The next morning Soren pushed open the office door, paper bags still warm in his hands.
He'd spent half the night awake after swallowing the Moon Pearl in one go. Sleep never came, so he'd wandered the neighborhood playing helpful citizen—giving a couple of knife-wielding punks a free round of bone-setting therapy.
Even after a full night without rest he felt sharp. The Pearl's energy still hummed through him, leaving him clear-headed and restless, like his body had more power than it knew what to do with.
The second he stepped inside he spotted the little furry menace.
Gizmo sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the couch, tiny legs folded, front paws cradling a plastic ball. He was completely absorbed in his own game.
The little guy was smart enough to know the rules. So far he hadn't broken anything important.
The smell of grilled sausage and melted cheese hit him. Gizmo dropped the ball instantly and scrambled over on all fours. He latched onto Soren's pant leg with both fuzzy paws and looked up with big, pitiful eyes, letting out a series of soft chirps.
Soren glanced down, one corner of his mouth twitching.
Yesterday when he'd come home the same little bastard had been hiding behind the couch, baring his teeth. Now he was playing cute.
Classic two-faced act.
"Go upstairs and get Carrie. We're eating together."
He gave a light kick toward the stairs.
Gizmo let go, nodded once, and shot up the steps on all fours.
Footsteps sounded from above a second later.
Carrie came down in soft home clothes, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The moment she saw Soren with the breakfast bags her dazed expression snapped into focus, then into something close to panic.
"Soren— I'm sorry. I overslept. I should have—"
"Stop."
He set the bags on the coffee table and cut her off.
"It's just breakfast. Don't put that much pressure on yourself. There aren't a bunch of rules here."
He pointed at the couch. "Go wash up. Don't make me wait too long."
After they ate, Carrie cleared the table without being asked. She held the empty bags, voice a little unsteady.
"Soren… if you don't have anything else planned today, could we… maybe go see a movie?"
She rushed the next part like she expected a no. "The fridge is empty too. I wanted to stop at the store for some fresh ingredients."
"We have a fridge?"
Soren looked mildly surprised. Back when he lived with Dante, leftover food was a myth. Money either went to the electric bill or straight into pizza. Empty pockets meant empty stomachs.
"Patty bought it," Carrie said quietly. "So I could keep ingredients here."
"Alright."
He thought it over and nodded. He'd been running nonstop. A couple of easy days wouldn't kill him.
He'd planned to dig into the Armitage family today, but an organization that big wasn't going anywhere. A few days either way wouldn't matter.
He pulled out his phone and sent McClane a quick message asking him to run background on the Armitages.
Strange, though—he hadn't been able to reach the detective since last night. He'd wanted to hand the guy a free case. McClane had covered for Carrie after the theater incident; without him, Patty's bail money alone wouldn't have gotten her released so cleanly.
Maybe the old man was finally taking a day off. He'd looked wiped the last time they talked.
Carrie lit up the second he agreed. She hurried outside to toss the trash, then thundered back upstairs.
Soren dropped onto the couch and scrolled his phone to kill time.
Girls and getting ready. Everyone knew the drill.
Every site and app he opened was drowning in the same story: the suburban bar fire from a few nights ago. More specifically, nonstop coverage of the band Low Shoulder.
Headlines screamed for clicks—"Heroes Who Walked Into the Fire," "Ordinary Men Who Turned Music Into a Memorial for the Dead," and a dozen variations.
Soren's brow furrowed.
Risking your life to save people was worth respect. This level of saturation felt off. Coordinated press releases, a rushed "memorial album" already dropping…Chapter 168: The One Who Walked Into the Fire
The next morning Soren pushed open the office door, paper bags still warm in his hands.
He'd spent half the night awake after swallowing the Moon Pearl in one go. Sleep never came, so he'd wandered the neighborhood playing helpful citizen—giving a couple of knife-wielding punks a free round of bone-setting therapy.
Even after a full night without rest he felt sharp. The Pearl's energy still hummed through him, leaving him clear-headed and restless, like his body had more power than it knew what to do with.
The second he stepped inside he spotted the little furry menace.
Gizmo sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the couch, tiny legs folded, front paws cradling a plastic ball. He was completely absorbed in his own game.
The little guy was smart enough to know the rules. So far he hadn't broken anything important.
The smell of grilled sausage and melted cheese hit him. Gizmo dropped the ball instantly and scrambled over on all fours. He latched onto Soren's pant leg with both fuzzy paws and looked up with big, pitiful eyes, letting out a series of soft chirps.
Soren glanced down, one corner of his mouth twitching.
Yesterday when he'd come home the same little bastard had been hiding behind the couch, baring his teeth. Now he was playing cute.
Classic two-faced act.
"Go upstairs and get Carrie. We're eating together."
He gave a light kick toward the stairs.
Gizmo let go, nodded once, and shot up the steps on all fours.
Footsteps sounded from above a second later.
Carrie came down in soft home clothes, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The moment she saw Soren with the breakfast bags her dazed expression snapped into focus, then into something close to panic.
"Soren— I'm sorry. I overslept. I should have—"
"Stop."
He set the bags on the coffee table and cut her off.
"It's just breakfast. Don't put that much pressure on yourself. There aren't a bunch of rules here."
He pointed at the couch. "Go wash up. Don't make me wait too long."
After they ate, Carrie cleared the table without being asked. She held the empty bags, voice a little unsteady.
"Soren… if you don't have anything else planned today, could we… maybe go see a movie?"
She rushed the next part like she expected a no. "The fridge is empty too. I wanted to stop at the store for some fresh ingredients."
"We have a fridge?"
Soren looked mildly surprised. Back when he lived with Dante, leftover food was a myth. Money either went to the electric bill or straight into pizza. Empty pockets meant empty stomachs.
"Patty bought it," Carrie said quietly. "So I could keep ingredients here."
"Alright."
He thought it over and nodded. He'd been running nonstop. A couple of easy days wouldn't kill him.
He'd planned to dig into the Armitage family today, but an organization that big wasn't going anywhere. A few days either way wouldn't matter.
He pulled out his phone and sent McClane a quick message asking him to run background on the Armitages.
Strange, though—he hadn't been able to reach the detective since last night. He'd wanted to hand the guy a free case. McClane had covered for Carrie after the theater incident; without him, Patty's bail money alone wouldn't have gotten her released so cleanly.
Maybe the old man was finally taking a day off. He'd looked wiped the last time they talked.
Carrie lit up the second he agreed. She hurried outside to toss the trash, then thundered back upstairs.
Soren dropped onto the couch and scrolled his phone to kill time.
Girls and getting ready. Everyone knew the drill.
Every site and app he opened was drowning in the same story: the suburban bar fire from a few nights ago. More specifically, nonstop coverage of the band Low Shoulder.
Headlines screamed for clicks—"Heroes Who Walked Into the Fire," "Ordinary Men Who Turned Music Into a Memorial for the Dead," and a dozen variations.
Soren's brow furrowed.
Risking your life to save people was worth respect. This level of saturation felt off. Coordinated press releases, a rushed "memorial album" already dropping… it smelled like money moving behind the scenes. Capital never fought against profit.
Most of the comments were pure praise. A few quieter voices called it staged or just plain gross.
Footsteps on the stairs pulled him out of it.
That was fast.
He looked up—and paused.
Carrie hadn't piled on makeup like girls who lived for attention. Just a soft pink lip tint that brought a little color to her pale face.
What actually caught him was the dress. A light-colored number that followed her frame without trying too hard, the hem dotted with small hand-stitched flowers. A cream knit shawl rested over her shoulders.
Nothing flashy. It simply shed the dull weight she usually carried and let her quiet, gentle look breathe. She looked like the girl next door who'd somehow stepped into soft focus.
"You make that yourself?"
Soren stood and meant it. "Looks good on you."
Color rose in her cheeks instantly.
"Yeah… I like sewing my own clothes."
She glanced down, voice small. "If you don't mind, I could make you something too. I'd just need to take your measurements."
"Sounds good. Tonight works."
He agreed without hesitation.
Most of what he wore had been bulk-ordered with Dante years ago. Same cut, same mold, cheaper that way. He'd gotten used to it. Clothes were just something that kept the rain off. As long as they did the job, he didn't care. His face did the rest of the work anyway.
Gizmo, who'd been hiding behind the couch, suddenly darted out the moment it looked like they were leaving. He chirped and hopped in place.
Carrie laughed and crouched to ruffle his head. "You want to come with us?"
Gizmo nodded hard, front paws already on the doorframe.
She looked up at Soren.
He eyed the little monster. Leaving him alone in the office was asking for trouble.
"You can come. But you stay close and you don't start shit. Otherwise you're dinner tonight."
Gizmo understood every word. He shuddered, then scrambled straight into Carrie's arms like the floor had turned into lava.