***I was asked about the ranking system, so I'll explain it.***
The ranking system is determined by the scale of existential and environmental causality—essentially, how much a power can rewrite the fundamental "rules" around the user or the world itself.
At the base level, F-Rank represents foundational abilities like peak human skills or advanced intellect; these refine existing potential but don't break the laws of physics of what it means to be human. As the rank goes to E, D, and C, the impact shifts toward biological and causal changes, granting the user superhuman physical traits or the ability to tilt the laws of reality without breaking them. The highest tiers, B, A, and S-Rank, are reserved for Catastrophic and Conceptual forces—powers that can level cities with raw energy or bypass the laws of nature entirely through probability manipulation, life-force absorption, and cosmic-level telepathy. In short, the higher the rank, the more the power ceases to cause an effect and begins to function as a force that fundamentally alters the fabric of existence.
Essentially, the power rank is not about 'how hard can I hit,' as the System doesn't care about that. It ranks the ability based on causality. At F-Rank, you're just refining what's already there—human potential. But as you move up toward S-Rank, you stop just 'causing an effect' in the world. You start becoming the force that alters the fabric of existence itself.
***************************************
The door shut with a soft click.
Sarah Kinney stood on the porch of the Victorian home, the deed still warm from her hand, and watched the mercenaries disperse down the street like ghosts dissolving into daylight. Taskmaster vanished without a goodbye. Domino gave a lazy salute and sauntered toward her jeep. Silver Sable exchanged a nod—professional, cool—and followed her team.
Delilah lingered.
"Here," she said, slipping a small piece of paper into Sarah's palm. "My number. If anything goes wrong, if anything looks funny to you—call me."
Sarah hesitated. "Why are you… helping us? Off the clock?"
Delilah gave a half-shrug, "Women like us… don't get many people in our corner." Then she smirked and walked away. "Welcome to the States, doctor."
And then she was gone.
Robert was the last to leave. He politely handed Sarah a slim card, the kind used by high-end banks.
"There's ten thousand on here," he explained. "All yours. Pin is 2323. Use it however you'd like." He paused. "Mr. Moreau—wanted to be sure you two had what you needed."
Luc Moreau.
The name alone made her stomach tighten.
But Robert's voice was steady, comforting in a bureaucratic sort of way, and he offered her a soft smile before returning to his car.
The moment he was out of sight, Sarah finally exhaled.
Her fingers trembled.
Everything was moving too fast.
Yesterday, she had been in a concrete bunker, a glorified prison, watching her daughter get abused and treated like a weapon. Yesterday, she feared every footstep in the hall. Yesterday, she was a disposable asset.
Today she was…
Free?
The thought didn't compute. It felt like a trap, like an experiment meant to see how quickly she would adapt before the next punishment.
She stared down at the house key in her hand.
'No one gives this much without wanting something. No escape is this clean. No freedom is this easy.'
Her thoughts spiraled, looping, choking on themselves—
A small hand tugged her sleeve.
Sarah blinked and looked down.
Laura stood beside her, green eyes wide, unfathomable. She didn't speak—not because she couldn't, but because speech had been trained out of her unless commanded.
Sarah's heart cracked.
"Oh," she whispered. "Sweetheart. I'm sorry. Let's… let's go inside."
Laura nodded once, silently.
Sarah unlocked the door. The hinges creaked open to reveal a house caught halfway between new and unfamiliar. Clean furnishings. Neutral colors. A stocked fridge with basics—bread, eggs, milk, meat, and fruit. Someone had thought ahead.
Someone had planned for them.
It should have comforted her.
Instead, it made the back of her neck prickle.
She stepped inside cautiously, Laura shadowing her exactly two steps behind—programmed behavior. Conditioned behavior.
She needed to help her daughter unlearn that.
Sarah drew a shaky breath. "Laura… are you hungry?"
The girl stared at her. Still as stone. No answer.
'Right. Emotional response. Missing. Or buried too deep.'
Sarah forced a smile. "Let me make something. Just… something warm."
The kitchen felt too bright, too big. She wasn't used to having space. Or choice. Or food that didn't come in standardized rations and scientific labels.
Her hands shook as she cooked. Eggs burned in the pan. Toast blackened. The smell stung her pride.
"This is terrible," she muttered.
But when she set the plate down, Laura ate it. Quiet. Dutiful. Eating because the conditioning said: obey.
That hurt more than anything.
Sarah touched the girl's hair. "We'll fix this," she whispered. "I promise. I'll be your mother. For real this time."
Laura paused mid-bite. Her eyes softened. Just a fraction.
It was enough.
They bathed together—an old habit for survival, not comfort—and Sarah carefully scrubbed, fearing any lingering scent agents on Laura's skin. The girl trembled only once, when the water ran over her wrists.
The cuts were gone, of course.
Healing factor.
Sarah hugged her tightly afterward, even though Laura was stiff as a board.
That night, they slept in the same bed. Sarah stared at the ceiling for hours, listening to Laura's shallow breaths.
The house was safe. The house was warm.
It didn't feel real.
Morning came quietly.
Sarah made pancakes—because it was the one normal, soft thing she remembered from childhood. They didn't burn this time. Although Laura still ate them with calm, mechanical precision, making Sarah unable to tell if she enjoyed the meal.
A phone rang.
A landline.
Sarah froze.
Laura immediately shifted into defensive posture—shoulders low, muscles tensed, eyes sharpened.
Sarah forced herself to inhale.
"It's okay," she murmured. "It's okay. Stay here. Keep eating."
She picked up the receiver with a hand that betrayed her only by the faint tremor in her fingertips.
"Hello?"
A warm, polished male voice answered. Smooth. Refined. Almost aristocratic. "Dr. Kinney, or should I say Dr. McKinney? This is Isaac Maddox."
Her breath stilled.
The second benefactor.
Luc Moreau's friend.
Or puppetmaster.
Or partner.
Or something she could not yet categorize.
"I hope you and your daughter found the house satisfactory. Luc might not be the best person, but his taste has always been impeccable," he said gently.
"It's… more than satisfactory," she whispered. "It's too much."
A soft chuckle. "Not at all. Consider it a gesture of good faith."
'Good faith.' She didn't believe in that anymore.
"So what do you want from me?" she asked, bluntly.
"An opportunity. I'm only calling to make an offer," he said. "Not collect a debt."
She said nothing.
Isaac continued, voice professional, factual, almost soothing.
"I'm building a research division under my new conglomerate, NeoCore Systems. A biotech subsidiary focused on early detection of genetic irregularities in infants and methods to repair DNA damage before birth. Your expertise in genetic engineering is unparalleled, so I'm told. I want you to lead the lab."
She swallowed. "Why me? You barely know who I am. You don't even know if I have the skills you were told about."
"I know enough," he said. "I know your brilliance. I know your integrity. And I know the world treated you monstrously for both."
Her throat tightened.
Isaac didn't launch into numbers like a salesman. He eased into them the way a surgeon eases into an incision—precise, calm, unavoidable.
"Should you accept. Your compensation would begin at three hundred fifty thousand annually," he said. "That is the baseline, not the ceiling."
Sarah blinked. She'd never earned even a fraction of that.
"And," he continued, "I'm offering you a five-percent equity stake in both NeoCore Systems itself and the biotech subsidiary."
Her breath caught. "Equity? In… your entire company?"
"Yes," Isaac answered gently. "It ensures you profit from the work you build."
She felt dizzy.
"But what happens if I—if something goes wrong? If I can't do what you expect?"
"Then you walk away," Isaac said simply. "Two full years of salary paid to you upon departure. Your research remains credited to you. And I will not pursue legal action of any kind."
She pressed a hand to her temple. "Why would anyone offer terms like that?"
"Because you deserve them," he said. "I will give you the security and protection you desire, and in return you'll help me."
Silence swelled between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy.
"And what exactly would my limitations be?" she asked quietly. "What… fences would you put around my work?"
"No fences or restrictions of any kind whatsoever. No military contracts unless you personally authorize them," Isaac said. "No human trials unless you sign off. You decide what lines are crossed—not me. This will be your show to run."
That nearly made her accept.
She swallowed. "You're giving me a kind of freedom I've never had."
"You're considered one of the best," Isaac corrected softly. "I'm only giving you the freedom that any other person with that job title would get."
She closed her eyes, overwhelmed.
"Lastly," he added, almost gently, "I will add a protection package for your daughter, Laura."
Sarah's heart seized.
Isaac continued softly:
"She will receive private education, medical oversight under your supervision, and zero surveillance without your explicit permission. She'll be a normal young girl with a normal life."
Sarah pressed a hand to her mouth.
This man…
This stranger…
Was offering everything she dreamed of but never believed she could giver her daughter.
And then, as if he were waiting until she was at the edge of acceptance, he added the final piece, "If your sister Deborah and her daughter Megan wish to disappear… I can make that happen as well. New identities. Protection from the Facility. They are being monitored… but not yet targeted."
Sarah almost dropped the phone.
"How do you know any of this?" she whispered.
"I make it my business to know things," Isaac said. "And to be able to offer help where others are unable to."
Silence stretched.
She felt Laura watching her from the doorway—quiet, attentive, unsure.
"As I said," Isaac continued, "you don't need to decide today. Take a few days. Speak to your sister if you must. When you're ready, contact Robert."
A pause.
"And Dr. Kinney… welcome home."
The line clicked dead.
Sarah lowered the phone slowly.
Her knees gave out and she sat on the edge of the couch, hands trembling.
Laura approached her, head tilted in silent confusion.
Sarah pulled her daughter into her arms.
For the first time since escaping, she let herself cry.
'Home.'
A word she hadn't thought belonged to her anymore since her father abused her. Her childhood house felt more like a prison, and every other place felt fleeting.
But here in this house with Laura, maybe—just maybe—it did now.