Danny POV

  Danny Hebert stood at the kitchen sink, staring through a dusty window at the grey morning drizzle that turned the street outside into a washed?out watercolor. Brockton Bay always seemed damp these days, like the city itself was perpetually trying to scrub away its own sins and failing.

  Two weeks had crawled by since Taylor’s coffee?shop meeting. Two weeks of holding his breath.

  He glanced at the cheap burner phone lying on the counter. Bright orange plastic, identical twin to the one he’d insisted Taylor carry. It felt ridiculous: a grown man reduced to clandestine gadgets in his own house. But if the price of peace of mind was a ten?dollar prepaid, he’d pay it every time.

  The phone buzzed and Danny’s pulse spiked, then settled when the screen showed only a low?balance warning. He exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to laugh at himself.

  You’re turning into a jittery wreck, old man.

  Taylor’s bedroom door creaked upstairs. Footsteps, the soft thud of a backpack hitting carpet, muffled conversation with her bugs. He’d learned to recognize the odd hush of wings when her power spilled subconsciously into the house. She was awake, at least. Safe, for the moment.

  He forced himself to focus on the kettle, pouring boiling water over instant coffee. Union paperwork waited at the dining table: grievance forms, overtime rosters, another petition about dock safety. Routine should have been comforting. Instead, every signature line blurred into the image of his daughter standing on a rooftop, shoulders squared against fire and lightning.

  The radio on the counter chirped with a news bulletin. “-last night’s confrontation at the Docks. ABB lieutenant Oni Lee engaged an unidentified vigilante before Protectorate forces intervened. No civilian casualties reported–”

  Danny froze, spoon halfway to the mug. Unidentified vigilante. Brockton Bay didn’t lack for reckless capes, but the timing, two weeks after Taylor’s meeting, mere blocks from her usual bus route, slid a shard of ice beneath his ribs.

  He shut the radio off. Coffee forgotten, he strode to the living room and switched the television on. Footage looped: flood?lights, smoke, a blur of red. Velocity, he recognized. A collapsing warehouse wall, and a shadowed figure limping away.

  His throat tightened. Please don’t let that be you, kiddo.

  Taylor padded downstairs, hoodie sleeve pushed up as she tied her hair. She paused at the bottom step, noticing the TV.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  He muted the screen but left the image frozen. “Morning. You sleep okay?”

  She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Late night reading.”

  Late night something, Danny suspected. He’d heard her window click at one a.m.

  He gestured to the footage. “Another fight by the docks. You hear about it?”

  Taylor followed his gaze, expression carefully neutral. “Saw a headline.”

  He wished he could read her better. Annette had always joked that their daughter inherited his poker face. Today, it felt like a curse.

  “Unregistered cape again,” he said, probing. “Protectorate stepped in. No one hurt, thankfully.”

  “Good,” Taylor murmured, but didn’t look away from the screen.

  The slight tension in her jaw told him she was cataloguing details—angles, shadows, the way the unidentified vigilante moved. She’d always been an analyzer.

  Danny cleared his throat.

  “I, uh, picked something up for you.” From his pocket, he produced the second burner phone, identical to hers except for a strip of bright blue tape on the back. “Backup line. Just in case. I programmed my number as ‘Dad?Red’ and the house as ‘Home?Blue.’ If you text a color, I’ll know you’re safe.”

  Taylor’s brows knit. “You want me to carry two phones?”

  “Only when you go out.” He offered a wry smile, echoing her own words from the café briefing.

  She accepted the phone, turning it over in her palm. “It’s a little spy?movie, don’t you think?”

  “If it works, I don’t care,” He tried levity, but it landed flat between them.

  Taylor slipped the burner into her hoodie pocket. “Thanks.” Her voice softened. “Really.”

  Relief fluttered through him, tinged with guilt. He hated the idea of monitoring her, but the thought of losing her like he’d lost Annette was unbearable. This compromise would have to do.

  “Breakfast?” he asked.

  “I’ll grab something later. I still need to meet a classmate for a project.” A half?truth, if history held.

  Danny nodded, masking worry. “Be safe. Text me when you get there.”

  “Half?hour check?in, I know.” She recited the rule with faint amusement, then surprised him with a brief hug. Her arms were stronger than he remembered. A silent reminder of the bugs and the battles she never talked about.

  When the door closed behind her, Danny released a shaky breath. His gaze drifted back to the muted television. Oni Lee. Unregistered vigilante. Protectorate intervention. The city was a chessboard with pieces moving faster than he could track. All he could do was try to keep his queen safe without tipping the board.

  He picked up his coffee, cold now, and set it aside. Instead, he reached for a blank notepad. Across the top, he wrote: TAYLOR SAFETY PLAN. Beneath that: Backup phone ?, Emergency codes ?, Curfew? Tracking?

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  A knock at the front door startled him. He opened it to find a courier holding a small padded envelope. “Delivery for D. Hebert?”

  Danny signed, puzzled. Inside the envelope: a cheap USB drive and a handwritten note: Dock 14, west warehouse. 10 p.m. tonight. Bring no one. No signature.

  His pulse hammered. Trap? Misdelivered? His instincts screamed danger, but curiosity pricked at his brain. Could this be related to the vigilante? To Taylor? He set the drive on the table, staring at it like a live grenade.

  After a moment, he fetched Annette’s old laptop from the closet. It was air?gapped, never once connected to the internet since her research days. If there was malware, at least it would be contained.

  He hesitated, finger hovering over the USB port. This is crazy. But the image of Taylor on a rooftop, alone against fire, pushed him forward.

  Click.

  The drive lit up. A single file opened: grainy warehouse security footage, time?stamped as the night before, showing Oni Lee arriving and teleporting inside. Moments later, a hooded figure (the unidentified vigilante) followed. Danny watched, breath held, as the fight unfolded from distant cameras: muzzle flashes, teleport smoke, a desperate, lurching brawl. The hero intervention wasn’t captured, but the build?up was clear.

  At the end of the clip, text appeared on screen: Proof the ABB is stockpiling illegal tech. Share if you want help.

  Danny closed the laptop, hands trembling. Whoever sent this wanted him, a union foreman, to act. Or maybe they wanted Taylor to.

  He pocketed the USB and reached for his phone. The first burner, the orange one, remained stubbornly quiet. He typed a message anyway: Blue. A heartbeat later, his own phone buzzed in reply—Red :)—Taylor’s code for I’m fine.

  Some of the tension eased, but the warehouse coordinates burned in his mind. Tonight, 10 p.m. The decision loomed: warn the PRT? Tell Taylor? Or go himself?

  Danny Hebert, dockworker, had never felt so small. Yet if the city wanted to draft him into its silent war, he’d fight the only way he could. By keeping his daughter alive, secrets or no.

  He poured himself fresh coffee, set the USB on the counter, and stared out the window as rain began to fall in earnest. Each drop a ticking second toward whatever choice he’d make before nightfall.

  Alfred POV

  Rooftops at dawn are supposed to be tranquil. Just you, the gulls, and a romantic pink smear on the horizon promising a better day. Brockton Bay missed that memo. My dawn soundtrack is distant sirens, container cranes creaking like arthritic giants, and the faint pop?pop of a meth cook somewhere testing the world’s cheapest chemistry set.

  Still, compared to last night’s teleport?happy slasher flick, it’s almost peaceful.

  I settle on the edge of an eight?story apartment block, legs dangling over chipped brick, a bandage the size of a paperback taped across my ribs. Not my best work, but I didn’t exactly have a lot of options.

  Hacksaw medicine for the win.

  Every breath still rasps, but the pain is a useful metronome: inhale and remember you almost died. Exhale and remember you didn’t transform. Small victories.

  The city below looks half?asleep, half?afraid. Patrol cars drift through the streets like anxious beetles, and I can feel Red simmering: fight, burn, rage. Violet counters with a rumble that almost sounded like a dry chuckle. I sigh.

  “Can we not do the peanut?gallery routine before I’ve had my coffee?”

  They go quiet, but Blue pulses concern, a cool bathwater reassurance. I lean back against a rusted vent, replaying Oni Lee’s choreography frame by frame. Too slow on lateral movement, telegraphed that elbow feint, lost track of grenade clone. Haschel’s ghost crooks an eyebrow in my imagination.

  Critique accepted.

  First order of business: gear. Hoodies and goodwill only get you so far. I thumb through last night’s loot. Two Abbey bills still crisp, one burner phone with 20% battery, three ABB pockets full of mystery pills (tossed), and a folding knife of questionable metallurgy. Not exactly Wayne Enterprises.

  But money isn’t the blocker. Time is. Bakuda’s gone radio silent, and the smarter part of my brain screams that silence means she’s cooking a thesis project no one wants graded.

  Head bombs delayed? Maybe she’s fast?tracking something worse. City?wide cluster charges, or a micro?singularity in a lunchbox. Yay, imagination.

  I needed intel. Real intel, not alleyway gossip.

  A stiff breeze kicks up, smelling of brine and diesel. I tug my hoodie tighter and fish a notepad from my messenger bag. The first page reads RULES in block letters. Beneath are last week’s commandments. I add a new line: Talk less, watch more.

  Armsmaster’s lie detector reminded me I’m not clever enough to out?smart a polygraph. Better to say nothing next time.

  Still, some info needs to move. I flip to a blank sheet and sketch last night’s warehouse layout from memory: loading bay, office, generator room. In one corner, I mark a rectangle where I saw crates stamped with Kanji I couldn’t read. Probably fireworks, possibly pipebombs, definitely insurance?premium inflation. Underneath I jot: Call?in tip BNPD, voice mod.

  Will they take it seriously? Maybe. If a patrol shows, that’s manpower Bakuda can’t use tonight. Small levers move big machines.

  My phone buzzes. Burner #3, the least stolen of the trio.

  PHO headlines scroll: “SERAPH SIGHTING? PRT DENIES”. Bright red banner, zero facts, plenty of clickbait ads for Endbringer insurance. I chuckle despite the ache.

  A second headline catches my eye: “Unregistered Vigilante Assists Heroes Against Oni Lee”. The accompanying still is a blurry outline in a hoodie. Armsmaster must’ve leaked a frame. Subtext: We’re watching, mystery man.

  I pocket the phone, mind already drafting contingency paths. If the Protectorate tails me, fine. As long as they tail the ABB, too. Just need to stay one alley ahead.

  A rustle of wings draws my gaze skyward and I see a lone gull looping lazy corkscrews. Lucky bird. Doesn’t have to worry about exploding gangsters.

  I stand, testing my stitched side. Tingly but stable.

  Time to work. First stop, the thrift store. I needed gloves thick enough to function as padding. My punches have started carrying a bit more oomph than I was comfortable with.

  Second stop, electronics pawnshop for a voice scrambler. Nothing fancy, just enough to make my anonymous tips sound like a discount Darth Vader.

  Third stop? A vantage overlooking ABB territory. If they’re running supply convoys to hidden labs, they’ll move at dusk. I’ve got, what, twelve hours? Plenty to map escape routes and maybe catch a nap that doesn’t involve pigeons.

  Before I hop to the next rooftop, I pull the cloth mask from my pocket. The cheap fabric is stiff with dried blood. Battle?souvenir slash bio?hazard. I consider trashing it, then tuck it into the bag instead. Let it remind me how close I came to pressing the Dragoon panic button.

  “No wings,” I murmur to the morning, “until the bomb’s ticking.”

  Red smolders at that, but quiets when Blue’s calm flows through my veins.

  I take a running start and leap to the adjacent roof. Ankles jar, wounds protest, but the city keeps rolling beneath my feet. For the first time in days, the path forward feels…not clear, but possible.

  Bakuda’s silence won’t last. When the noise comes, I intend to be ready with intel, allies, and maybe even a cape name less embarrassing than Guy?in?Hoodie. One step at a time, Alfred. One mistake fewer each day.

  And if I play this right, the next dawn might actually smell like fresh coffee instead of smoke.