Apologies for not posting yesterday, I got distracted. Here is you're chapter for the week, even though it's later then normal..

  ---Grace---

  The back door closes behind me with its familiar click, sealing away the warmth of the kitchen conversation and leaving me alone with winter morning air that carries the sharp promise of fresh snow. My vigger circulation responds automatically, maintaining comfortable warmth beneath the borrowed jacket that still smells faintly of Jason's fabric softener. The backyard spreads before me in overlapping patterns of sight lines and defensive positions, but my attention fixates immediately on the evidence of Jason's frustration scattered near the back fence.

  Wood chips create small constellation patterns around the weathered log where Jason has been practising his arctic featherstick technique for the last 3 days. The debris tells its own story—repeated attempts, mounting frustration, the eventual retreat that brought him stomping through the back door with bark fragments in his hair like a particularly frustrated knotwood.

  His practice attempts lean against the log in varying states of completion, each one representing hours of effort and incremental failure. I approach with measured steps, boots leaving precise impressions in now undisturbed snow. These aren't just abandoned training materials—they're evidence of Jason's developing capabilities, even if he can't see the progress himself.

  The first featherstick fits naturally in my palm, weight and balance familiar from countless of my own creations. I examine the curl patterns, testing flexibility and shaving thickness with practiced fingers. The cuts follow proper spacing principles, maintain consistent depth, respect grain direction. Standard construction technique, adequate for most fire-starting requirements.

  But not able to light in arctic conditions. These lack the specialized preparation necessary for extreme anything but spring weather in my homeland—shavings too thick, curls insufficiently fine, overall structure more suited to these moderate temperatures. Still, despite the technical imperfection, this would function effectively in survival situations. Even during Toronto's winters, Jason's work would provide reliable fire-starting capability. He would survive.

  I rotate the stick between my fingers, appreciating the evidence of developing skill despite his obvious frustration. Progress exists here, clear improvement over his earliest attempts, though not the advanced methods I demonstrated at his employment.

  Setting it carefully back against the log, I examine the second attempt. Similar construction principles, slightly improved spacing, marginally better curl definition. The third shows deterioration—probably his final effort before anger got the better of him.

  Each featherstick receives a thorough evaluation before returning to its original position. Jason's efforts deserve proper assessment, not dismissal. His expanding skill set represents a valuable survival capability, even if arctic survival remains distant.

  Teaching him vigger would address multiple strategic objectives simultaneously. Enhanced thermal regulation would eliminate his vulnerability to Canadian winters—no more shivering when leaves his home, no more poor decisions due to cold exposure. Improved strength and endurance would support his developing bushcraft skills. Most significantly, success with vigger would rebuild confidence that arctic featherstick failures have systematically undermined.

  But standard training poses immediate complications. In my homeland, children begin with dramatic demonstrations—punching through practice trees, creating fist-sized holes in training posts, basic strength enhancement exercises that build confidence through visible results. Jason cannot achieve fist-sized holes in trees. Not yet. Perhaps never, given this world's apparent lack of vigger tradition.

  The homeless man accepted my demonstration readily—my fist through the fifteen-inch pine trunk serving recruitment purposes effectively. That will not work for Jason, however. Jason's learning occurs through emotional integration, building confidence through incremental success rather than overwhelming displays of power. His blindness taught him patience with gradual improvement, accepting small victories as a foundation for everything else.

  Simple The warmth it would give him would provide immediate, noticeable benefit without requiring me to punch through another tree. Enhanced circulation generates warmth, reduces fatigue, improves overall capability—practical advantages he could appreciate immediately. No dramatic feats required, just internal energy management that transforms winter from the enemy it is to him to a minor inconvenience.

  Teaching others first serves additional tactical purposes. Channeling life-force into another person requires less precise control than managing internal systems. More room for error, simpler technique mastery, confidence building through helping others before developing personal capabilities. If Jason successfully assists even one of the clanless individuals we encountered, the achievement would propel him toward more complex applications.

  My patrol circuit begins automatically—perimeter assessment, fence line integrity, gate security verification. The routine feels necessary despite minimal threat probability in this residential environment. Operational readiness maintains itself through consistent practice, and old habits preserve my tactical capability even in peaceful circumstances.

  The gate mechanism operates smoothly, latch engaging with a satisfying click. I step through and secure it behind me, ensuring Dawson remains protected within safe boundaries. Jason's concerns about gate security reflect sound thinking—Dawson requires protection from traffic hazards and territorial disputes with neighborhood dogs.

  The residential street stretches in both directions, lined with similar houses and snow-covered vehicles participating in morning commute rituals. Garage doors opening, cars backing from driveways, pedestrians walking dogs or moving toward public transportation. Predictable patterns that create comfortable anonymity for tactical movement.

  My route follows established protocols—varying path selection, maintaining situational awareness, avoiding predictable patterns that might facilitate surveillance. Though no credible threats exist in this environment, proper procedures preserve operational capability and provide structure to activities that might otherwise feel purposeless. Also. Camras exist, and I do not know enough about them yet or who is watching through them to know if they are threats or not.

  Jason's situation increasingly occupies my mind despite my deliberate attempts to suppress said for the moment. His fundamental nature creates impossible tactical paradox—absolute protection required for someone bound to serve him regardless of his desire to use that binding, genuine concern for my wellbeing despite knowing exactly what I am and what I've done.

  The memory surfaces unbidden: Jason settling against my shoulder after purchasing cookies from the strange child, his complete trust despite knowing I've killed forty-five people. Not in war, not in defense of innocent lives, but because survival demanded it. Because mercy sometimes requires ending suffering when healing isn't possible. Because threats to clan survival cannot be permitted to continue existing.

  I told him these truths, expecting fear or revulsion or at least tactical wariness. Instead, he put his finger to my lips like it was normal with, then fell asleepe on my shoulder. Drooled on me with unconscious comfort. Reached for me in his sleep when shifting position threatened to disrupt our contact.

  This response defies logical explanation. Jason possesses survival instincts—evidenced by his caution with new people, his awareness of environmental threats, his protective responses toward Dawson and now Kitten. Yet with me, someone who could end his life in dozens of creative ways, he demonstrates complete vulnerability. Trust me to teach him. Trusts me with his most fragile moments. Just. Trusts me without commanding, compelling, or otherwise controling me.

  Sarah from the running store represents the logicle, and better, alternative. Attractive, professionally competent, emotionally available. Capable of providing Jason with genuine partnership based on choice rather than magical compulsion or some sort of twisted pitty from his end. A genuine future. Her obvious interest during our visit creates natural opportunity for relationship development that could offer him everything I fundamentally cannot.

  Because regardless of Jason's attraction—which he makes no effort to conceal—regardless of his kindness and acceptance, biological reality remains unchanged. I cannot offer him a future built on clan traditions. Cannot provide the fundamental human experience of creating new life together, watching children grow, building family legacy that extends beyond individual existence. And when he finds that out. He won't want me anymore. Which concerns me more than it should, given that the deathoath will most likley end in my own death insureing the provention of his. As it should be. As is only correct given who, and what, we are. As is, I'm comeing to realize, something that I do not want to happen, despie the fact that i have little to no say in the matter.

  The memory of his whispered comment echoes in my enhanced hearing: "I wish I could learn vigger." Barely audible even to him, certainly inaudible to normal human perception, but clear as tactical communication to my augmented senses. The longing in his voice, the unconscious hope that perhaps this mysterious energy could transform his limitations into capabilities as it had done with his eyes.

  My enhanced auditory perception captures many things people don't intend to share. Whispered fears, unconscious desires, private hopes they believe remain unvoiced. Jason's repeated mentions of vigger training fall into this category—casual observations he thinks I don't notice, subtle requests wrapped in observational comments.

  Teaching him vigger would serve multiple purposes. Enhanced physical capability would improve his survival probability. Increased confidence would address his persistent concerns about personal failure. Thermal regulation would eliminate his vulnerability to Toronto's, to him, harsh winters. But beneath those tactical justifications lies a simpler truth—I want to give him this gift because he desires it, because his happiness matters beyond strategic considerations, because letting him be able to do this is something I would do evenwithout any other considerations. He brought me inside when he had no reason too. Introduced me to his co-workers when it could, and on some levels did, cause him harm, though emotional rather than physicle. Envited me to his tacticle game night because he hoped I would enjoy it as he does. Falls asleep on my shoulder despite the fact that he knows who and what I am like it's just something he does with everyone.

  The thought disturbs me with its implications. When did Jason's emotional wellbeing become a priority separate from survival necessity? When did his contentment become valuable independent of the tactical advantage it would offer? Why do I care about any of this?

  My footsteps carry me through another residential intersection, past houses filled with families pursuing normal winter routines. Parents preparing children for school, couples sharing morning coffee, elderly neighbors clearing snow from walkways with methodical determination. Simple domestic patterns that speak to continuity, tradition, the endless human drive to create stability and meaning through daily ritual.

  A building ahead catches my tacticle attention—large structure with distinctive architectural features, multiple entry points, landscaping that could facilitate either surveillance or approach. No obvious security measures although I have seen little enough in my time here, numerous windows, public access design that suggests this is a community function rather than a restricted facility.

  The sign mounted beside the main entrance reads "LIBRARY" in clear lettering. Jason mentioned this concept during our internet research sessions—buildings containing vast information repositories accessible to public use. My knowledge base lacks detailed specifications for such facilities, but if this is what Jason meant, I would be able to find tacticle knowledge at this location that I wouldn't otherwise.

  The building's interior surprises me with it's scale and systematic organization. Rows of shelving units stretch in precise arrangements, filled with thousands of books. The environment feels purposeful yet welcoming—functional design optimized for human comfort rather than pure efficiency. Tactically inefficient, yes, but. I do not know what. I do not know.

  Multiple civilian personnel move through the space with practiced ease, selecting items from shelves, consulting workstations, engaging in quiet conversations. No security checkpoints visible, no access restrictions apparent. Remarkable demonstration of social trust in public honesty. In my homeland, this facility would either be captured and used as an arcive, or simply burned to the ground and everyone within slaughtered by a rival clan to insure that the current clan did not utalize the information to crush those clans who did not have this knowledge.

  The reception desk sits in clear view of the main entrance, staffed by an elderly woman with silver hair and a gentle expression that suggests genuine pleasure in public service rather than mere professional courtesy. I move towards the desk.

  My approach draws her attention, prompting a warm smile that appears authentic rather than manufactured, her scent confirming this. "Good morning," she says, voice carrying years of practice in helpful interaction. "Can I help you find anything today?"

  "I require information about this building's function and access procedures," I state, maintaining formal tone appropriate for initial contact with unknown personnel.

  Her smile widens with obvious pleasure. "Of course! This is the Toronto Public Library. We're a public service that provides free access to books, computers, research materials, and various community programs." She gestures toward surrounding shelving with proprietary pride. "You can borrow books and other materials with a library card, use our computers and WiFi, attend programs and events, or just find a quiet place to read or study."

  Processing this information requires several seconds. Free access to extensive information repositories. No payment required for most services. Community resource maintained through public funding. The concept challenges fundamental assumptions about information control and resource distribution that I have learned over decades. Another stark difference between Jason's home and my own.

  "What payment method is required for these services?" I ask, prepared to negotiate reasonable compensation for valuable access despite the woman's words.

  "Most of our services are completely free," she explains with patient enthusiasm. "You just need a library card to borrow materials, which is also free if you live in Toronto or have a valid address here."

  Free access to vast information repositories. The strategic implications are significant for long-term intelligence gathering and skill development. "This resource will remain available for continued public use?"

  Something in my question causes her expression to shift subtly, pleasure dimming toward concern. "Well, that's actually..." She pauses, searching for diplomatic phrasing. "Many libraries are struggling as more people turn to digital resources and smartphones for information. Our usage has been declining, and there's talk about reducing hours or even closing some branches."

  Her voice carries personal investment that suggests this topic troubles her beyond professional obligation. This facility represents more than employment—personal mission to preserve community resource perhaps.

  "Why would authorities close facilities providing valuable public resources?" The question emerges with a sharper edge than I intended.

  She blinks but recovers quickly, apparently accepting the unusual phrasing as a personality quirk rather than concerning information. "The argument is that people can access information online now, through their phones or computers. Physical books seem outdated to some decision-makers. Why come to a library when you can just search the internet?"

  "Digital systems require infrastructure maintenance, power supplies, network connectivity that could fail. Physical information storage provides redundancy and reliability during said failures."

  "Exactly!" Her enthusiasm returns. "Plus there's something valuable about having a quiet space to think, to browse physical books, to discover things you weren't specifically looking for." She leans forward conspiratorially. "And not everyone has reliable internet access at home."

  The conversation continues for several minutes, covering library funding mechanisms, community impact, social value of shared information spaces. Her passion for the institution becomes increasingly apparent—this represents something personal to her, a way to preserve a community resource against what she calls, 'bureaucratic efficiency calculations. I, per Jason's suggestion, decide to not inform her that 'bureaucrats' as she called them would be used for meat by the locals if they ever, Esokied, as Raj put it, from this to my homeland, despite the fact that I suspect said revelation would bring the woman, who's name is Bell, dispreportionat satisfaction.

  I reach toward my jacket pocket instinctively, then stop. No resources available. I have specifically informed Jason that I will not continue accepting his financial support without providing compensation. Until I establish income stream through employment or other means then, I cannot make purchases requiring monetary exchange unless this place accepts tanned squirl hides and what ever plants I can harvest from the local environment.

  "I wish to obtain a library card and express appreciation for your information," I state, adjusting my tactical approach. "However, I lack standard documentation at present."

  "Oh, that's no problem," Bell responds warmly, pulling out registration forms. "We just need name and address. You can bring proof of residence later if you really want."

  As she processes my application with practiced efficiency, I make a calculated decision. This woman represents a valuable community resource who is personally invested in preserving public services. Enhanced vigger circulation would improve her health, energy levels, professional effectiveness. A small gesture of appreciation for educational assistance. Also, I suspect that jason would approve, although that is only part of my reasoning.

  "May I express gratitude through physical contact?" I ask, ensuring my movements remain completely visible and non-threatening.

  She nods with mild confusion, probably expecting simply a handshake. I extend my hand slowly, maintaining full visual contact, and place my palm gently against her shoulder.

  Three days' worth of vigger flows through careful channeling, redistributing according to her body's requirements. Standard conversion ratio for untrained recipients—approximately one day's enhancement per 3 day's energy invested. Except with Jason, where conversion appears mysteriously one-to-one for reasons I don't yet understand but must investigate for tactical planning purposes.

  Her eyes widen as energy integrates into her system, color improving, posture straightening. Subtle signs of enhanced vitality spread through her physiology—muscle tension releasing, circulation optimizing, mental clarity sharpening.

  "I have transferred one day of enhanced life energy to improve your health and professional capability," I explain matter-of-factly, removing my hand and accepting the completed library card. "This will provide increased stamina, improved immune system function, and enhanced cognitive performance for approximately twenty-four hours."

  She stares with an expression combining wonder and concern. "Did you just... what exactly did you do?"

  "Vigger transfer. Energy sharing technique from my homeland. Consider it appreciation for public service." I slip the card into my jacket pocket with a fluid motion. "I will explore your collection now."

  The stacks stretch before me in organized patterns, categories marked with systematic precision. Tactical information, survival manuals, regional geography, local history. Valuable intelligence repositories waiting for systematic analysis.

  My footsteps echo softly between shelves as I begin preliminary reconnaissance. Information gathering represents legitimate activity. Understanding local resources serves practical purposes.

  The fact that this exploration satisfies my long-suppressed curiosity about various parts of this new world that I can not request from Jason remains simply another irrelevant detail that requires no acknowledgment or further examination. This is to insure that I can exist better in this new land I find myself. Nothing more.

  ---Jason---

  The wheel trans thuds and groans like an old man's knees before the van shudders to a halt. I feel that familiar jolt through my body as the suspension settles, the hydraulic hiss of air brakes punctuating the end of another journey from home to Northern Edge.

  "Northern Edge," the driver announces, his voice carrying that practiced indifference of someone who's said these words a thousand times before. I recognize Dave in his tone—that particular brand of efficiency that comes from repetition, though with less warmth. Can't really blaim the guy though, it's early, and I don't talk much.

  I nod and push myself up from the bench seat, feeling the slight stiffness in my legs from sitting too long. "Thanks, man," I tell the driver, because it matters to acknowledge people doing their jobs, especially when those jobs involve driving people like me around all day. The words come out with genuine appreciation, not the reflexive politeness I used to offer when I felt like a burden on everyone's time. Granted, I only realize that now, but. What's that saying about learning things?

  The van door slides open with a mechanical rumble, and I step down onto the gravel parking lot. The cold February air hits my face immediately, carrying that sharp bite that makes you aware of every inch of exposed skin. My feet crunch on the mixture of salt and gravel as I make my way toward the familiar outline of Northern Edge's main building.

  I check my phone, scrolling to the time since it's still two D and apart from 'war of grate houses' I can't see computer screens. Seven-fifteen. Huh. I'm actually early for once, about half an hour ahead of when I usually drag myself through those doors. The wheel trans must have hit every green light between home and here, or maybe the morning traffic was lighter than usual. Hell. Maybee it's like, rode magic? Grace showed me lifeforce magic, and there's probably others, right?

  The main entrance welcomes me with its heavy wooden door and the scent of coffee already brewing inside. Through the cracked open windows, I can see warm light spilling from the break room, that comfortable glow that promises caffeine and conversation before another day of wrestling with Dave's organizational system.

  Inside, I find the usual suspects already gathered around the break room table like some sort of morning ritual. Dave sits with his characteristic perfect posture, nursing what's probably his second cup of coffee while reviewing some paperwork that he'll inevitably hand off to me with cryptic notations. Mike Thompson, since we've got Mike Thompson and Mike Tanner now has claimed the chair nearest the coffee pot, always strategic about positioning himself for easy refills. Raj sprawls in his usual spot, somehow managing to look relaxed and alert simultaneously, while Carter occupies the remaining chair with that military bearing that never quite fades, even over morning coffee. Would it be strange if I asked him if said military posture fades when he sleeps? Or would everyone look at me like I'm, well, weird?

  I settle into the empty chair with a sigh that comes from deeper than just being tired, pouring myself coffee from the pot while my brain automatically catalogues everyone's presence. The familiar routine feels grounding after the weirdness of being early, of having extra time to think instead of rushing straight into work mode.

  "You're not normally here this early," Dave observes, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than criticism. He sets down his paperwork and gives me that direct look he uses when he's actually paying attention, not just going through social motions.

  I shrug and manage what I hope is a casual grin, though I suspect it doesn't quite hide the fact that I've been thinking about this conversation since yesterday. "Wheel trans was fast today. Hit all the lights, I guess."

  The coffee tastes bitter and slightly burnt, the way it always does when Dave makes it, but the warmth feels good against my palms. I take a moment to organize my thoughts, aware that everyone's attention has shifted to me in that subtle way that means they're actually listening.

  "Actually," I continue, my voice growing more serious, "I wanted to ask you guys something. Something I've been thinking about since... well, since things changed for me." I pause, trying to find the right words for a question that's been gnawing at me for days now, since I woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare involveing, well, being stabbed with short-sword-sized knives. After Grace arrived and couldn't get back to sleep. "The original reason I used wheel trans was because I was blind. But I'm not blind anymore. So, ethically... should I continue using it?"

  The question hangs in the air like smoke from Dave's fire, heavy with implications I'm not sure I want to examine too closely. But these are my people, the ones who've seen me at my worst and somehow decided I was worth keeping around anyway, so if anyone's going to give me a straight answer, it's them.

  Carter sets down his coffee cup with deliberate precision, that careful movement that means he's thinking through his response. "Ethically?" he says, his voice carrying that matter-of-fact tone he uses for uncomfortable truths. "No. You shouldn't continue utilizing wheel trans simply because you don't want to learn how to get to Northern Edge using the bus. Walking might be a bit much for this time of year, but." He shrugs.

  Dave's grin appears suddenly, that particular expression he gets when he's about to say something that amuses him. "Unless you're Grace," he adds, and there's genuine fondness in his voice when he mentions her name, so i smile. It's nice they like Grace. I'm happy, I think that Grace likes them too, in her way. She seemes to be, for her, excited about the possible job, even if it is to teach people how to not die. It's better than nothing, and everyone needs something to look forward too? The fact that my someone is Grace and the somethings usually involve her? Well. I'll have to deal with that sooner rather than later.

  Mike Thompson shrugs, his shoulders moving in that casual way that suggests he's been thinking about this too. "Grace is Grace is Grace," he says, like that explains everything. And honestly, it kind of does.

  Raj's smirk carries a hint of something sharper, more serious than his usual easy humor. He leans forward slightly, his expression shifting to that focused intensity he brings to conversations about things that actually matter to him.

  "Look," Raj says, his voice losing its casual edge, "you don't need wheel trans anymore. Someone else does. If you want to keep using it to get places, that's one thing. But if you're only using it because you don't want to learn how to change, that's more an issue of keeping someone who really needs the service from using it. And that's not ethical, man."

  Dave nods, his expression growing more thoughtful as he considers the implications. "What would you think if someone—doesn't matter who—kept using something that you needed? What would you have done if, say, you wouldn't have gotten whatever the thing wheel trans calls when you have a spot, because someone else who could learn how to get places differently just didn't want to?"

  The question hits harder than I expected, cutting through all the comfortable rationalizations I've been building. He's right, and I know he's right, which makes it worse somehow. I can feel my face flush slightly as the full weight of what I've been doing settles in my chest.

  "I can't just drive you every day," Dave continues, though his tone softens with something that might be regret. "Much as I would be happy to do so, my house is in the other direction."

  Mike shrugs again, that simple gesture somehow conveying both understanding and acceptance. The conversation has reached that point where everyone knows what the right answer is, even if it's not the convenient one.

  Carter's voice cuts through my internal wrestling match with a question that makes me want to crawl under the table and hide. "How did your conversation with Grace go about you sleeping on her shoulder?"

  Raj perks up immediately, his interest sharpening like a predator scenting prey. "What happened?" he asks, leaning forward with the kind of curiosity that suggests he's been waiting for gossip.

  I can feel my face heating up as I describe what led to me using Grace as a pillow in the first place, the whole embarrassing saga of falling asleep during our strategy discussion. The memory carries a weird mixture of embarrassment and warmth—mortifying because I drooled on her, but also somehow precious because she didn't seem to mind.

  "So after I talked to Carter," I continue, aware that everyone's hanging on every word like this is the most fascinating story they've heard all week, "I talked to Grace about it. Asked if she was okay with me sleeping on her shoulder, if it bothered her, that whole thing."

  I explain the conversation from yesterday, Grace's matter-of-fact acceptance, her practical approach to the whole situation. Her complete lack of drama about something I'd built up into a major social crisis in my own head even if it had, looking back, been more about the deathoath than the actual sleeping on Grace's shoulder bit.

  "And then," I finish, my voice dropping to something between confession and complaint, "with a grimace, I asked how the fuck I'm going to not drool on people."

  The laughter that erupts around the table is immediate and infectious, everyone including me dissolving into the kind of genuine amusement that makes your stomach hurt. Dave claps me on the shoulder, his hand warm and solid through my jacket.

  "See?" Dave says, still chuckling. "Grace is Grace is Grace, and she would have told you if she had a problem."

  I nod slowly, feeling some knot of tension I hadn't realized I was carrying start to loosen in my chest. He's right, of course. Grace doesn't do subtle criticism or polite tolerance. If something bothered her, she'd say so with the kind of directness that would leave no room for misinterpretation.

  "It's difficult," I admit, my voice quieter now, more honest. "I was concerned about all of you—Dave, Mike, Carter, Raj." I pause, trying to find the right words for something I've never said out loud before. "Well, Raj came later, but the others? I was concerned I was fucking up and you just weren't telling me, at first."

  The admission hangs in the air between us, heavier than the earlier question about wheel trans. Years of accumulated anxiety, of wondering if people were just being nice, if I was imposing without realizing it, if everyone was too polite to tell me when I was screwing up.

  Carter's response comes with that particular brand of dry humor that somehow manages to be both reassuring and slightly insulting at the same time. "It's literally our jobs as a school to fix people's fuck-ups, Jason. Can't do that if we don't tell you how you're fucking up and how to fix it, yes?"

  More laughter, but gentler this time, understanding rather than amusement. The kind of laughter that acknowledges something real without making it feel smaller or less important.

  I stand up, suddenly needing to move, to do something with the energy that's been building during this conversation. "I need to get back to admin," I announce, managing a smile that feels more genuine than anything I've worn in weeks.

  I rinse out my coffee cup in the small sink, the routine movements helping to ground me in the present moment. Water runs warm over my hands as I scrub away the coffee residue, then I place the cup upside down on the drying rack where it belongs.

  "Thanks, guys," I say, though the words feel inadequate for what this conversation has given me. Clarity, maybe. Permission to stop carrying guilt that wasn't really serving anyone.

  I exit the break room and head toward my office, my footsteps echoing slightly in the quiet hallway. The familiar path feels different somehow, less burdened with the weight of questions I'd been avoiding.

  But as I walk, my mind turns to the practical problem Carter and Dave have left me with. I'll call and cancel my wheel trans trip home—that decision feels solid, right in a way that settles something fundamental in my chest. But that leaves me with the more immediate challenge of figuring out how the hell I'm going to get home tonight.

  The bus system in Toronto is comprehensive but complex, and I've been avoiding learning it for exactly the reasons Raj called me out on. Not because I couldn't figure it out, but because I didn't want to deal with the inconvenience of change. Also because I was, am, scared of fucking it up and haveing someone have to come get me, but mostly that first reason about change.

  Time to grow up, I guess. Time to figure out how regular people get around this city when they don't have special transportation services designed for disabilities I no longer have.

  The thought is both terrifying and oddly liberating. Another step away from the careful limitations that used to define my world, another move toward something that feels more like actual independence rather than elaborate accommodation.

  I push open my office door, ready to dive into Dave's chaotic filing system while my brain works on the problem of getting home. Somehow, the morning's conversation has made both challenges feel more manageable.

  Just another day of learning how to be a different version of myself, one small decision at a time.

  ---Grace---

  I push open the front door, stepping into the warm air that carries the familiar scent of home - that particular combination of Bearee's laundry detergent, whatever candle she burned this morning, and the lingering traces of breakfast. My boots thud against the mat as I bend to unlace them, fingers working methodically through the frozen laces. The snow clings stubbornly to the treads, little clumps of ice that I scrape away with my fingernail before wiping each boot clean against the mat.

  I can't track water onto these floors. I won't be careless with this space. These people have given me food, shelter, and something that I can not quite name. I will not give them dirty floors.

  Home. The word appears in my mind again, unbidden but somehow settling into place with increasing frequency. Not Jason's dwelling. Not a temporary shelter. Home.

  The kitchen draws me forward with its warm yellow light spilling across familiar surfaces. Kitten appears from wherever cats come from when they sense people returning, winding around my ankles with that particular purr that means she's pleased I've returned but wants me to know she suffered tremendously in my absence. I reach down to scratch behind her ears, and she butts her head against my palm with more force than necessary.

  "Grace?" Bearee's voice carries from deeper in the house, followed by footsteps moving in my direction. "That you?"

  "Yes," I call back, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door. The borrowed jacket that fits well enough but still carries traces of its original owner's scent - fabric softener and something distinctly Jason.

  Bearee appears in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, her expression shifting from casual welcome to something sharper when she takes in my appearance. I catch myself in the hallway mirror - hair disheveled from hours in the library, cheeks still carrying the flush of cold air, eyes perhaps too bright from the satisfaction of successful intelligence gathering.

  "How long have you been gone?" Her voice carries that particular tone mothers use when they're trying to sound casual while conducting careful assessment, even if I only know this through observation.

  I pause, considering the question. "I departed at approximately eight-thirty this morning."

  Bearee steps forward, her movements carrying subtle urgency I recognize as concern rather than threat. "Grace, it's two-thirty in the afternoon."

  The information processes slowly. Six hours. I calculate the timeline - departure after breakfast, walking to the library, registration process, exploration of the stacks, systematic review of survival manuals, regional geography texts, local history collections. Time moving without my awareness while I absorbed information with the focused intensity I bring to all tactical preparation.

  "I apologize," I say, meeting her eyes directly. "I discovered the Toronto Public Library and was utilizing it to gather tactical information. I should have informed you of my intended duration."

  Bearee takes another step closer, and I observe her body language shifting toward that gesture Magnen makes when he wishes to embrace someone - arms beginning to lift, then hesitating. "I was worried when you didn't come back after the first couple hours."

  Her arms raise halfway before she catches herself, lowering them slowly while her smile remains. The expression carries warmth but also something I'm learning to recognize as restraint. She wants to offer physical comfort but remembers my preferences about unexpected contact. In my homeland, I would have been required to at least broach the subject, if not outright inform her that I would stab her if she attempted such. That warm feeling blooms in my chest again, though different than the one that Jason triggers. I push it away for tactical examonation later.

  "Please do not embrace me without permission," I say, the words coming out more formally than intended.

  "Of course not, hon." Bearee's smile doesn't falter. "Just glad you're home safe."

  Home. There it is again, this time spoken by someone who has every right to use that word about this space and every right to exclude me from said. I am not family. I am a tactical asset who arrived on her porch almost dead and is bound to, andwishes to protect, her son.

  "Jason called about an hour ago," Bearee continues, settling back against the kitchen counter. "Took him a while to explain himself, but basically he canceled his wheel-trans trip home. Says he doesn't think he needs the service anymore."

  I process this information, running calculations about Jason's decision. Increased independence, reduced reliance on specialized transportation, greater integration with standard city systems. Logical progression from his restored vision capabilities, though it creates logistical complications.

  "I will retrieve Jason," I state, the solution appearing clearly in my mind.

  Bearee considers this, her head tilting slightly as she evaluates the practicality. "I could drive you to get him, then we could swing by Run Run Run for those shoes we talked about. I need to do some shopping anyway."

  I open my mouth to inform her that such assistance isn't necessary, that I can arrange alternate transportation, but Bearee raises her hand in that universal gesture for pause. Thankfully she doesn't place a finger against my lips - I suspect informing her that in my homeland, such an action would result in the immediate loss of said finger would create more social complications than it did for Jason.

  "I'm going shopping either way," Bearee explains, her tone carrying that practical logic I've learned to appreciate. "And since Jason doesn't have proper footwear for winter walking, according to you, I might as well help out. Makes sense."

  The reasoning contains no flaws. Efficiency through combined objectives, optimal resource utilization, practical problem-solving that benefits all parties. I find myself nodding slowly.

  "May I borrow your communication device?" I ask. "I will remain within your sight to contact Jason and inform him of our plan."

  Bearee pulls her phone from her pocket, unlocking it with quick finger movements before extending it toward me. I catch the device smoothly, noting her casual trust in handing over valuable technology.

  "It's not like you're going to steal it," she says with mild amusement.

  "I am not," I confirm. "However, I could. I will not - I have no reason or desire to do so - but maintaining visual contact while handling your possessions remains prudent protocol."

  The phone displays Jason's contact information, Bearee having navigated to his number before passing the device. I tap the call button and wait for the connection to establish, watching the screen display "Calling Jason Stone..." in clean digital text.

  "Hello?" Jason's voice emerges from the speaker, carrying that slight uncertainty that I have observed from people when interacting with their parents, though once again, I have not experienced this myself.

  "This is Grace," I inform him.

  Jason's laugh contains relief and something else - warmth, perhaps amusement. "Fuck, would have been really awkward if I'd said something inappropriate and it was you. For me, anyway."

  I decide not to comment on this statement as I have no adequate response and navigating this conversation requires focus on essential information. "Bearee will retrieve you at the end of your shift, with my accompaniment. We will then proceed to Run Run Run to ensure you have adequate footwear."

  "Grace..." Jason's voice carries something softer now, gratitude mixed with something I can't quite identify. "Thanks for, well. Being Grace? Not stabbing me when I fell asleep on your shoulder."

  "If I intended violence, I would have used physicle impact, not a blade," I correct. "However, I would have provided warning before taking action, and you would have ceased the offending behavior. Your actions were not unwanted, Jason. We have established this."

  Jason's laugh sounds different now - lighter, more genuine. "I really should get back to work."

  "Do not wait outside in the cold," I instruct. "You are not immune to temperature-related injury."

  "I'll stay inside," Jason agrees. "Thanks, Grace."

  I inform him I am terminating the call and return the phone to Bearee, who accepts it and tucks it back into her pocket.

  "Can I use Jason's laptop?" I ask. "I wish to review the rules of War of Great Houses to develop tactical plans for Friday's game."

  Bearee pauses, her expression thoughtful. "It's Jason's, so shouldn't you ask him?"

  "It is Jason's laptop," I agree. "However, Jason is not present. You, as clan matriarch, are the closest authority figure. May I utilize Jason's laptop?"

  Bearee considers this logic, and I observe the slight smile that suggests amusement at my reasoning. "Do you know his password?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I trust you," she says simply. "Jason trusts you, and that's good enough for me."

  She moves off toward other areas of the house, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I process her words - trust extended through transitive property, confidence based on Jason's judgment. The implications settle in my chest with unexpected warmth. This woman has no reason to trust me. I am an unknown quantity who her son has developped feelings for. I am unsure how to process this. I push it asside to tactically examon at a later date.

  I make my way to Jason's bedroom, noting how the space has become familiar through repeated visits. The laptop sits on his desk where he left it this morning, closed and waiting. I lift it carefully, carrying it to his bed where I can sit comfortably while accessing the information I need.

  The device opens smoothly under my touch, displaying the password prompt. I enter the sequence Jason taught me, watching the screen transform to show his desktop with its organized arrangement of folders and shortcuts. The War of Great Houses bookmark waits in his browser, exactly where we left it during our previous research session.

  The wiki loads efficiently, displaying faction information and unit statistics in clean, organized format. I navigate to House Long Watch, studying their military structure and tactical capabilities. Rangers for reconnaissance, long range assault and truth-telling, Protectors for direct combat, Druids for leadership and magical support. Hunters for persuit and channaling prey into kill zones. Dave's recommendation appears sound - this organization aligns well with both my combat experience and Jason's developing capabilities.

  I open my borrowed notepad, beginning to document unit statistics and strategic considerations. Information flows across the screen as I systematically review equipment lists, advancement paths, and tactical doctrines. House Long Watch prioritizes pragmatism, honesty, and protection of it's members- values that resonate with something deep in my chest.

  Outside, snow continues falling in lazy spirals past Jason's bedroom window. The temperature reads minus eight degrees Celsius according to the small weather widget on the laptop screen. Normal winter weather for Toronto, well within human tolerance ranges for brief exposure, though extended outdoor activity would require proper preparation.

  Jason will need those shoes. The current footwear he possesses offers insufficient protection against ice and snow, creating unnecessary risk during routine movement. Practical equipment represents the foundation of survival - inadequate gear leads to injury, which leads to vulnerability, which leads to death.

  I continue reading about House Long Watch formations, noting their emphasis on unit cohesion and mutual support. Pack tactics adapted for humanoid combatants, with clear command structures and defined roles for each member. Effective military doctrine based on proven battlefield principles.

  The laptop screen dims slightly as the automatic power management activates, but I adjust the settings to maintain full brightness. Information gathering requires sustained focus, and I have several hours before we need to retrieve Jason from Northern Edge.

  Time to learn everything I can about our chosen faction before Friday's tactical exercise. Knowledge provides advantage, and advantage provides survival - principles that remain constant whether the battlefield is fictional or real.

  Kitten appears in the doorway, surveying the scene with that calculating expression cats wear when determining optimal positioning for attention. She approaches with deliberate steps, leaping onto the bed beside me with fluid grace before settling against my leg. Her purr rumbles steadily as she claims her portion of available space.

  The warmth of her small body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the familiar scent of this room - all of it combines to create something I'm still learning to name. Safety, perhaps. Or belonging. Words that carry more weight in this world than they ever did in mine.

  I return my attention to the laptop screen, scrolling through House Long Watch tactical manuals while Kitten's purr provides steady background accompaniment. Outside, Toronto continues its daily routine - traffic moving on slush-covered streets, people bundled against the cold, the city adapting to winter conditions with the practiced efficiency of long experience.

  But inside this room, with this information, surrounded by these familiar scents and sounds, I find myself using that word again: home.

  And for the first time in my life, it doesn't feel like a tactical weakness.

  ---Sarah---

  The afternoon light filtering through Run Run Run's front windows has taken on that particular February quality that makes Toronto winters feel endless. Sharp and thin, it cuts through the glass at an angle that highlights every dust mote floating in the heated air, creating those dancing columns of illumination that seem to move with their own purpose. I'm reorganizing the trail running display when my peripheral vision catches movement outside, and I glance up to see three figures approaching the storefront through the crystal-clear air that comes with minus-two temperatures.

  The woman in front moves with that predatory grace I remember from before—Grace, Jason's... whatever she is to him. Even through the window, I can see the way she scans the street with systematic precision, her head turning in small increments that suggest she's cataloguing every parked car, every pedestrian, every potential threat or escape route. Behind her, a man I assume must be Jason, though I've never actually seen him up close before, though he's wearing the running shoes I remember Grace buying previously. And alongside them, an older woman whose body language suggests she'd rather be anywhere else, her shoulders hunched not just against the cold but against the entire situation. Or maybee she just wants Grace and Jason to do what ever they're here for alone? Since, from Worthy's discriptions, this must be Bearee, and if I've noticed something between Jason and Grace, then as Jason's mother, the other woman sure as shit has.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The door chime announces their arrival with its familiar crystalline note, and I straighten from where I'd been adjusting the display of waterproof trail shoes. The scent of winter air follows them in—that particular Toronto February smell of snow, exhaust, and the metallic tang of air so cold it seems to burn the inside of your nose. Grace enters first, and those green eyes I remember are already cataloguing the store's layout with systematic precision. She's not wearing a coat despite the minus-two temperature outside, which continues to strike me as either impressive cold tolerance or complete disregard for normal human comfort levels. Her breath doesn't even mist in the warm air of the store, as if the temperature differential doesn't affect her at all. Pushing down the desire to ask how exactly she does that, so I can look into it on my own runs, I move behind the customer part of the counter.

  Jason follows, and I get my first close look at the neighborhood guy I've been running past for months. He's taller than I'd realized from our distant encounters, maybe 5-10, with that particular way of moving that comes from navigating the world primarily through sound and touch. His hand rests lightly on Grace's shoulder, using her as guidance without any apparent self-consciousness about the dependency for either of them. The contact looks practiced, natural, like they've developed this system through repetition rather than conscious planning. Those shoes Grace bought are clearly visible—the ones from our previous conversation about sixty-five kilometers per hour and destroyed soles. Grace is wearing shoes too, the stirdy ones that says that I know what I got and I know exactly how far to push it without it breaking.

  The older woman enters last, and something about her body language suggests reluctance that goes beyond simple social discomfort. She's dressed warmly in a practical winter coat that's seen several seasons but still shows signs of careful maintenance, gray hair pulled back in a style that speaks to efficiency over fashion. She carries herself with the kind of careful dignity that comes from years of making do with limited resources, but there's steel underneath the wariness. This is someone who's learned to evaluate situations quickly and adapt accordingly. Then again, she is a mother and they do tend to have to learn that quickly or not at all.

  "I could have stayed in the car," Bearee says, her voice carrying a tone of mild protest directed toward Grace. The words come out with the careful enunciation of someone who's spent years correcting other people's grammar, probably a teacher or librarian in her working life.

  Grace turns to face her, and I watch that peculiar stillness settle over her features—the expression she gets when she's about to deliver information she considers self-evident. Her entire posture shifts slightly, becoming more formal, like she's addressing a superior officer rather than engaging in casual conversation. "I will not keep Jason's mother in a cold car when there is a heated building available." She nods toward the store's interior with the kind of gesture that suggests the decision is final and non-negotiable, but delivered with enough respect to avoid seeming dismissive.

  Jason's mother. I can see it now that I know what to look for—the same bone structure around the eyes, the way they both hold their heads when listening to something that requires their full attention. But where Jason projects that easy warmth I've heard in his voice during our neighborhood encounters, Bearee seems more reserved, watching Grace with the careful attention of someone still figuring out how this dynamic works. There's curiosity there, but also the kind of protective wariness that mothers develop when evaluating their children's romantic partners.

  "Besides," Jason adds, his voice carrying that familiar neighborly tone but with an edge of something firmer underneath, "I'm not telling my own mother she has to stay in the car. Fuck that."

  The profanity hangs in the air for a moment, and I watch Bearee's eyebrows draw together in disapproval. It's the kind of automatic maternal response that probably dates back to Jason's childhood, the reflex correction of language that doesn't meet her standards for public behavior. Grace shifts almost imperceptibly, moving to stand at Jason's side, and I catch the minute shake of her head directed at him. The gesture is so small I almost miss it, but Jason's shoulders lower just as minutely, a response so subtle it suggests this is an ongoing negotiation about language and social boundaries.

  He approaches the counter, and I'm struck by how his movement changes once he's inside a familiar type of space. The careful navigation becomes more confident, though he's still obviously processing the store's acoustic signature—the way sound bounces off the walls, the location of major obstacles, the background hum of heating and ventilation systems. Those blind eyes don't quite find my face but come close enough that it feels like eye contact, and there's genuine warmth in his expression.

  "Hi, Sarah. I'm here to, well, get fitted for shoes? Whatever that actually means?"

  There's uncertainty in his voice, the kind that comes from being told you need something but not fully understanding the process. His fingers drum once against the counter's surface, picking up information through touch the way sighted people use visual scanning. The wood grain, the smoothness of the finish, the slight vibration from the store's sound system—all of it probably tells him things about the business that I take for granted. The gesture seems unconscious, but I'm starting to realize that most of what Jason does that appears casual is actually sophisticated information gathering.

  I nod, then remember he can't see the gesture and feel that familiar flush of embarrassment that comes with making assumptions about disabled people's capabilities. "Absolutely. Let me run you through the process so you know what to expect."

  Grace has moved to pace Bearee as the older woman begins walking around the store, examining displays with the systematic attention of someone who doesn't spend money lightly. I watch Grace match her movements, not hovering but maintaining proximity in a way that could be protectiveness or simply awareness of where everyone is positioned. Her head turns fractionally each time Bearee pauses to examine something, those green eyes tracking every detail. It's like watching a bodyguard who's trying not to look like a bodyguard, maintaining security without being obvious about it.

  "The basic idea," I explain to Jason while pulling out the fitting tools from behind the counter, "is to figure out exactly what kind of shoe will work best for your specific feet and running style. Foot shape, arch height, how you land when you're moving—all of that affects what kind of support and cushioning you need."

  The tools themselves are precisely calibrated instruments that most people never see—measuring devices for foot length and width, pressure plates that show weight distribution patterns, and the kind of technical equipment that separates specialty stores from general sporting goods retailers. Jason nods, his attention focused on my voice in the way that suggests he's processing more information than just my words. He's probably picking up details about the store's acoustics, the sounds Bearee and Grace are making as they move around the displays, the hum of the heater and the traffic outside. The multi-layered awareness that comes from depending on non-visual senses for environmental information. Granted, I went down a rabbit-hole when I started looking this stuff up out of curiosity after Grace's visit because I had time to kill and didn't want to just doomscrole, but still.

  I guide him to the fitting area, noticing how he moves with careful efficiency—not hesitant, but deliberate in the way that prevents accidents. His hand brushes the edge of the chair I'm directing him toward, cataloguing its position and structure before he sits down. The movement is smooth, practiced, like someone who's learned to gather information through brief contact rather than extended exploration.

  "So," I say, kneeling to examine his feet, "how exactly did you destroy your previous shoes?"

  The question that's been nagging at me since Grace's visit. Those wear patterns were unlike anything I've seen in eight months of managing a specialty running store, and I still can't figure out what kind of activity could create that level of comprehensive damage. The soles had been shredded beyond normal wear, ground down to nothing in ways that suggested forces and friction levels that should be impossible for human locomotion.

  Jason's face brightens with something that looks like genuine pleasure at the memory, and for a moment he looks younger, less burdened by whatever responsibilities have shaped his careful approach to the world. "We ran. Really, really fast." He pauses, and I catch something almost sheepish in his expression, like he's sharing a secret he's not sure he should reveal. "Well, Grace ran. I just kind of... paced her? It's complicated, but I had fun, and I hope Grace enjoyed running."

  He shrugs, and there's something in that gesture that suggests the experience was meaningful to him in ways that go beyond simple exercise. The way he says Grace's name carries warmth and what might be fondness, though he's trying to keep his tone casual. There's a story there, something about shared experience that created a connection between them, but he's not offering details and I'm not going to pry.

  I'm also not going to get a more technical explanation than that, apparently. The physics-defying claims about sixty-five kilometers per hour speed, the impossibly destroyed shoe soles, the way Grace talks about "enhancements"—none of it adds up to anything I can make sense of, so I focus on what I can actually help with.

  "Alright, let's figure out what's going to work better for future running sessions."

  The fitting process reveals that Jason has surprisingly well-developed foot muscles for someone who's supposedly been sedentary. His arches are strong and well-defined, his balance is excellent, and when I have him walk across the store barefoot to assess his natural gait, he moves with the kind of body awareness that usually comes from athletic training. The callus patterns on his feet suggest regular activity, but not the kind of damage I'd expect from someone who destroys running shoes through extreme use.

  His feet show no signs of the kind of damage I'd expect from the activities that destroyed his previous shoes. No blisters, no unusual calluses, no structural issues that would explain sixty-five kilometer per hour running speeds. They look like normal, healthy feet belonging to someone who exercises regularly but doesn't push beyond reasonable limits. The contradiction between the destroyed shoes and his apparently normal feet continues to puzzle me.

  I select three different models for him to try, explaining the differences in cushioning systems, stability features, and durability ratings. Jason listens with focused attention, asking questions that suggest he's actually absorbing the technical information rather than just being polite. His questions are specific, targeted—he wants to know about sole composition, heel-to-toe drop ratios, and the kind of technical details that suggest either genuine interest or experience he's not admitting to.

  When he tests each pair on the store's treadmill, his running form looks efficient and natural—nothing that would create the kind of wear patterns I saw on his destroyed shoes. His stride is smooth, his breathing controlled, his recovery quick. This is not someone who's been sedentary, despite whatever story he's been telling himself and others about his activity level.

  While Jason's on the treadmill, I keep half my attention on Grace and Bearee's movement around the store. Grace continues to shadow the older woman, not interfering but maintaining that protective awareness that seems to be her default state. The dynamic between them fascinates me—two women from completely different worlds, trying to find common ground through their connection to Jason.

  Bearee examines price tags with the careful attention of someone who's learned to make every purchase count, occasionally glancing toward Jason with maternal concern. She picks up a pair of women's walking shoes, examining the construction with the attention of someone who knows what quality looks like, turning the shoe to assess stitching, sole attachment, and material quality.

  "These are well-made," Bearee comments, more to herself than anyone else, her fingers tracing the seam where the upper meets the sole.

  Grace nods once, moving closer to examine the shoe herself. "Quality construction extends operational lifespan and reduces long-term costs."

  The phrasing is so characteristic of Grace—technically accurate but delivered with the kind of formal precision that suggests English isn't her first language, or at least not the language she thinks in. Bearee glances at her with what might be amusement, recognizing practical wisdom even when it's expressed in unusual terms.

  "You sound like someone who's had to make things last," Bearee observes, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice now rather than wariness.

  Grace considers this for a moment, her green eyes studying Bearee's face with that systematic attention she applies to everything. "Resource scarcity requires optimization of all acquisitions."

  It's an odd way to phrase it, but Bearee nods with understanding. They're finding common ground in the shared experience of having to be careful with money, even if their reasons for that caution come from very different places.

  The interaction between Grace and Bearee continues to develop as they move through the store. Grace's formal precision and Bearee's practical wisdom create an interesting dynamic—two women who've learned to evaluate everything carefully, but from completely different perspectives. Grace examines products with the systematic attention of someone assessing tactical gear, while Bearee looks at them with the practiced eye of someone who's learned to spot quality and value.

  I watch Grace pick up a lightweight running jacket, her fingers testing the fabric with movements that seem to assess not just comfort but durability under stress. She turns the garment inside out to examine seam construction, checks zipper quality with the kind of attention that suggests clothing failure could be a life-or-death issue. It's fascinating to watch someone evaluate athletic wear like military equipment.

  Meanwhile, Bearee has moved to the sock display, examining moisture-wicking materials with the practical focus of someone who understands that proper foot care prevents bigger problems down the road. She reads labels carefully, comparing fiber content and construction details with the systematic approach of someone who's learned to research purchases thoroughly before committing.

  "Do you run?" Bearee asks Grace, the question coming out with genuine curiosity.

  Grace pauses in her examination of a reflective vest, considering how to answer. "Yes. Frequently. Various terrains and conditions."

  "How did you meet Jason?" I ask, curious.

  "He provided assistance when I required shelter," Grace replies, her formal tone suggesting she's choosing words carefully. "His hospitality was... unexpected."

  There's a story there too, something about circumstances that brought them together, but Grace's careful phrasing suggests it's not a story she's ready to share in detail. Bearee seems to recognize this too, shakeing her head at me with the understanding of someone who knows when not to push for more information. Fare enough.

  Jason finishes his treadmill session, and I can see from his movement patterns that he's genuinely enjoying the testing process. There's something about the way he carries himself on the moving belt that suggests this isn't his first time running on equipment like this, despite his claims about being sedentary. His stride is too natural, his breathing too controlled, his recovery too quick for someone who doesn't exercise regularly.

  "The middle option works best," I tell Jason as he finishes testing the third pair. "Good balance of support and responsiveness, durable enough to handle whatever kind of running you're planning to do."

  The shoe I'm recommending is a mid-range model with excellent durability ratings, the kind of compromise between performance and longevity that works well for most serious runners. If his previous shoes really were destroyed by extreme use, this model should hold up better while still providing the responsiveness he seems to prefer.

  Jason nods, sitting down to remove the test shoes with careful fingers. His movements are economical, efficient, suggesting someone who's learned to accomplish tasks through minimal effort. "That sounds perfect. How much do I owe you?"

  I'm processing the sale when I notice Grace has moved closer to the front windows, her attention focused on something outside. Her posture has shifted subtly, becoming more alert, and I catch her making eye contact with Jason through some kind of non-verbal communication system they've developed. Jason's head tilts slightly, picking up on whatever signal she's sending despite the fact that he can't actually see her.

  "Everything okay?" I ask, because the sudden tension in the air is palpable.

  "Routine security assessment," Grace replies, but her eyes continue scanning the street outside. "No immediate concerns."

  The casual way she mentions security assessment makes me realize that whatever normal means for Jason and Grace, it includes levels of caution that most people never have to consider. I'm processing this information when the door chime sounds again, but this time it's accompanied by a feeling that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  The temperature in the store seems to drop several degrees instantly, as if someone has opened a freezer door, and there's suddenly a presence that makes my hindbrain scream warnings about predators and immediate danger. The fluorescent lights overhead seem to flicker slightly, and the background hum of the heating system becomes more noticeable, as if the building itself is responding to whatever just entered. Or, that could just be me. Happened the first time George came to the store, and he's a sweetheart even if he does have an unhealthy desire to fight the largest and most skilled things he can find.

  The man who enters fills the doorframe completely, and I realize I'm looking at someone who challenges every assumption I have about human biology. Eight feet tall with shoulders spanning four feet, moving with the kind of controlled power that makes the floor seem to settle slightly under his weight. His hands are holding another man by the back of his shirt with one massive fist, lifting him off the ground like he weighs nothing. I wish George was here. Though, George being George, he'd probably ask to fight, who ever the fuck this guy is, and I don't need my. I stop, think. Maybee the block destroyed by what ever fighting a giant dragon man and this guy decide to engage in, thankyou very much.

  ---Jason---

  I move to stand in front of my mother before my brain even finishes processing what just walked into the store. It's pure instinct, the kind of protective positioning that bypasses rational thought and operates on something deeper than conscious decision-making. My three-dimensional perception catches the massive form immediately—eight feet of solid mass that shouldn't be anatomically possible, radiating a presence like a furnace radiates heat. Every surface of the man registers as dense, heavy, substantial in ways that defy normal human biology. Then again, as I'm liveing proof of, magic exists and there's got to be more than just Grace's vigger.

  For half a heartbeat, I consider moving to stand between Grace and the newcomer, positioning myself as protection for her too. Then I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud at the sheer absurdity of that impulse. Grace, whose form shows muscle definition and controlled tension that speaks to capabilities I'm still discovering. Grace, who can run sixty-five kilometers per hour and tear shoes apart through friction alone. Grace, who would probably look at me with that curious head-tilt she gets when something genuinely confuses her, because the idea of needing protection from anything would be such a foreign concept that she'd struggle to process it.

  Which, fair enough. The woman who bought my shoes so I wouldn't have to walk barefoot in minus-two weather probably doesn't need me as a human shield.

  Behind me, mom's form shifts closer to mine, seeking protection or at least proximity to something familiar in the face of what ever the fuck this new guy actually is. Her breathing has picked up slightly, the kind of controlled fear response that comes from recognizing genuine danger even when you don't understand the source.

  The voice that speaks is deep enough to vibrate through the floorboards, and I watch Sarah's form straighten with what my perception reads as admirable composure despite whatever she's looking at with normal human vision. Her hands move to rest on the counter, bracing herself against something that clearly exceeds her expectations for Tuesday afternoons.

  "Good afternoon."

  The words and tone are polite but there's an easy confidence in the tone, like this man is completely comfortable with the effect his presence creates and finds the entire situation mildly amusing rather than concerning.

  From behind me, Sarah clears her throat with remarkable professional composure. "Um, hi there. Are you here for shoes?"

  There's a pause, the enormous form shifting slightly, and I register movement that carries significant weight, like a building settling rather than a large man.

  "No," the voice rumbles, carrying unmistakable amusement now. "One, your store does not carry my size. Two, I do not require footwear. Thornara, like she did with everything else, helped me with that." There's fondness, like this Thornara is special to him.

  Focusing, I find that yes, the giant man's giant feet are bare. So, almost definitly magic then, since you shouldn't be able to walk in bare feet without. Something not normal going on. Though if he's a monk, well. he'd make lots of money on advertiseing, at least.

  The massive presence shifts again, and I feel that attention turn toward me with the weight of a spotlight. When the voice speaks again, it's directed at me specifically, and there's something in the tone that suggests recognition or at least familiarity with who I am.

  "No."

  "What?" I ask, because that's not really enough information to work with, especially given that the statement seems to be responding to something I haven't said. Can this person, man, what ever read my fucking mind or something? I hope not or this conversation is going to get really aqward really quickly.

  "Eating your vegetables will not make you look like me." The amusement in that deep voice is unmistakable now, like we're sharing some kind of inside joke that only makes sense to him. "Even if that was a joke, because vegetables are horrible, disgusting things that taste terrible and should be avoided. Meat though? Meat is good. Especially bacon. It's salty and crunchy and, well. Bacon."

  I blink, processing this completely unexpected dietary advice from whatever eight-foot presence has decided to share its opinions on nutrition with a shoe store full of people. The conversation has taken a turn I wasn't prepared for, moving from potential threat assessment to unsolicited meal planning guidance delivered with the confidence of someone who clearly has strong opinions about food groups. Then again, haveing an 8-foot-tall and 4-foot-wide man talking to me about anything wasn't exactly on my bingo card for today, so.

  The giant moves again and I catch movement, another man held by the back of the shirt in one massive hand. He's struggling, but the grip looks like more a machanicle clamp than anything a normal human, even a fucking huge one, would be able to produce.

  The attention shifts back to Sarah, and the massive form turns toward her with movement that suggests careful control of enormous strength. "I just popped in to ask where George got to? We never finished our fight, and George is like the only guy who will fight me hand to hand these days."

  No idea who that is, but, well. Gulp is a litiral game unit, this guy exists, so I'm going to assume that George is some kind of, something? Have to give Sarah credit if the rest of her customer base is this interesting, at least.

  From the suspended form in the giant's grip, angry shouting erupts in what sounds like Arabic, rapid-fire cursing with the kind of creative intensity that transcends language barriers. The words come fast and furious, suggesting someone who's moved well beyond simple frustration into the realm of comprehensive rage about their current circumstances.

  The giant responds in the same language, his voice remaining perfectly calm and patient like he's explaining something to a particularly slow child. The contrast between the suspended person's frantic anger and the giant's measured responses suggests this conversation has been going on for some time, with the giant maintaining control of both the situation and his own temper despite whatever provocation he's receiving.

  Then, switching back to English: "You looked at me, decided that trying to stab me and then rob me was a good idea, then broke your foot on my leg. Now I'm making sure you don't do anything else fucking stupid so you can go home and think about why looking at the 8-foot-tall and 4-foot-wide giant was a dumb idea."

  Grace's voice comes from somewhere behind me, her tone carrying that dry acknowledgment that suggests she's encountered similar situations before. "Operational parameters vary significantly. However. Some things remaine the same. Some people refuse to igknowledge such."

  Grace shifts position, and suddenly her familiar form is between me and the giant. Not dramatically, not with obvious protective intent, just repositioning in a way that happens to put herself in the line of potential conflict while maintaining casual conversation. It also makes me feel better that she's here. Even though I don't care how much vigger she has, even if she did say she could tank a truck, I don't think she's going to come out on top at this range with this guy unless she shoots him in the eye with an arrow or something.

  The giant makes a sound of approval, and I sense his massive form shifting in what reads as a respectful nod toward Grace. "Exactly. Professional recognizes professional."

  There's something in his tone that suggests he's identified Grace as someone who operates according to similar principles, someone who understands the kind of world where eight-foot giants casually prevent robbery attempts while shopping for information about men who like fighting said giants named George. The mutual recognition between them creates an atmosphere of professional courtesy that somehow makes the entire situation feel more normal.

  Then he steps back toward the door, and I hear him sniffing. My perception catches the movement of his massive head tilting, focusing on something I can't identify through my three-dimensional awareness. Once, twice, then several more times with increasing concentration and what sounds like growing concern.

  The sniffing becomes more systematic, like he's processing information through scent that's triggering some kind of analytical response. The casual friendliness in his demeanor shifts slightly, becoming more focused and serious as whatever he's detecting registers as significant enough to require attention.

  "Sarah." The giant's voice has gone completely serious, all previous amusement drained away and replaced with something that sounds like professional concern. "After your shift ends, go down to a hospital and ask for Durge. He'll take a look at you and give you a checkup."

  Sarah shifts as she processes this unexpected medical advice. Her mouth opens, and I can practically feel her thinking through whatever prompted this sudden recommendation from someone who just walked into her store carrying a robbery suspect. Then she closes it again without speaking, apparently deciding that asking questions might lead to answers she's not prepared to handle. I just hope it's not the same Durge from the game, or. I don't actually know, since Durge isn't part of a fleet of ships that eat people, at least?

  The rustling of bills being counted fills the silence as the giant reaches into whatever pocket can accommodate currency for someone his size. "Here's payment for the shoes," he says, his voice returning to that casual friendliness but retaining an undertone of concern for Sarah's wellbeing. "Keep the change."

  Then, as he moves towards the door: "Are you going to try to run into traffic again?" This directed at his captive, with the tone of someone who's genuinly concerned about the other man getting himself killed.

  The response is more angry Arabic, but quieter now, suggesting resignation to whatever situation this man has found himself in. The fight seems to have gone out of him, replaced by the kind of exhausted acceptance that comes from recognizing that struggling against an eight-foot giant while suspended in his grip is not a winning strategy.

  The door chime sounds as they leave, and I can sense the temperature in the store immediately begin returning to normal. The oppressive presence fades, leaving behind the familiar atmosphere of afternoon shoppers and Sarah's carefully controlled breathing as she processes whatever just happened to her otherwise routine Tuesday.

  I sit down on the nearest chair to put on my new shoes, taking my time with the laces to give everyone a moment to adjust to normal human-scale interactions after whatever we just experienced. The shoes feel excellent against my three-dimensional perception—balanced construction, supportive structure, with the kind of responsive design that suggests they'll handle whatever kind of running Grace has planned for us. Sarah's professional expertise clearly extends to selecting appropriate gear regardless of how unusual her customer interactions might become.

  "Thank you," I tell her as I finish tying the second shoe, testing the fit by flexing my foot within the structured support. "These feel perfect."

  My voice sounds normal, casual, like we didn't just have our afternoon interrupted by an eight-foot giant giving unsolicited nutrition advice while carrying someone who'd apparently tried to rob him after attempting a stabbing. Because this is my life now, apparently. Grace and people named George who regularly fight giants who can detect health problems through scent while providing combat sports coordination services. Also possibly another unit from the game who's I would assume working as a doctor at a toronto hospitle.

  I stand, testing the balance and support by shifting my weight from heel to toe. The shoes move with my feet naturally, no pressure points or structural issues that would cause problems during longer runs. Professional grade equipment that suggests Sarah knows her business regardless of how surreal her customer base might be or how many robbery suspects get carried through her store during routine shopping hours.

  The new shoes integrate with my movement patterns immediately, the kind of seamless transition that speaks to proper fitting and quality construction. I can sense how they'll perform during the kind of high-speed running Grace prefers, with sufficient cushioning to handle impact forces while maintaining the responsiveness needed for quick direction changes or sudden acceleration.

  Grace moves toward the door, and I sense her systematic attention assessing the space one more time before departure. Her form carries that particular tension that suggests she's cataloguing details about the giant's visit, processing information about potential threats or allies in our expanding network of unusual Toronto residents. The fact that he recognized her as a professional suggests we're building a reputation in whatever community includes eight-foot giants and what ever the fuck a George is.

  Mom falls into step beside me, her form carrying the particular quality of controlled shock that suggests she's processing significantly more information than she expected to encounter during a simple shoe shopping trip. Which, well fare enough. Her breathing has returned to normal, but there's a careful deliberateness to her movements that speaks to someone who's just had their assumptions about normal human interaction thoroughly challenged. Also, fare enough.

  I can sense her glancing between Grace and me, probably trying to reconcile the casual way we're handling the aftermath of whatever she just witnessed with her previous understanding of her son's quiet, predictable life. The fact that Grace treated the giant as a professional colleague rather than a threat likely raises questions about exactly what kind of relationship we have and what kind of activities we engage in together.

  The door chime sounds as we leave, returning to the February afternoon that suddenly feels completely normal compared to the last fifteen minutes. The minus-two temperature feels almost welcoming after the temperature fluctuations inside the store, and the familiar sounds of Toronto traffic create a reassuring backdrop of ordinary urban life.

  Walking down Yonge Street with my new shoes, I can feel how much better the fit is compared to my previous pair. The support structure aligns properly with my foot mechanics, and the cushioning provides exactly the right balance between protection and ground feel. Grace's assessment of my needs proved accurate, as usual, though I'm starting to suspect that her expertise extends well beyond running gear into areas I'm still discovering. Actually know, fuck that, I know dam well that's a thing. Now I just hope that Grace will teach me some of what she knows so I can be something other than, well, mostly still dead weight.

  Behind us, I can sense the store returning to its normal afternoon rhythm, though I suspect Sarah will be processing this customer interaction for quite some time. The casual way the giant mentioned medical checkups and fighting appointments suggests this kind of encounter might not be as unusual for her as it seemed, which raises interesting questions about exactly what kind of establishment Run Run Run really is beyond its obvious retail function.

  The afternoon son is warm against my face despite the February air, and I can sense the familiar urban landscape of my neighborhood spreading around us. Normal human-scale problems and interactions, regular Toronto life proceeding according to predictable patterns. Though after today, I'm beginning to suspect that normal might be a more flexible concept than I'd previously understood, especially when Grace is involved in defining the parameters of ordinary experience.

  ---Grace---

  I step outside the store, watching Jason's expression shift into something lighter, more relaxed. The winter air carries that particular February sharpness that makes breath visible, but the temperature difference feels manageable rather than hostile. My body adjusts immediately to the minus-two conditions, redirecting blood flow to maintain optimal core temperature.

  Jason's face holds genuine pleasure as he tests the balance of his new shoes against the concrete sidewalk. He shifts weight from heel to toe, checking the fit and support with the careful attention of someone who's learned that proper equipment makes the difference between comfort and pain during extended activity.

  "Grace," he says, and there's anticipation in his voice that makes me focus completely on his next words. "Can we run home?"

  I consider this request carefully. The new shoes eliminate the primary obstacle that prevented sustained high-speed movement during our previous attempts. Jason's physical conditioning has improved significantly through our training sessions, though I haven't opened his vigger pathways yet. Still, his cardiovascular system can handle moderate exertion over the distance required.

  "You have shoes now that will not break," I confirm, allowing satisfaction to color my voice because the statement represents successful mission completion.

  Behind us, Bearee approaches with car keys already in hand. "I can drive you home," she offers, though something in her tone suggests she's processing other considerations beyond simple transportation.

  I position myself between Jason and Bearee, not dramatically but with enough deliberateness that she recognizes the movement as intentional. Her breathing pattern shifts slightly, indicating increased attention to my positioning and body language.

  "You said that you required to go shopping, yes?" I ask, making eye contact to ensure she understands this isn't casual conversation but it is not a threat, either.

  "Yes," she confirms, though her voice carries reluctance about leaving Jason in my care.

  "Jason. I wish to speak to your mother. Please re-enter the store till I have completed this," I request, because this conversation requires directness that might be easier for Bearee to process without her son present as audience and potential mediator.

  Jason shrugs with easy acceptance. "Sure," he says, wandering back toward the store entrance where warm air and familiar surroundings provide comfortable waiting space.

  I wait until Jason's inside before turning my full attention to Bearee. Her posture remains attentive but wary, like someone prepared for negotiations where the stakes aren't entirely clear.

  "I will not let harm come to Jason," I state with formal precision. "However, I understand if you find my words... lacking. You are, after all, his mother. it is a mother's place to insure her children remaine un-harmed."

  Bearee's expression shifts, processing this declaration through whatever framework she uses to evaluate people who make absolute statements about protecting her son. Something in her shoulders relaxes slightly, recognizing sincerity even if she doesn't fully understand the context.

  I move closer, lowering my voice but maintaining eye contact. "I suspect that Jason wishes you to return home swiftly, and the best way to do that is for you to retrieve your shopping and then return home."

  The observation acknowledges multiple layers of Jason's emotional state that I've catalogued through our interactions. His pleasure at seeing his mother balanced against anxiety about her extended exposure to Toronto winter weather. His appreciation for her concern weighed against desire for independence. His desire to run with me measured against his knowledge that Bearee is still, for the most part, un-aware of. What ever our relationship is becomeing.

  Bearee considers this assessment, her head tilting slightly as she processes the implications. "Yes," she says slowly, nodding with the decision. "That makes sense."

  I nod once, opening her car door for her as she moves toward the vehicle with purposeful efficiency. Her keys jingle softly as she starts the vehicle, and I can hear the engine turn over with the reliable sound of well-maintained transportation.

  Jason exits the store with a slight shiver, the temperature differential creating visible discomfort. His breath mists in the February air, and I note that vigger pathway activation will provide better thermal regulation once I complete the process.

  I grip Jason's arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through fabric and the slight tension of muscles preparing for movement. "Are you ready?" I ask, though I can already detect his eagerness through increased heart rate and the way he balances on the balls of his feet.

  At Jason's nod, I begin running, but this time I focus on channeling energy directly into his muscular system. The technique requires more concentration and constant contact, but it allows me to enhance his performance temporarily while maintaining control over the process. I moderate to thirty kilometers per hour instead of my usual sixty, allowing me to observe exactly how his physiology responds to the enhancement without wrisk of accidentally breaking him due to loseing awareness of the rode ahead.

  His stride lengthens naturally as my energy flows into his muscles, his breathing becoming more controlled and efficient despite the increased pace. The new shoes integrate seamlessly with his enhanced biomechanics, providing support and responsiveness that complements rather than constrains his temporary capabilities.

  "Why were you amused after the large man came into the store?" I ask, genuine curiosity driving the question because human emotional responses to threatening situations often contain valuable tactical information.

  "I considered moving between you and the big guy," Jason explains, and there's self-awareness in his tone. "But figured that one, it wouldn't really do much because, well, you're a better fighter than me. Since I don't know how to fight, at all, and figured you would look at me with that little head-tilt you use when genuinely curious why I'm doing something that's evidently stupid." He shrugs. "You'd say tactically sub-optimal, but same thing, really."

  I consider this explanation while maintaining our rhythm through Toronto's afternoon pedestrian traffic. His analysis demonstrates clear understanding of relative capabilities, though his dismissal of his own potential contribution reveals incomplete understanding of value hierarchies in threatening situations.

  "I would have been confused," I confirm. "I am, after all, the better fighter. However, you, as I, have skills that I lack."

  Jason opens his mouth, stops, closes it, then opens it again with hesitation that suggests internal conflict. I slow our pace as we reach his street, noting that he needs processing time for something creating emotional complexity.

  "What do you wish to say?" I ask, tone softening as we slow further.

  Jason considers this for several strides. "I was going to ask you to teach me to fight," he says finally, "but you're already teaching me a bunch of stuff and I kind of feel like a dick for asking for more."

  I consider this statement as we transition from running to walking. Teaching Jason combat skills represents the logical extension of his future vigger pathway development, providing practical applications for enhanced physical capabilities while building tactical awareness.

  "A dick as in being inconsiderate or rude, as opposed to being a dick as in a penis?" I ask, because the linguistic distinction matters for understanding his emotional state, though I find myself hoping the question will generate the laughter response from previously when we played the tabletop game as well.

  Jason stops walking, gently removing his arm from my grip before turning to face me. His scent carries warmth and affection along with the amusement I was hoping to trigger.

  "May I give you a hug, Grace?" he asks, uncertainty in his voice about my response. "Also, I still think that's really funny."

  I consider this request carefully, weighing tactical implications against emotional intelligence data about human bonding behaviors. Jason's requests for physical affection always include explicit permission-seeking, demonstrating respect for boundaries.

  "Yes," I confirm, watching his expression shift into something softer and more pleased.

  Jason steps forward carefully before gently pulling me against his chest. His arms wrap around me with controlled strength, providing warmth and stability without constraint. He sighs softly as the embrace settles, and I can feel tension leaving his shoulders through our contact.

  He is warm. Not warm like shower water or hot tub heat, but warm in the way that speaks to internal heat generation, to metabolism and life. My body temperature runs two degrees cooler than his, making his warmth particularly noticeable during physical contact.

  Jason's chin comes to rest on top of my head. "I've wanted to do this for a while," he admits quietly, "but you asked me not to, and, well, I'm not going to be a dick about it."

  "Inconsiderate and rude," I clarify, because the linguistic precision continues to amuse me.

  Jason makes that soft huffing sound that indicates laughter. "Yeah. Since, you know, I'm a human and not a penis." His voice carries pleasure that suggests this conversation will provide him with entertainment for significant time. "I'm going to giggle at that for years. Just, it was so deadpan and so genuine."

  The wind picks up around us, carrying February air that makes Jason start to shiver despite his improved cold tolerance. I can feel him fighting the response, trying to maintain the embrace despite increasing discomfort.

  I gently extricate myself from his arms, noting that he removes his hold immediately as soon as I begin moving. I take his hand, feeling the contrast between his warmer skin and my naturally cooler body temperature, before pulling him toward the house.

  "Do you want help with your interview?" Jason asks as we approach the front door, eagerness in his voice.

  "I haven't chosen to accept Dave's offer," I point out.

  Jason grins. "You get to teach people skills that you think are elemental, you get to be paid for it, so gaining resources, and you get to be around people who value you for said skills." Before, with a genuine grin, scent warming as he continues. "also they. We, like you for just being Grace. Yeah, the skills help, but well. I like you just because you're you, and Dave Carter Mike and Raj do to." He shrugs, shoulders riseing and falling, jacket stretching across muscle.

  I pull him inside where heating systems will eliminate the environmental stress causing his discomfort. "Yes," I admit. "I am unfamiliar with these interviews, and as such, I would wish assistance with it."

  Jason nods with a smile, before clapping me on the shoulder with the kind of casual affection that I am un-used too, before he begins stripping his winter clothing off with the movements of a man who wishes to return to a comfortible environment.

  I nod once, watching him settle into domestic routines that have become familiar and comforting. The house around us holds warmth and safety, providing sanctuary from February weather and the complexities of navigating civilian life.

  Tomorrow will bring interview preparation with Jason, continued training, and whatever other challenges emerge from building life in this new reality. Tonight offers warmth, planning time, and the particular satisfaction that comes from successful mission completion in the form of properly fitted running shoes and strengthened family relationships. Kitten punctuateing this by appearing, winding around my legs, then, as Jason lifts her cupped in his palms, crawling up him like a ladder to curl around his neck and start purring, Dawson moveing to put his head against my chest in the now familiar request for head-scritches and tummy rubs.

  ---Deathblade Mia---

  I step out of Jason's shadow, my bare feet silent on the February grass that's crisp with frost but not snow. The cold seeps through the thin soles of my feet, but cold doesn't matter when you're used to living in darkness. Jason's front lawn spreads out before me like a frozen brown carpet, the streetlights catching the crystalline sparkle of frost on every dormant blade. My breath makes small puffs in the minus-two air, little ghosts that disappear as soon as they form, not that anyone can see me, Jason and Grace too rapped up in each other and what ever adults do when there trying to figure out, what ever there trying to figure out inside.

  The tree at the edge of the property looks completely ordinary. Oak, maybe. Thick trunk, bare branches reaching up toward the cloudy February sky like skeletal fingers. Nothing special about it at all, which is exactly why I'm not surprised when Protector steps right out of its shadow like he's walking through a doorway instead of solid bark.

  He's enormous. Eight feet of transformed human moving with that careful precision that comes from knowing you could accidentally break everything around you if you're not constantly paying attention. His shoulders span wider than the tree trunk he just emerged from, and each step makes the frozen ground settle slightly under his weight. His short blond hair looks finger-combed, and his bright blue eyes track my movement even though I know he can't actually see me. He never could, even before the primal magic changed him into something designed specifically for protection.

  Those winter-pale eyes find me anyway, focusing on my exact position with the kind of accuracy that comes from enhanced senses that probably involves Thane somehow, given Thane, well. Thane's Thane. His massive hands hang loose at his sides, fingers thick as my wrists but somehow still capable of delicate manipulation. I've seen him operate a smartphone with those hands, reading Braille across the screen with fingertips sensitive enough to detect texture differences I couldn't feel with my whole palm.

  "I need to talk with you," he says, his voice carrying across the frost-crisp air with quiet certainty. Not a request. Not a demand. Just a statement of fact delivered in the tone of someone who knows exactly what's going to happen next.

  I shrug, the motion making my soft warm cloak shift around my shoulders like a living thing. The fabric responds to my emotions, currently providing just enough warmth to keep the February chill from seeping into my bones. "Okay," I say, stepping fully into the open space between Jason's house and the sidewalk. The grass crunches under my feet, each step creating tiny fracture sounds in the crystalline coating of frost.

  I'd been hiding in Jason's shadow since he and Grace went inside, but when he started hugging her I had to leave. Watching people be gentle with each other makes something twist in my chest that I don't want to examine too closely. The way his chin rested on top of her head, the way her hand found his back, careful and deliberate. Like they think the other person might break if they're not constantly monitoring their pressure and positioning. It makes me think of things I can't afford to think about.

  Protector notes my approach with the kind of attention that suggests he's calculating approximately seventeen different threat assessments while we're talking. His head tilts slightly, listening to sounds I can't detect, probably monitoring the entire neighborhood for potential complications.

  "I'm not going to try and stop you," he says without preamble, those unseeing eyes somehow managing to look directly into mine anyway. "Even if Durge wouldn't intervene. Well, Durge is at exactly the right height where he could cut off my balls, and I rather want to keep those."

  He pauses, and I can practically see him calculating whether his next words are appropriate for a 7-year-old audience. The consideration makes something warm unfurl in my chest. When was the last time someone worried about protecting my innocence? When was the last time anyone thought I had innocence worth protecting?

  "For reasons I will not speak of," he continues finally, "because children should not learn of such things, and those who attempt to teach them are to be beaten to death with bare hands."

  I giggle despite myself. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, genuine amusement at his matter-of-fact delivery of horrific violence in service of protecting childhood innocence. It's such a perfectly Protector response. Everything filtered through that absolute commitment to shielding children from anything that might damage them, even if the protection itself involves graphic threat descriptions. Even if the children he's talking about don't have any innocence left.

  "Why are you here then?" I ask, genuinely curious. If he's not going to try and stop me from eventually killing Jason, what possible purpose could this conversation serve?

  Protector reaches into what I now realize is some kind of pocket dimension, his massive hand disappearing briefly before returning with two objects that he can hold easily in his palm. A USB drive and a book, both small enough that his fingers could close around them completely if he wanted. Then again, his hands are large enough he could close those massive fingers around my hole head if he wanted, so that's not saying much.

  The drive has a knife emblazoned on its surface, etched in silver that catches the streetlight and throws tiny reflections across the frozen grass. The book has what looks like a pumpkin with teeth on its cover, orange and black with rows of inwards-kerving teeth that makes me think of Halloween decorations.

  "Halloween's a while away," I comment, waving a hand at the book. My fingers are starting to go numb from the February cold, but I don't pull them back inside my cloak. The discomfort feels appropriate somehow, like a physical reminder that the world is often uncomfortable and we just have to deal with it.

  Protector laughs, the sound deep and rumbling like distant thunder. "That's a Garoth," he explains, gesturing toward the book with one enormous finger. "Good protectors, the Garoth. But the real reason." He waves toward the USB drive. "The knife. That drive has, it's not quite live, but Warden Jason created it as a more or less live view of exactly what he's personally doing to the ones who harmed you."

  My breath catches in my throat. The people from the bacement. The ones who took me, hurt me, did things that I don't let myself think about because thinking about them makes the darkness inside me grow larger and hungrier. Jason is doing something to them right now, something worth documenting.

  "Three men, three women," Protector continues, his voice taking on that mechanical precision that suggests he's delivering information rather than having a conversation. "The book? It's a manual, best as I can do it, of primal magic. Though primal magic can't really be written down. It's got a general outline, but. You have to feel it, experience it, and you can't just get that out of a book."

  I stare at the objects in his palm, calculating possibilities and implications. The drive represents justice in progress, revenge being methodically applied to the people who deserve it most. The book represents power, knowledge that could make me stronger, more capable of protecting myself. Both represent choices I don't entirely understand yet.

  "Do you know what I plan to do?" I ask, nodding toward Jason's house where warm light spills through the windows and I can occasionally see shadows moving behind the curtains. "When this Jason turns away from me? I'm going to rip his spine out through his chest. I'm going to make him see me, then I'm going to kill him."

  I draw my axe as I speak, the familiar weight settling into my grip like it belongs there. The metal is cold against my palms, but that cold feels right too. I start spinning it between my hands, the motion automatic and soothing. The axe moves in precise arcs, reflecting streetlight in brief flashes that paint temporary patterns across the frozen grass.

  Protector watches the weapon spin without any sign of concern or fear. Eight feet of transformed human designed for protection, and he's not worried about a 7-year-old with an axe. Either he's incredibly confident in his ability to handle me, or he genuinely believes I'm not going to attack him. Probably both. If Thornara's anything to go by, and she would be if she's part of the sisterhood, beating a hex-witch to death with you're bare hands will do that, then almost definitly both.

  "Mia," he says, my name carrying the weight that suggests a serious conversation is comeing. "You need to have a plan after. I don't agree with what you're doing, but I won't interfere. And not just because of Durge casually noteing he'd cut my balls off if I did."

  His massive shoulders shift slightly, adjusting his position in the way that means he's prepareing for a difficult confession. "Primal magic gave me peace. Gave me something other than hate and pain and bloodlust. Other than imagining wrapping my hands around men's necks and squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until they stop struggling, till they understood being small. Being vulnerible."

  The words hang in the February air between us, confession and warning and shared understanding all mixed together. I stop spinning my axe, letting it rest against my leg while I process what he's telling me. Protector knows about the darkness that lives inside people like us. He knows about the hunger for violence that feels like the only honest response to a world that breaks people who can't fight back for entertainment. Then again, if anyone would? Him and Durge and me. Well.

  But he also knows about finding something beyond that hunger. Something that makes the darkness smaller instead of larger. Something, someone in his case warm who looked at him like a man instead of a broken thing, someone who decided to protect him despite his flaws, not because of them.

  I reach out and take both objects from his palm, the USB drive cold against my fingers and the book surprisingly heavy for its size. They disappear into my shadow pocket, that useful dimensional space that lets me carry more than my small frame should accommodate. The pocket feels warmer than the February air, like it's protecting the objects until I'm ready to examine them properly.

  "How much does Thornara know about this?" I ask. Thornara. Protector's. Well. Not humanity, not quite, but. Warmth. Reason. The woman who looked at a broken man who didn't believe in himself and said, 'fuck that and fuck you, go get bent'. If she knows about my revenge project, and given Protector is blunt even among the other Jason's she probably does, that could complicate things.

  Protector considers the question, his unseeing eyes focusing on something beyond my physical presence. "Not her problem. It's mine," he says finally. "This was before." He gestures toward himself, indicating his transformed state. "Before the man I've become."

  He pauses, and I can practically see him organizing his thoughts into the kind of logical progression that makes sense to people who think in terms of protection and responsibility.

  "I'm here for Grace," he continues. "Well, Thornara is here for Grace. She's curious how primal magic and vigger would interact, and Grace is the only person who can open vigger channels. I'm here because I'm curious what this Jason will become. Jasons are shaped by their companions, their reasons as much as the companions are shaped by their Jason. I've never met another so much like me. Both learning from women who prifir nature to civilization. Both who, if I am anything to go by, will eventually prifir nature over civilization themselves."

  The implications settle over me like a heavy blanket. Even when I'm planning to kill Jason, even when I'm absolutely certain that he'll eventually turn away and leave me like he both already did and hasn't yet, Protector still sees something worth studying in him. Something worth protecting through curiosity rather than interference. Then again, the man's not called Protector without reason, and Jason's do love their discriptive names.

  "Even if I'm going to kill him?" I ask, nodding toward the house again. "Even when I know this Jason will eventually turn away? Leave me? At which point I will kill him? Must kill him?"

  Protector nods, the motion carrying absolute certainty. Then he steps backward, his massive frame beginning to merge with the tree shadow again. "Even then," he says, and then he's gone, disappeared back into the wildroads like he was never here at all.

  I stand alone on the frozen grass for a moment, feeling the weight of the objects in my shadow pocket and the weight of choices I haven't made yet. The February air bites at my exposed skin, but my cloak adjusts automatically, providing more warmth as it senses my need for comfort.

  Finally, I step back through the shadows, slipping into Jason's shadow where the darkness is warm and familiar. I pull my cloak closer around me, letting it transform into the soft blanket that helps me feel safe when the world becomes too large and complicated.

  From my shadow pocket, I retrieve the phone I took from a Heroin smuggler that Durge killed. He'd forced me out before he killed the man, another example of adults trying to protect me from violence I'm already familiar with. The phone's screen lights up blue-white in the darkness, and I can see the USB drive and book lying on my lap.

  The people who harmed me, currently experiencing Warden Jason's version of justice. Or the book, containing knowledge that could make me stronger. Somehow, I suspect this choice is mutually exclusive. Learning about what's happening to them might satisfy the part of me that wants revenge, but it won't make me more capable of protecting myself. Learning primal magic might give me power, but it won't give me the satisfaction of watching them suffer.

  I put both objects aside and open the downloaded wiki for "War of Great Houses" instead. If I'm going to play this tabletop role-playing game with Jason and Grace, I need to understand the rules and the factions. I need to choose what house I want to represent, what kind of character I want to be.

  The thing is, I shouldn't care about this game. It's just pretend, just people sitting around a table rolling dice and telling stories. But the way Jason's eyes lit up when he talked about it, the way Grace listened with genuine interest instead of polite tolerance, it makes something twist in my chest again. That same something that made me leave his shadow when they started hugging.

  I start with House Red Angel because the name catches my attention. Samurai vampires who protect people instead of hunting them. They have eternal hunger for blood, eternal thirst that never goes away, but ultimately they choose protection over consumption. They take the monster nature they were given and transform it into guardian purpose through disciplined choice.

  The description makes me think about what Protector said about primal magic giving him peace, giving him something other than hate and pain and bloodlust. Maybe some monsters can choose to become guardians. Maybe the hunger for violence can be redirected into protection instead of destruction.

  Next, I look up House Ocien. The house that makes deathblades, the house that made my father Etienne, sort of, though he never told me the full story. This is the house I should belong to, the one that matches what I'm becoming. Deathblades are efficient, precise, deadly. They serve justice through violence, and they don't apologize for it.

  But reading about House Ocien makes me feel cold in a way that has nothing to do with February air. They're competent, certainly. Effective. But there's something clinical about their approach, something that reduces people to resources and problems to mathematical equations. They'd make me stronger, but would they make me better?

  Finally, I check House of Blades. Durge's house, the organization he didn't know exists but that he created through his influence on others regardless. These are his children that he will return to, not if, not perhaps, but when. Because Durge is Durge, and Durge doesn't do ifs.

  House of Blades interests me because they understand justice in the same way Durge does. They eliminate problems permanently, but they do it with precision and purpose rather than random violence. They have two paths: Justice and Dominance, representing different approaches to the same fundamental goal. The Justice path follows Durge's original methods, using twin shortswords and mathematical precision. The Dominance path uses single heavy weapons and overwhelming force. Marry's teachings given through Durge.

  I have three options. No other houses will work for what I need to become, for the game I'm going to play and the person I'm going to be.

  From my shadow pocket, I pull out a small vial of ambrosia. Healer started dropping these off after I went three days without eating, back when keeping track of basic bodily needs seemed less important than planning revenge. The ambrosia tastes like my mother's cookies, back when I still had a mother who made cookies instead of empty memories that taste like sadness.

  I drink the ambrosia slowly, letting the flavor fill my mouth and the nutrition settle into my system. It's probably not enough to replace actual meals, but it's better than nothing. And right now, nothing feels like the most honest option anyway.

  After a while of thinking, letting my mind circle around the three choices without committing to any of them, I decide that ruminating won't help. The decision feels important in a way I don't entirely understand, but sitting here calculating probabilities and implications won't make the choice any clearer.

  So I curl up into my cloak, letting the fabric transform into a proper blanket that wraps around me like a warm embrace. The shadow pocket around me feels safe and dark and quiet, protected from the February cold and the complicated world outside.

  I close my eyes and let myself fall asleep, still holding the phone with the wiki pages open, still feeling the weight of the USB drive and book in my pocket, still knowing that tomorrow I'll have to choose what kind of monster I want to become.

  But for now, just for a few hours, I can be a 7-year-old girl sleeping in a warm blanket, dreaming of mothers who make cookies and worlds where children don't have to choose between being predators or prey.

  The darkness cradles me gently, and for once, the darkness doesn't feel hungry.

  It just feels like home.