Jack let his hand fall from the hilt. The metal no longer hummed against his pulse, no longer pulled at him like a living thing. Around him, the plaza shifted into motion again—people turning to one another, voices rising in overlapping fragments, relief bleeding into plans and questions and laughter that still felt uncertain in their own mouths. Then the LED screens flickered again. Not a hard cut this time. A low chime rippled through the plaza as the image of Governor Elena Ward reappeared—closer now, the framing tighter. The office behind her hadn’t changed, but something in her posture had. The stiffness had eased, just enough to feel human. The crowd quieted without being asked. Ward folded her hands once, then released them. “I wasn’t finished,” she said. A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the plaza. “I know some of you are wondering why I’m still here on that screen,” Ward continued. “Why I didn’t end with a clean sentence and let you go home feeling victorio

Jack let the hum of the plaza’s quiet acceptance settle for a heartbeat. Then he raised a hand again—not toward the crowd, not at DragonBot—but at the small comm device on his wrist. “Ryan,” he said, voice carrying over the plaza without amplification. “Get your family. Now. Sarah, Matilda, Jackson. Come to the center. We’re not done sharing this moment.” DragonBot hovered closer, stabilizers adjusting. “Are you certain outreach is prudent? Emotional overload potential is high.” Jack smirked faintly. “They’ll manage. They’ve earned it.” Minutes passed. People in the plaza continued murmuring, pointing upward at the screens where the Senators still debated, the city’s pulse settling into cautious excitement. Then, movement at the far edge of the plaza caught Jack’s eye. First, a figure appeared—a tall, broad man, hair darkened by stress, eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto Jack. That was Ryan Brooks. Behind him, Sarah Thompson, steady but radiant, kept a protective ha

He let the conversation breathe for a few seconds longer, listening to the low tide of voices around him. This—this—was the fragile part. After victory, before direction. He felt it in the way people leaned closer to one another, in the way questions hovered just beneath smiles. He turned slightly, addressing not the press, not the screens—but the people within arm’s reach. “Reidsville,” Jack said, voice steady, unamplified, yet somehow carrying. “I won’t pretend tonight fixed everything. It didn’t. What it did was stop the bleeding.” The plaza quieted again, not by command, but by choice. “For a long time,” he continued, “this city was forced to make decisions under pressure that wasn’t its own. Fear distorts judgment. It makes good people compromise just to survive.” Ryan nodded slowly beside him. Emily folded her arms, attentive, analytical. “Tonight,” Jack said, “fear lost its leverage. Not because someone stronger showed up—but because enough of you refused to keep living

Jack let the doorway frame him a moment longer, the noise inside settling into something domestic and real. Laughter, overlapping voices, the scrape of shoes being kicked off without care. This was the other side of victory—no banners, no broadcasts. Just walls that knew your name. He reached back and unfastened the Dragon Dagger. The metal slid free without resistance, its presence dim now, quiet. No hum. No pull. Just weight—honest and inert. Jack crossed the living space and placed it into the recessed wall cradle beside the stairs. The housing sealed with a soft click, biometric lock engaging. Sarah noticed. She always did. “You sure?” she asked gently. Jack nodded. “It’s done for tonight.” She smiled at that—not wide, not triumphant. Relieved. “Baths,” Sarah announced, clapping her hands once. “Everyone. Before anyone falls asleep on the couch.” A chorus of groans answered her, half-hearted and theatrical. “I’m not dirty,” Matilda protested, already halfway up the stai

LATE OLD JOE Jack turned away before anyone could see. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust his face. He took the stairs quietly, each step careful, controlled, until the sounds of the sitting room softened into a distant hum. His bedroom welcomed him with dim light and familiar shadows. The window was cracked open; night air drifted in, cool and clean. Jack shut the door. The moment the latch clicked, his control broke. He sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. A sound tore out of him—raw, unguarded. Tears spilled freely now, hot and relentless, soaking into his hands. “My mentor,” he whispered hoarsely. “Joseph Donovan.” His gaze lifted to the wall opposite the bed. The portrait hung there—large, carefully framed. A hand-drawn image, charcoal and ink, every line deliberate. Old Joe sat as he always had in Jack’s memory: relaxed posture, knowing eyes, a half-smile that carried both kindness and iron certainty. Jack stood on unste