolished in Crash Bandicoot by a child who wasn't even technically a year old.

Yeah, she thought, a deep, quiet warmth spreading through her chest, a warmth that felt like hope. Cross was right. They're all just kids. And maybe... maybe they're going to be okay.