"Father, we need to do something!" Alistair said, his voice ringing through the room with unmistakable passion.
"We can't just sit here and wait for the government to suddenly fix everything. That world is gone. We have abilities now—we're not helpless anymore. We should retake Parkland City and make it safe!"
At twenty-five, Alistair had already grown into a capable man.
He was tall and handsome in his own right, his features sharp but warm, his posture confident without arrogance.
Of all Ross's children, he was known for his compassion.
He couldn't ignore the suffering beyond their protected zones—the survivors hiding in ruins, the families torn apart, the children growing up surrounded by fear.
That kindness burned fiercely inside him now.
He looked around the room, searching for support.
His mother sat composed, hands folded calmly in her lap.
Beside her were his stepmothers, each carrying a different presence—some unreadable, some thoughtful, some faintly amused.
