The city did not send a thank you card. It sent a calendar invite. Graybridge’s morning air was damp and sharp, the kind of wet chill that crawled under your collar and made you question every life choice that had led you to being outside before noon. A thin mist clung to brick and glass like gossip, and the street outside Branch Zero was already awake with the familiar clatter of buses, vendors setting up carts, and distant sirens that never fully left the soundtrack. Inside the guild hall, the lobby smelled like burnt coffee and ambition that had been forced through a cheap filter. The chandelier flickered twice and then held steady, like it was trying to act professional. The workstation fan whined like it was personally offended by the concept of peace.

  The Guild dashboard waited on the screen, bright, cheerful, and deeply rude. It blinked like it was proud of itself, and the moment Regis leaned in to check it, the System decided it had earned another opportunity to be unbearable.

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  Regis stared at the screen as if staring hard enough could make the letters crawl back into whatever pit they came from. “Nothing has happened,” he said softly.

  Seraphine didn’t look up from her binder. “It’s a notification loop,” she replied, steady, like she was reading the weather. “Ignore it.”

  “I am not ignoring it,” he muttered. “I am evaluating whether it is sentient or simply malicious.”

  Juno was already laughing, sprawled sideways in a chair with her boots hooked on the arm like she owned property rights to discomfort. “The answer is yes,” she said, grin wide. “It’s malicious sentience. It’s like a golden retriever that learned sarcasm and taxes.”

  Caleb stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture too careful, like he was trying not to take up space in a world that constantly demanded he take up space. He looked out at the street and then back at the workstation with the nervous sincerity of someone who wanted rules to exist and keep their promises. “Is it going to keep doing that?” he asked.

  “It will do that until the heat death of the universe,” Nia said quietly from where she sat on the arm of a chair, eyes half-lidded, voice calm. The coin between her fingers clicked softly, a private metronome. “Or until you comply.”

  Otto burst out of the back room carrying a tangled length of cable and a chunk of metal that looked like it had once been part of a streetlight. His hair was slightly singed, his grin was too big for the time of day, and his energy came with the same warning label as a malfunctioning toaster. “Good news!” he announced.

  Seraphine’s pen paused mid-stroke. “No,” she said, because she had learned.

  Otto blinked at her like he was personally hurt by her lack of faith. “I haven’t said anything yet,” he protested.

  “That’s why I said no,” she replied.

  Mara stood by the door, arms folded, silent. She watched Otto with the calm patience of a boulder waiting for a wave.

  Regis clicked the “messages” tab with the controlled precision of someone disarming a bomb, and the dashboard immediately decided to punish him with color. A new assignment banner unfurled across the screen, cheerful font, bright icon, and a little animated confetti burst that felt like being mocked by a clown at a funeral.

  CITY DIRECTIVE: PARADE APPEARANCE.

  OBJECTIVE: BUILD TRUST.

  TIME: SATURDAY.

  REQUIREMENT: PUBLIC INTERACTION.

  BONUS: DONOR ENGAGEMENT OPPORTUNITY.

  Regis blinked once. Then his eyes narrowed. “A parade,” he said, voice clipped.

  Juno leaned forward like a shark smelling blood. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “We’re getting a float.”

  “We are not getting a float,” Seraphine said, tone steady and immediate.

  Otto lifted the metal chunk like a prize. “We can get a float,” he said, hopeful. “We can build a float. I can build a float generator.”

  Regis’s gaze moved from the screen to Otto with slow, measured doom. “A parade is a vulnerability march,” he said.

  Juno’s grin widened. “That’s the most villain thing you’ve ever said while technically doing community service.”

  Caleb’s brows pulled together. “A parade is supposed to be… nice,” he said, sincere. “People bring their kids. There’s candy.”

  “Candy is bait,” Regis replied.

  Seraphine exhaled and leveled her steady look at the dashboard. “This is Halcyon,” she said, voice firm. “This is his ‘visibility’ obsession with a bow on it.”

  Nia’s coin clicked, once, twice. “It’s also an easy place to stage a humiliation,” she murmured. “Crowds. Cameras. Controlled angles. Somebody’s going to try something.”

  Juno lifted her phone and waggled it like a weapon. “If somebody tries something, I’ll try something back, but funnier.”

  Mara spoke, one word, blunt. “Agreed.”

  Otto’s eyes were shining. “This is perfect,” he said, because Otto lived in a reality where every fire was a learning opportunity and every disaster was just a prototype with bad timing. “We can showcase our nonlethal tech. We can show the city we’re professional. We can do a dramatic hero landing from the float. I can rig smoke machines.”

  “No,” Seraphine said.

  Otto’s smile faltered. “No smoke,” he repeated, wounded.

  Regis scrolled down the directive and found the attached route map, the scheduled stops, the approved “interaction moments,” and the requirement for a “branch-branded parade platform.” The city had literally assigned them a stage. The city had also assigned them a target.

  A quiet pressure settled behind Regis’s eyes, not fear, but the familiar itch of a strategist recognizing a trap and being forced to step into it anyway. He could refuse. He could decline. He could make a principled statement about not participating in civic theater. Then Halcyon would smile for cameras and say Branch Zero wasn’t ready, and the city would nod along like it had always known. Regis could play nice and show up, and the city would still try to chew them, but at least he would be there to decide which teeth broke first.

  “Fine,” Regis said, tone flat.

  Juno slapped the arm of her chair. “Yes,” she hissed, delighted. “We’re doing it.”

  Seraphine’s gaze sharpened on him. “Fine as in we comply,” she said, “or fine as in you have a plan that will make me lose sleep?”

  Regis’s smile was cold polite. “Both,” he said.

  That earned him a quiet look from Caleb that held equal parts admiration and anxiety. “Should we… practice?” Caleb asked.

  “We should prepare like we’re walking into an ambush,” Regis said.

  Juno made a pleased sound. “Ambush parade,” she whispered. “Love it.”

  The preparation began with the building trying to kill them, as usual. The condemned storage room that had become their training bay was full of rubble, half-functional lights, and the faint smell of mildew that had given up and accepted its fate. Otto dragged in parts and began narrating his own decisions like it made them safer. “Okay,” he said, crouched by a pile of scrap, “this is the chassis. It used to be a generator. I’m going to turn it into a float propulsion stabilizer.”

  Seraphine pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are going to turn it into a float,” she corrected.

  “A float generator,” Otto said brightly.

  “Stop adding the word generator to things,” Nia murmured.

  Otto pointed at her with a wrench like he’d been seen. “No,” he said. “Generator means it makes stuff happen. It generates forward motion. It generates morale. It generates vibes.”

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. “If it generates an explosion, I will personally throw it into the river,” he said.

  Otto’s smile turned sincere. “That’s fair,” he replied. “I will keep the explosion chance under… sixty percent.”

  Seraphine’s head snapped up. “Under sixty?” she repeated.

  Otto blinked. “Sixty is good,” he said, confused. “Sixty is passing.”

  “That’s not how safety works,” Seraphine said, steady but sharp.

  Otto held up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said, voice quick. “Sixty percent safe was a joke. It’s actually… eighty.”

  Juno whistled. “Eighty percent safe is a miracle around here,” she said. “Did you get religion?”

  Otto looked thoughtful. “I did pray once,” he admitted. “Just a quick one. It was like, ‘Please don’t let this part detach and murder a toddler.’”

  Caleb went pale. “We are not murdering toddlers,” he said, sincere, horrified.

  “Nobody is murdering toddlers,” Seraphine said firmly. “This float will be safe.”

  Mara put a hand on the metal chassis and pushed. It rolled an inch. The movement was effortless, quiet. She looked at Otto. “Brakes,” she said.

  Otto snapped his fingers. “Yes,” he said. “Brakes. Great point. Brakes generate stopping.”

  Regis watched the build with the careful attention of someone reviewing a siege engine. Otto’s contraption had a base platform, a bolted frame, handrails reinforced by actual metal that looked like it could hold a person who ate protein, and a battery pack that hissed occasionally like it was alive. Otto kept adding “failsafes,” each one announced with pride and followed by a minor spark. Seraphine hovered close, vetoing anything that resembled flair. Nia quietly checked the route map again and again, marking corners, blind spots, and choke points, building a mental grid over the parade like it was a battlefield.

  Caleb trained in the lobby during breaks, practicing the kind of posture that communicated calm without looking weak. Regis had him practice speaking into an imaginary microphone while people heckled him, because Graybridge didn’t heckle politely. Juno volunteered to heckle with enthusiasm. “Tell us why you’re broke,” she called in a fake angry voice, then immediately shifted to a fake crying voice. “My grandma’s taxes bought your cape, how dare you?” Caleb kept stumbling at first, apologizing out of habit, then catching himself, then trying again.

  “Stop apologizing,” Regis said, clipped.

  “I’m not trying to,” Caleb said, sincere. “It just happens.”

  Regis’s gaze stayed sharp. “Make it stop,” he said. “Apologies are admissions when cameras are hungry.”

  Seraphine stepped in, steady. “Speak from values,” she said to Caleb. “Say what you did. Say why it mattered. Say you’re here to protect people.”

  Caleb nodded, took a breath, and tried again. His voice steadied. “We’re here for you,” he said. “We’re here so your kids get home safe. We’re here so the city can breathe.”

  Regis didn’t smile, but something in his eyes loosened by a fraction. “Better,” he said.

  Juno clapped dramatically. “Look at him,” she announced. “Golden retriever learned public speaking.”

  Caleb flushed. “Please stop calling me that,” he said, and the way he said it made it clear it hurt.

  Juno’s grin softened. “Okay,” she said, and for once she didn’t make a joke. Then she ruined it anyway by adding, “You’re more like a labrador. Still heroic. Less fluffy.”

  Caleb stared. “That’s not better,” he said.

  It was the night before the parade when Nia returned from a “listening lap” with a small, quiet bomb of information. She came in with damp hair, coat smelling like street rain, eyes sharper than usual. “Silt’s people are moving,” she said, voice low.

  Seraphine’s pen paused. “How?” she asked, steady.

  “Rumors,” Nia replied. “Staged villains. Staged civilians. He wants a clip of Branch Zero looking incompetent. He wants the crowd to laugh at you, not with you.”

  Juno’s eyes lit up like she’d just been handed a gift. “He wants to do slapstick,” she said. “I can do slapstick better.”

  Regis’s voice was clipped. “He wants humiliation NEX,” he said. “He will not settle for a harmless prank. He will push until something breaks.”

  Mara’s gaze flicked to the door. “Then we don’t break,” she said.

  Caleb swallowed. “How do we spot staged civilians?” he asked, sincere.

  Nia’s coin clicked. “They rehearse,” she said. “They move like they’re waiting for a cue. They look around for cameras before they look for help. Real panic looks messy. Fake panic looks organized.”

  Regis leaned over the route map, finger tracing the parade path. “We control our pace,” he said. “We control our formation. We do not chase into alleys. We do not split.”

  Seraphine nodded. “We protect the crowd,” she said. “We do not let a stunt pull us away from real safety.”

  Otto lifted his head from the float chassis like he’d been waiting for permission to be dramatic. “We could install a crowd shield generator,” he said.

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “Do not,” she began.

  Otto held up his hands quickly. “Nonlethal!” he said. “Like a light barrier. A soft barrier. A barrier that feels like a gentle hug.”

  Juno made a face. “Nobody wants to be hugged by Otto’s engineering,” she said.

  Otto looked wounded. “It would be consensual,” he insisted.

  Regis tapped the map once, sharp. “We assume Silt’s plan is the obvious plan,” he said. “Which means the real plan is underneath it.”

  Nia nodded slightly. “If he’s staging villains,” she murmured, “he’s covering movement for something else.”

  Regis’s gaze lifted, cold. “Exactly,” he said.

  Saturday arrived with a sky the color of old steel. The parade route had been lined with barricades and sponsor banners, and the air smelled like street food and wet pavement. Vendors shouted about roasted nuts and fried dough. Kids with painted faces bounced on toes, squealing every time a siren whooped or a drumline hit a beat. A local band played something upbeat that still sounded vaguely threatening, because Graybridge could make any joy feel like a warning. Cameras were everywhere. Phones were everywhere. The city was watching, and it watched like it wanted blood but would accept embarrassment as a snack.

  Branch Zero’s float waited in the staging area between a school band and a charity group that had decided matching shirts counted as unity. Otto’s contraption looked like it had been assembled with hope, bolts, and a faint disregard for physics. It had handrails, it had reinforced corners, it had a platform covered in painted plywood that proudly displayed the branch symbol. Otto had even managed to install a small sign that read “Branch Zero” without it catching fire, which Seraphine called “a milestone” and Otto called “art.”

  Regis stood on the platform in a simple coat, posture straight, expression calm, looking like a man attending his own trial. The crowd would not see a villain. The crowd would see a guild master. The System would see a metric. Regis saw a hunting ground.

  Seraphine stood near the front edge of the platform, light constructs ready in her hands like a promise. Caleb stayed near the side rail where he could see the street, his body angled toward the crowd like he was prepared to take a hit for strangers without hesitation. Juno bounced lightly on her toes, grin wide, eyes bright, like she’d been born to weaponize attention. Nia stayed slightly back, hood up, gaze drifting across faces, cataloging, measuring, building a map in her mind. Mara stood behind Regis like a quiet wall, hands relaxed, presence heavy enough to calm a riot by existing. Otto hovered at the back near the battery pack, fingers twitching, eyes on his machine, whispering to it like it was a skittish animal.

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  The parade marshal waved them forward, and Otto slapped the side of the chassis. “Okay,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Please behave.”

  The float lurched once, then rolled forward, smoother than it had any right to. Otto’s face lit up with joy so pure it was suspicious. “It’s working,” he breathed.

  Seraphine shot him a look. “Do not celebrate,” she warned. “That invites disaster.”

  Otto nodded fast. “I am not celebrating,” he said. “I am quietly worshiping.”

  They rolled onto the main route, and the crowd’s noise hit like a wave. People cheered, some because they recognized the branch from the municipal Stone clip, some because cheering was free and felt good. A few boos mixed in too, because Graybridge always had critics who needed something to throw their feelings at. Regis lifted a hand in a controlled wave that looked practiced. Juno waved like she was trying to slap the air into loving her. Caleb waved awkwardly, then caught himself and steadied, smile sincere. Seraphine didn’t wave much. She watched the crowd like she was protecting it already.

  A kid shouted, “Is that the broke guild?” and another kid shouted back, “Shut up, they saved the city!” and their argument turned into laughter as the float rolled past. Juno leaned down and tossed a handful of cheap candy onto the sidewalk like she was bribing an audience. The kids shrieked and scrambled, and their parents laughed. For a moment, it felt… normal. Good even. It felt like the city might respond to genuine effort.

  Regis hated that feeling. Not because it was wrong. Because it was effective.

  The first staged “incident” came three blocks in. Nia saw it before anyone else, because she watched for choreography. A cluster of “civilians” stood near a barricade, four adults and a teenager, all wearing coats too clean for the weather and shoes too expensive for this street. Their eyes kept flicking toward the nearest camera angle. One of them whispered something, then two of them stepped back in unison like they’d rehearsed the panic. Behind them, three people in cheap villain masks moved into position, capes bright and plastic, props in hand, looking like they’d robbed a costume store and then asked it for acting lessons.

  Juno’s grin widened like she’d been handed a toy. “Oh,” she whispered. “Here we go.”

  Caleb’s brows pulled together. “That’s weird,” he murmured, sincere. “They’re… waiting.”

  Seraphine’s voice stayed steady. “Stay close,” she said. “Protect the crowd.”

  The staged villains leapt forward with exaggerated movements, shouting lines that sounded like they’d been written by someone who thought crime was theater. “Hand over your valuables!” one yelled. “Or face the wrath of the Dread Couponer!”

  Juno blinked. “The what?” she whispered.

  Another villain waved a foam bat. “This parade belongs to Baron Silt!” he shouted, and the line was too loud, too obvious, like he wanted the camera to hear it.

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. “Idiots,” he murmured.

  A few people in the crowd laughed immediately, because the villains were terrible. A few people screamed anyway, because fear didn’t care about quality. The staged civilians performed panic with impressive coordination, waving arms, shouting, pointing at Branch Zero like they were calling for rescue on cue.

  Caleb’s body shifted. Something in him tightened, then steadied. Instead of jumping off the float, instead of rushing toward the masks, he took a breath and raised his hands, voice calm but carrying. “Everyone stay back,” he called. “Make room. Give people space. Nobody runs.”

  The crowd’s motion slowed. It didn’t stop, but it softened, because his tone had authority without aggression. People heard the certainty and followed it like a rope.

  Juno stared at him, surprised, then grinned like she was proud and annoyed at the same time. “Oh look,” she muttered. “Leadership.”

  Seraphine’s eyes flicked to Caleb, something like pride warming her steady focus. “Good,” she said quietly.

  Caleb stepped off the float, not rushing, moving like he’d decided where he belonged and wasn’t asking permission anymore. He approached the staged villains with open hands, voice firm. “Hey,” he said. “This ends right now. Drop the props. Back away.”

  One of the villains sneered behind a mask that looked like a bargain-bin skull. “Make me,” he taunted, lifting the foam bat like it was deadly.

  Caleb’s brows knit, sincere frustration flashing. “Don’t do this,” he said. “You’re scaring kids. You’re making people run in the street. Somebody’s going to get hurt for your little stunt.”

  The villain hesitated. The line wasn’t part of the script. The reality of being called out in plain language made the performance wobble.

  Seraphine stepped forward on the float and lifted her hands, light blooming between her fingers in soft arcs that formed a barrier near the barricades, not trapping anyone, but gently guiding the crowd back, creating space without panic. The glow reflected off wet pavement and startled faces, and for a second the city quieted because it saw protection that didn’t demand applause. People stopped shoving. Kids stared wide-eyed instead of screaming. A few adults took slow breaths like they’d been holding them for years.

  Regis watched the light constructs with a tight jaw. The city responded. He could feel it in the subtle shift of attention, the way a crowd’s fear turned into relief. That relief turned into trust. Trust turned into power. Power turned into leverage. He hated how clean the math was.

  Juno hopped off the float next, moving with the quick confidence of a person who knew luck liked her. She didn’t charge. She didn’t punch. She strolled up to the villains like she was joining their skit. “Hi,” she said brightly, voice loud enough for cameras. “Are you the Dread Couponer?”

  The villain blinked. “Uh,” he said, thrown off.

  Juno leaned in conspiratorially. “Because I’ve got a two-for-one deal on humiliation,” she whispered, then turned toward the crowd and shouted, “Everybody clap if you love crime!”

  The crowd laughed, confused, then some people clapped anyway because humans were helpless.

  The villain lifted his foam bat again, trying to regain control of the narrative. “Hand over your valuables!” he shouted, louder.

  Juno gasped dramatically. “Not my valuables,” she cried. She clutched at her chest, stumbled backward in exaggerated fear, and then “accidentally” tripped over absolutely nothing. The fall should’ve been messy. It should’ve been painful. Instead she rolled perfectly, popped up behind the villain like she’d rehearsed it, and tapped him on the back of the mask. “Boo,” she said.

  The villain yelped, whipped around, and swung the foam bat wildly. It clipped the edge of the barricade, bounced, and flew out of his hands in a perfect arc that landed in a vendor’s cotton candy display. The cotton candy collapsed like a pink tragedy. The vendor stared. Then laughed. The crowd roared.

  Seraphine’s light barrier held steady, keeping the chaos contained, turning panic into spectacle. Caleb stepped in as the villain stumbled, gently catching his wrist and guiding him down in a restraint that looked calm and controlled, not violent. “Sit,” he said, voice firm. “Breathe. Stop.”

  The villain’s body went slack in confusion, because nobody had hit him and he still lost.

  Another staged villain tried to run toward the float, shouting something about “branch incompetence,” and Mara stepped off the platform with a quiet ease that made the air change. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t posture. She simply moved into his path and looked at him.

  The villain stopped like he’d hit a wall.

  Mara’s voice was low, blunt. “Don’t,” she said.

  The villain swallowed. “Uh,” he managed.

  Mara didn’t move. “Go sit,” she said.

  He went. The crowd laughed harder.

  Nia didn’t participate in the slapstick. She moved through the edges of the scene like a shadow with a clipboard in her mind, eyes scanning faces. The staged civilians, the ones too clean for the street, were trying to look scared while also trying to look important. She watched them glance toward a man near a camera who nodded subtly. She watched another “civilian” press a finger to an earpiece that wasn’t part of any panic costume. Names and faces clicked into place in her mind like pins on a map.

  Regis remained on the float, posture composed, smiling politely for cameras like he was proud of his team’s “community engagement.” Inside, his attention was somewhere else entirely. The staged villains were loud. The real threats were quiet. His senses brushed against the street like fingertips against fabric, feeling for tears, for pressure changes, for magic that didn’t belong.

  A pulse tickled the edge of his awareness. Not from the staged scene. Not from Seraphine’s light. Something tucked underneath the parade noise, a deliberate pressure moving through the crowd like a needle.

  Regis’s eyes narrowed. He turned slightly, gaze sweeping, and caught it. A man near the second barricade, hood up, hands low, moving against the flow like he was trying to reach the float’s battery pack area. Not one of Silt’s masked idiots. Too calm. Too precise. His right hand held something small and dark, an object that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. A disruption device, perhaps, meant to kill the float mid-route, dump heroes onto wet pavement, and turn the whole thing into a viral joke. Or worse, a panic trigger meant to spark a stampede.

  Regis felt a cold irritation sharpen into focus. Halcyon’s stage. Silt’s stunt. Someone else’s escalation. That was a pattern he didn’t like.

  He leaned toward Otto, keeping his smile in place for the cameras. “There is a man approaching the rear left,” Regis murmured, voice low and clipped. “He is not part of the performance.”

  Otto’s eyes widened. “Rear left,” he whispered, then peeked too obviously and flinched. “Oh. Oh no. That’s not a fun vibe.”

  “Do not panic,” Regis said softly. “Do not scream. Do not set anything on fire.”

  Otto swallowed. “I will set nothing on fire,” he promised, voice trembling with sincerity.

  Caleb had the staged villains under control now, guiding them toward the curb with calm authority while Juno turned their failure into a comedy routine for the crowd. She bowed dramatically after each “accidental” disarm. The crowd was laughing instead of screaming. Seraphine’s light constructs softened, easing people back, guiding them like a gentle hand on a shoulder. The staged civilians looked furious because the narrative had slipped out of their grasp.

  Regis kept smiling. He lifted a hand and waved, because cameras loved a wave. Then he made a micro-gesture with two fingers near his side, small enough to be mistaken for adjusting his coat.

  Reality listened.

  The air around the hooded man thickened by a hair, a subtle pressure ripple that nudged his step just enough. His foot caught the edge of a puddle that had been harmless a second ago. He stumbled, recovered, then stumbled again as the crowd shifted. The dark object in his hand slipped loose for a fraction of a second, and in that fraction, Regis flicked his fingers again.

  The object moved, not flying, not levitating, but sliding as if the world had decided it belonged two feet to the left. It bumped against the curb, rolled under a vendor cart, and vanished behind a stack of soda crates.

  The hooded man froze, eyes darting, then stepped toward the cart too quickly.

  Nia’s voice drifted up, quiet and pointed. “Back left,” she murmured, already moving.

  Regis’s eyes narrowed at her. “Do not,” he muttered.

  Nia didn’t look at him. She slipped off the float and melted into the crowd, her movement casual, like she was just going to grab a snack. She reached the vendor cart in three seconds, bent to pick up the dark object like she’d dropped something herself, and then straightened with it hidden in her palm.

  The hooded man stepped into her path. “Hey,” he said sharply, hand reaching.

  Nia smiled faintly, eyes cold. “No,” she said, voice soft.

  The man grabbed anyway.

  Nia twisted, the movement small and precise, redirecting his wrist, and he stumbled forward into the vendor cart. Soda cans toppled, clattering loud. The crowd laughed, because it looked like slapstick.

  Juno saw it and immediately made it worse in the best way. “Oh my god,” she shouted, pointing dramatically. “He’s trying to steal snacks. Get him!”

  The crowd booed the “snack thief” with delighted outrage. Phones came up. The hooded man’s eyes widened with panic, because he hadn’t planned for the crowd to become hostile to him. He tried to push past Nia and the vendor, but Caleb was already moving, calm and controlled, stepping into the new problem with the same steady presence he’d used on the staged villains.

  “Sir,” Caleb said firmly, hands open. “Step back. You’re causing a disturbance.”

  The hooded man snapped, reaching inside his coat.

  Mara arrived behind him like a silent consequence. She didn’t grab yet. She simply existed within arm’s reach.

  The hooded man’s hand froze.

  Mara’s voice was blunt. “Don’t,” she said again.

  He didn’t. His shoulders sagged as if the fight drained out of him all at once, replaced by the sudden understanding that he had wandered into the wrong crowd.

  Seraphine’s light shifted, forming a soft containment arc around the area, not trapping civilians, but giving Caleb space to escort the man toward the curb without a rush. The crowd cheered, because they thought it was part of the show. Otto, still on the float, looked like he was about to throw up and also cry from pride that his float had not exploded.

  Regis maintained his smile, because cameras. Inside, his mind was cold and sharp. That device hadn’t been Silt’s work. Silt liked humiliation. Silt liked visible stunts. This had been quiet and surgical. Someone was escalating behind the scenes, and they were using Silt’s stupidity as cover.

  The staged villains were now sitting on the curb, heads down, looking embarrassed. Juno bowed toward them. “Thank you for your participation,” she said brightly. “Please rate your experience one out of five stars. One star means you sucked. Five stars means you still sucked but with confidence.”

  One of the villains hissed, furious. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered.

  Juno leaned in, grin sweet. “That’s the fun part,” she whispered. “It did.”

  Nia slipped back onto the float, dark object tucked away, eyes calm. “That wasn’t Silt,” she murmured to Regis without looking at him.

  “I know,” Regis replied, clipped.

  Caleb climbed back onto the platform, breathing a little harder, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way they hadn’t been before. He’d taken the lead without asking. He’d held a crowd steady with his voice. He’d handled a problem with calm authority and no apology. He looked like someone who had just discovered he could be what he wanted to be.

  Seraphine’s gaze flicked to him, and for a brief moment her steady mask softened. “Good work,” she said.

  Caleb swallowed, nodding. “I just… saw it,” he said, sincere. “They were acting. It didn’t feel real.”

  Regis’s voice was quiet and precise. “You were real,” he said.

  Caleb looked at him, startled, then nodded again, as if that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

  The parade resumed, and Branch Zero rolled forward under cheers that were now warmer, less pitying. The staged embarrassment had become a comedy routine, and the crowd loved them for it. The city, for a moment, responded to protection and laughter like it wanted to be better than its reputation.

  By the time they reached the sponsored “interaction stop,” the route widened into a small plaza with a raised stage and a line of banner stands advertising everything from insurance to artisanal pickles. A coordinator waved them toward the marked position with a bright, anxious smile, the kind people wore when they were trying to control chaos with friendliness.

  “Branch Zero!” the coordinator called, voice too loud. “Right here! Smile for the cameras!”

  Regis’s smile tightened.

  They stopped the float in place, and the crowd pressed close behind barricades, phones lifted, kids perched on parents’ shoulders. The coordinator made a short speech about community trust and the importance of hero presence, and the words washed over Regis like static. He watched the edges. He watched the rooftops. He watched the crowd for more needles.

  Nothing struck. Not yet.

  Then the donors arrived like a second parade, quieter, dressed better, with smiles that were practiced and eyes that assessed. Three of them approached the float platform with hands clasped politely and the confident posture of people who believed money was the same as permission. A fourth lingered behind with a small entourage, someone who looked like a personal assistant and someone who looked like security, and the difference between that security and Halcyon’s security was subtle but not comforting.

  Seraphine stepped forward first, steady, because she understood what donors meant. Resources. Repairs. Equipment. The ability to keep the roof from leaking into the training bay. The ability to buy things that weren’t held together by prayer.

  One of the donors smiled wide. “Wonderful work,” he said warmly. “Truly wonderful. That little skit with the villains? Brilliant. The crowd loved it.”

  “It wasn’t a skit,” Seraphine replied, firm.

  The donor chuckled like that was adorable. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Still, the optics were excellent.”

  Juno leaned in and whispered, “He said optics,” like it was a curse word. Nia’s eyes narrowed slightly. Caleb looked uncomfortable. Regis kept smiling politely, because cameras.

  Another donor stepped forward, voice smooth. “We’ve been watching Branch Zero’s progress,” she said. “We’re interested in supporting you. Funding, equipment, community partnerships.”

  Seraphine’s expression stayed steady, but something hopeful flickered behind it. “We would welcome support,” she said. “With clear ethical boundaries.”

  The donor waved a hand gently. “Naturally,” she replied. “Naturally. We just have a few expectations. Public appearances. Sponsor acknowledgements. Some access to events. A meet-and-greet with the team.”

  Regis’s smile stayed in place, but his soul tried to leave his body again out of pure spite.

  Juno’s grin turned feral. “Do we get to meet your accountant?” she asked sweetly.

  The donor blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Juno nodded eagerly. “Just making sure we’re exchanging human beings equally,” she said. “You want access to our bodies, we want access to your spreadsheets.”

  Caleb made a startled laugh and then looked horrified at himself. Seraphine’s gaze snapped to Juno, warning. Nia’s mouth twitched, faint approval. Otto looked like he was about to ask if he could build a spreadsheet generator and then remembered Seraphine’s face.

  The donors laughed politely, the way people laughed when they wanted to appear chill but were actually offended. “We love the humor,” one of them said. “It’s refreshing.”

  Regis’s voice was clipped and dry. “Support is appreciated,” he said. “Expectations will be documented. Boundaries will be explicit. Any funding will be accepted under terms that do not compromise public safety, operational autonomy, or ethical practice.”

  The donors’ smiles tightened slightly, because they were not used to hearing no spoken in complete sentences.

  A man near the back of the donor cluster leaned forward. “Autonomy is important,” he said smoothly, “but so is accountability. If we donate, we want assurance of measurable outcomes.”

  Seraphine’s eyes narrowed. “Metrics are not values,” she said firmly.

  The man smiled. “Metrics are how values become real,” he replied.

  Regis’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment Halcyon’s shadow flickered over the plaza. The same language. The same weaponized virtue. The same smooth knife smile.

  Nia leaned closer to Regis, voice quiet. “They’re connected,” she murmured.

  “I know,” Regis replied, clipped.

  The coordinator waved them toward the stage for a photo op. “Branch Zero! Up front!” she chirped. “Hold the banner! Smile!”

  Regis wanted to throw the banner into the river.

  Instead, he stepped forward, smile polite, posture composed, because this was war now and war had cameras.

  They posed. The crowd cheered. The donors smiled for photos like they’d already bought a piece of them. Seraphine held the banner with steady hands, jaw tight. Caleb smiled, sincere, because he couldn’t help it and because he meant the protection. Juno flashed a grin that looked like it could sell a product and ruin your day. Nia looked calm, eyes scanning, already cataloging faces. Otto beamed like his float hadn’t nearly been sabotaged by a real threat, because Otto believed in miracles when he was the one building them. Mara stood quietly, presence solid, letting the world take pictures and daring it to try something else.

  The photo op ended. The donors drifted away, leaving behind promises and business cards and the faint sense of being sized up. The crowd dispersed slowly, still laughing about the villains, still talking about the light constructs, still waving at the float as it rolled away.

  Regis stared at the route ahead, mind cold and busy. Someone had tried to turn the parade into humiliation. Someone else had tried to turn it into harm. The city had responded to genuine protection, and now money was circling like it smelled opportunity.

  StarBuddy decided to celebrate.

  The workstation back at the hall wasn’t even here, but StarBuddy didn’t need a screen to be obnoxious. The air in Regis’s vision brightened as a new badge notification popped up like a cheerful curse.

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  Then the next banner slid in, bigger, brighter, with confetti that existed purely to mock him.

  ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: PUBLIC FIGURE.

  Regis’s smile froze. His body remained upright. His soul, for a single clean second, attempted to evacuate through his spine.

  Juno saw it happen and laughed so hard she snorted. “He’s dissociating,” she whispered delightedly. “Everybody be quiet. The boss is leaving reality.”

  Seraphine’s voice was steady but tired. “StarBuddy,” she said through clenched teeth, “stop.”

  StarBuddy chimed triumphantly. [SIDE QUEST COMPLETE! REWARD: MORALE BOOST!]

  Nia’s quiet voice slipped in, pointed. “It’s never going to stop,” she murmured.

  Caleb looked at Regis with sincere concern. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Regis’s voice came out clipped and dry, the words precise enough to cut. “No,” he said. Then he inhaled slowly and forced his smile to unfreeze. “I am a public figure now. Which means I am a public target. Everyone, stay sharp.”

  Mara nodded once. “Always,” she said.

  Seraphine’s gaze steadied, proud and wary all at once. “We did protect people,” she said quietly. “They felt it.”

  Regis didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He’d felt it too, the way the city shifted when someone genuinely held the line.

  Juno leaned in with a grin that refused to be serious for more than three seconds. “Also,” she said, “the staged villains are going to cry in their little Silt clubhouse because we turned their sabotage into community theater.”

  Nia’s eyes narrowed, voice quiet. “And I got faces,” she said. “Names too. Silt’s network isn’t as invisible as he thinks.”

  Otto raised a hand timidly. “And the float didn’t explode,” he said, voice hopeful.

  Seraphine exhaled slowly. “That,” she said, “is the closest thing we get to a miracle.”

  The float rolled onward through the wet streets, through cheers and phone cameras, through the city’s hungry gaze. Branch Zero had survived the parade of terrible ideas, and in doing so, they’d fed Graybridge something it couldn’t resist. A story. A symbol. A branch that was becoming visible whether it wanted to or not.

  Behind the smiles, behind the donors, behind the staged villains, something quieter moved, something that wanted escalation, not embarrassment. Regis felt it like a cold draft through a crack you couldn’t see.

  Graybridge ate weak branches. It also ate strong ones, just slower.

  Regis smiled for the cameras anyway, and in the space behind that smile, he started planning how to make the city choke on him instead.