Across town, Ruben pushed through the glass doors of AID like a man walking into a machine that silently hummed with answers. In the briefing room, Simon and Natasha were already there — faces like hard cut stone and smoldering coal.
"What's new?" Ruben asked, dropping his bag and folding into the meeting like someone slipping into an old uniform.
Simon didn't bother with pleasantries. "The masked man is still out there."
Ruben blinked. "But we have AID."
"Yes," Natasha said, voice pitched as if she were pouring facts into a jar. "We have gadgets enough to protect Nathan. A friend of mine — she's tied to one of his staff — says they were sent to kill Nathan last night. In the attempt, one staffer was killed and others were left paralysed."
"No way," Ruben muttered, the words small and stunned.
"They're lying low for now," Natasha continued. "So yes — he was attacked."
Ruben's jaw set. "And Nathan? Is he—"
"Keep your head," Natasha said before Simon could answer. "He's shaken, but fine. Don't let anyone fool you if he goes quiet. He's been focused on Nathan and Vicky a lot lately."
"And Vicky?" Ruben pressed.
Simon rubbed his temple like he could smooth a map of ugly routes away. "It's complicated. She has a complicated memory loss."
"How complicated?" Ruben demanded.
"It's classified," Natasha said. "We have the tools to fix pieces without dragging everything into the light. I want to pin a reset to something Nathan never parts with — a physical anchor he carries. You'll help me tune it."
"Yeah. I can do that," Ruben said, trading a nod with Simon.
"And Vicky?" Natasha asked again, quieter.
"She's under police protection. Don't worry," Simon said.
Natasha's brow lifted. "Is it only me, or is Roberts nowhere to be found?"
Ruben smirked. "Aren't you two a thing?"
"It's not like that," Natasha said. "He's got a crazy baby mama problem. I have enough drama."
They set about pulling out hard cases, unlatching gadgets like surgeons prepping instruments. Screens glowed. Metal hummed. They traced probable routes and sealed a plan in terse, clipped language.
"Masked man," Simon said at last, the single phrase a keyed-up war cry. "Game on."
Nathan was in his music room, the safe place where chords balanced his teeth and thoughts, when his phone lit up. He answered on instinct.
"Nathan Shikongo."
"Hey — it's Derek."
"How's it going? I'm off the office today." Nathan's voice was casual, but his fingers kept tapping a metronome on the console.
"Listen — the factory project. One resident's agreement file is missing. We can't move forward. Can we extend the date?"
"How did a file go missing?" Nathan's face hardened. "Find the officials who handled it. I won't tolerate anyone tampering with my projects."
"Alright. But we can't go forward without that file."
"Then find the officials. Don't extend the deadlines. Fix it, and I'll deal with whoever messed with it." Nathan's tone clipped like a snapped string.
There was a pause. "Also — congrats on your engagement," Derek added, awkwardly.
"I'm not engaged yet."
"Consider it an advance congrats. You might not be around when I get the chance to say it." Derek's chuckle was thin; he sounded like a man fearing the worst.
"Thanks," Nathan said, and the call ended. He stared at the phone, thinking about missing files, masked men, and the way danger seemed to orbit every good thing.
Karen's world had collapsed into a room of dead uniforms and shocked faces. She found Kyle where she feared he would be — in the ruins of his home, hollow-eyed and shaking. He looked like someone who had watched the planet tilt.
"Kyle!?" she cried, and stepped into him, arms locking around his shoulders.
He hung on like a drowning man. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Did he do this?" Kyle asked, voice raw. He pointed to the lifeless forms in the next room.
Karen's throat closed. If she told the truth — if she named the killer or admitted what she knew of the masked man — her testimony would blow everything up. She should have been braver. She wasn't.
"Karen, did that man kill all these guards?" Kyle pressed.
"Yes," she said, and wrapped her arms tighter. They sat in the lobby among the bodies like survivors on a ruined ship.
"I can't say I don't believe it," Kyle breathed, sounding not wholly convinced of his own voice. "That's what you were going to do to Nathan?" she whispered
Kyle flinched. The memory of his role — the hard calculations, the small compromises — sat like a stone. "Yes," he admitted.
Kyle's eyes burned with a single, fierce light. "And I'm going to kill him."
"Nathan?" Karen asked, stunned into the old map of names.
"The masked dog," Kyle snarled, the phrase more animal than human. He looked at Karen as if searching for permission to become what he'd never allowed himself to be. "There's no need for that. The police—"
"You think the police will catch him after all these years?" Kyle snapped. "He's out of the country. He's—untraceable. No name, no family, nothing."
"He can't just leave like that," Karen said, though even her words sounded small.
"He can." Kyle sobbed then, loud and unmanicured. "No one knows who he is. No one."
"Kyle, we'll get through this," Karen said, clinging to the familiar cadence of comfort. She wasn't sure if she believed it, but she needed him to believe it.
"Did he kill Pops?" Kyle asked, voice made brittle by panic.
"No. Paige helped us…that's why this mess is happening," Karen said, and the name fell from her like a coin into a well.
"Paige?" Kyle's head snapped up. His face shifted — something sharp passing over him. "She's not dead?"
"Turns out she's alive," Karen said.
An idea bloomed in Kyle's eyes then, sudden and terrible and bright. It was a plan that tasted like gasoline; the kind you get when grief turns into a weapon. He pulled back from Karen, thinking aloud, as if the mere utterance could assemble the pieces he needed.
"You mean—" he started, and the sentence hung, heavy and dangerous, between them.