Adrian pulled into the driveway, motion sensors activating exterior lights that pushed back darkness. The safe house stood modern but fortified, clean lines hiding reinforced construction, large windows that were actually bulletproof glass, aesthetic married to function.
He pressed his thumb to the dashboard scanner, heard the quiet beep of biometric clearance. "Home sweet heavily fortified home," he said, trying for lightness he didn't quite feel.
Inside, the interior matched the exterior, minimalist functionality married to careful security. Security monitors lined one wall, showing multiple camera angles of the perimeter. The kitchen looked well-stocked, stainless steel appliances gleaming under recessed lighting.
The living room held sparse but quality furniture, a couch that looked comfortable but not indulgent, a coffee table with clean lines, everything deliberate and purposeful. Two guest bedrooms branched off the main hallway.
Yuki set her bag down carefully, taking it all in, this strange sanctuary that felt both protective and isolating.
Aveline scanned the perimeter immediately, habit taking over. She checked windows, tested locks, examined sight lines with professional precision. "Structural integrity: sound. Entry points: secured. Egress routes: adequate."
"It's a house, not a fortress," Adrian said, maybe trying to make it feel less clinical, less like witness protection and more like home.
"Functionally, it's both," Aveline replied, and honestly, she wasn't wrong.
"I'll return at 6'o clock in the morning for shift rotation," Aveline announced, already moving toward the door with that efficient purposefulness.
"You're not staying?" Adrian asked, surprised.
"Unnecessary. You're capable of solo protection detail for twelve-hour intervals. Statistics show single-operative witness protection succeeds in controlled environments with adequate preparation."
"What if something happens?"
Aveline pulled out a small device from her tactical vest, matte black, single red button, deceptively simple. "Panic trigger. Direct encrypted line to my mobile. Response time: eight minutes under optimal traffic conditions, twelve under suboptimal." She handed it to him, their fingers brushing briefly. "Keep it within arm's reach."
Adrian pocketed the device, feeling its weight like a promise.
Aveline turned to Yuki then, something softening in her expression, barely visible but there. "Remain indoors. Follow Adrian's security protocols. Don't approach windows after dark."
"I will," Yuki said quietly. "And... thanks. For everything today."
Aveline paused, actually paused, like she was processing unexpected input. Her head tilted slightly.
"You're... welcome."
She said it like testing out new vocabulary, trying on words that didn't quite fit her usual patterns. But she said it, regardless, and somehow that mattered. Then, with something that might have been, in someone else, almost warmth: "Ciao."
She left, the door closing with professional precision behind her.
Adrian and Yuki stood in sudden quiet, the absence of Aveline's presence somehow louder than her actual presence had been.
"She's..." Yuki began, searching for words.
"Yeah," Adrian agreed, even though he didn't know what adjective she'd been reaching for. "She really is."
Adrian moved to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients with practiced ease, nothing fancy, just pasta, jarred marinara that he'd doctor with fresh garlic and herbs, garlic bread that would smell like comfort. Real food, not takeout, not rations. Something with care in it.
"You cook?" Yuki asked, surprised, moving to help without being asked.
"Learned from my foster father," Adrian said, handing her a cutting board and vegetables. "One of the few good things he taught me before..." He trailed off.
"You don't have to talk about it if—"
"It's okay," Adrian interrupted gently. "He was a good man. Just... didn't get enough time with him. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
They worked in companionable silence, the ordinary rhythm of meal preparation strangely comforting after chaos. Yuki chopped vegetables with careful precision. Adrian stirred sauce, added seasonings, tasted, adjusted. Simple domestic choreography that felt almost normal.
They ate at the small kitchen table, plates steaming, garlic bread crispy on the edges. For a moment, just a moment, everything felt suspended. Normal. Almost human. Like they were just two people sharing dinner, not witness and protector in a corporate nightmare counting down to mass casualties.
"This is really good," Yuki said, genuine pleasure in her voice.
"Thanks. Cooking helps me think. Keeps my hands busy when my brain won't shut up."
"I get that," she said softly. "That's what yoga does for me."
They ate, and talked about small things, favorite foods, bad cooking disasters, the particular terror of accidentally setting off smoke alarms at 2 AM. Normal conversation, blessedly normal, like pressure valves releasing steam before everything exploded.
The TV played low, some mindless sitcom neither of them really watched, just comforting background noise. Yuki curled on the couch with one of her books, legs tucked under her, looking small and vulnerable in the soft lamplight.
"Have you read this?" she asked suddenly, showing him the cover, a romance novel, couple embracing under moonlight, the kind of book people dismissed but that sold millions for good reason.
"Can't say I have," Adrian admitted.
"It's SO good," Yuki said, enthusiasm breaking through exhaustion like sunlight through clouds. "The author's writing style is just... ugh, perfect. And the TENSION. I've been dying to talk about it but no one I know reads romance. They all judge, you know? Like it's not 'real literature' or whatever."
"Tell me about it," Adrian said, settling into the armchair across from her.
She did. For twenty minutes, she talked about character development and narrative tension and the particular genius of slow-burn romance. Adrian barely understood half of it, caught maybe one plot point in three, but he let her talk. Because she needed this. This normalcy. This enthusiasm about something that wasn't fear or danger or corporate-sponsored murder.
He watched her eyes light up, watched animation return to her face, watched her be young and excited about something silly and wonderful.
And maybe, he thought, this was what they were fighting for. Not just justice or stopping Nexo or exposing corruption. But this—the ability for people to curl up with romance novels and get excited about fictional characters. The ordinary magic of normal life.
"There's this new restaurant downtown," Yuki said quietly, something wistful entering her voice. "Japanese fusion. Been wanting to try it for weeks. My coworker kept talking about their ramen—said it was like, life-changing good. But..." She gestured vaguely at everything, the safe house, the situation, her life on hold.
"After this is over, I'll take you," Adrian said. "My treat. We'll get that life-changing ramen."
Yuki looked at him, surprised. "Really?"
"Really. Consider it payment for putting up with all this."
"You know..." Yuki said slowly, thoughtfully. "This actually feels safer than witness protection probably would."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's... personal. You actually care. The Feds would just process me, another name on paperwork, another witness to shuffle through systems. You see me."
The words hung there, heavier than she probably intended.
"Could I just stay here?" she asked. "Instead of witness protection? I mean, if that's allowed?"
Adrian considered, warmth spreading through his chest. "Honestly? I'd prefer that. You're good company. Especially after being around Elias and Aveline all day."
Yuki laughed. "They're that intense?"
"They're so PRAGMATIC," Adrian said with feeling. "Everything's tactical analysis and probability matrices. Clinical doesn't even scratch the surface with Aveline."
"Yeah, I noticed," Yuki said, smiling. "But she was nice to me. In her way."
"I have NO idea why," Adrian admitted, genuinely baffled. "She doesn't do nice."
"Maybe she just likes me."
"Aveline doesn't 'like' people."
Yuki smirked. "Maybe I'm special."
"Maybe," Adrian laughed. "Maybe."
Adrian showed Yuki to the guest room, handing her spare blankets and pillows. "Guest room's yours. Bathroom's down the hall, towels in the cabinet. If you need anything—"
"I'll yell," Yuki finished, smiling. "Thanks, Adrian. For everything. For believing me. For protecting me. For making me feel human instead of just... evidence."
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow we figure out next steps."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
She closed the door softly. Adrian headed to his own room, suddenly exhausted, bone-deep weariness that came from adrenaline crash and emotional labor.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling in darkness, listening to the quiet sounds of the safe house settling around him.
He thought about Dursley's terrified face, Aveline's cold efficiency masking something almost human, Elias's warnings about attachment, Yuki's smile over dinner. How normal it had felt, cooking together, talking about books and restaurants.
For a moment, just a moment, he'd almost forgotten the nightmare waiting outside. Almost forgotten about the serum with its 99.7% fatality rate, about the distribution timeline counting down, about the tens of thousands of potential casualties.
For a moment, they'd just been two people sharing dinner.
And maybe, he thought as sleep finally pulled him under, maybe that was what made all of this worth it. Not just stopping the villains or saving the day. But protecting those small moments of normalcy. The ability to get excited about romance novels. To want to try new restaurants. To feel safe enough to be human.
Outside, Metro City hummed its nocturnal song sirens and traffic and the endless pulse of survival.
Tomorrow would bring new problems, new threats, new battles.
But tonight, at least, one person was safe.
That had to count for something.