Inside the Phoenix Foundation, there was a sense of momentum—a pulse that seemed to grow stronger with every week. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the council hearing (though the press still buzzed about the Advocates’ testimony); it was something quieter, deeper, a shared conviction that things were changing for good. Brent noticed it in the way people walked through the halls now, heads higher, eyes meeting his with something like pride. The Foundation’s intake numbers were higher than ever, but so were the placements—survivors leaving not just with jobs, but with real connections and lasting self-respect. It was working. Slowly, stubbornly, it was working. One Wednesday, Brent found himself pulled into a planning meeting for the Foundation’s first national summit. Lucy was in her element, pacing the room, fielding ideas from a dozen team leaders and Advocates. The goal was ambitious: a three-day conference bringing together survivors and reformers from across the country, wit

Brent didn’t notice the rain until it started to seep through his jacket. He stood outside, blinking into the gray morning, waiting for the car that always seemed to show up a minute too late. He should have been at the venue—prepping for the press conference, reviewing his points, making sure the new city council liaison had the right files. But here he was, shivering, wishing he’d worn something warmer. He thumbed his phone, scrolling through notes for the speech. Today was supposed to be simple. The city council wanted a victory lap—a little celebration of the new protections, an announcement to the world that New York was leading the way. Brent had agreed, mostly for Lucy’s sake. She said it would be good for morale. Lucy always had a smile on, and always made all those they worked with feel important. He tried to draw some strength from that. Lucy was always better at this part—the handshakes, the smiles, the little reassurances. Brent was good at building things, a

Brent didn’t sleep well the first night home. The city outside his window never really got quiet, but now every horn, every siren, every distant shout made him flinch. He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps in the hallway. Lucy stayed until dawn, curling up in the armchair with a book she never turned more than a page of. When Brent got up for water at three a.m., she was awake, watching him with tired, worried eyes. “You should sleep,” he whispered. “So should you,” she answered, her voice barely a breath. He sat beside her, feeling the ache in his head. “I keep thinking about the shooter. How close it was. If James hadn’t pulled me—” Lucy shook her head sharply. “Don’t. Don’t torture yourself.” He nodded, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop. *** The next morning, the mansion filled with people. James arrived first, carrying a stack of files and a box of bagels. Adam followed, then Jessica and Tommy, each bringing news, work, reassurances. The

The city was waking up again. Brent watched the sun crawl up between the towers from behind glass, his hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold twice already. He’d slept a little better, but only just... there was always a dream—never the shooting itself, but the moments just after: crawling behind the podium, Lucy’s hands slick with blood, the world turning to static. He’d started writing things down in the mornings. Not about Lang, not about fear, but about the ordinary stuff—the taste of burnt coffee, the way the elevator creaked, the sound of Lucy breathing in the next room. It helped, a little. Just random stuff. Today he wrote: I am still here. I am still me. The words looked small on the page, but steady. That was enough for now. At the Foundation, the new security guards checked every badge, every bag. They were polite but firm. Brent tried to thank them all by name. It felt strange. He missed the old days when anyone could walk in off the street with a

It started with a scrap of paper, the kind Brent always kept in his pocket. On it, scrawled between two meetings, were the words he’d been circling for weeks: Walker Group of Companies – real jobs, real wages, real dignity. He stared at it now, sitting alone in his apartment. Brent had this stubborn, insistent hope. He was ready to make a difference, at all cost. And none of his enemies could stop him. For months, Brent had watched the city change. The Foundation had spread, the Phoenix Foundation was growing, but he knew it wasn’t enough. People needed more than help when things fell apart. They needed a chance to build something better from the start. Tommy’s words echoed in his mind: “Sometimes you just have to help the person in front of you.” But what if you could help hundreds at once? Thousands? Brent sat at his desk until dawn, sketching out ideas. Factories. Assembly lines. Real products—biscuits, canned fish, bottled water, fruit drinks. Nothing fancy, just the things