During a commercial break, I find myself glancing at Victor again. "So why cats?" I ask. "Specifically."

  He looks at Coal, then at Box. "Maeve suggested it. My dispatcher. Said a lot of truckers have cats. Good company, not too demanding. Can live in the truck. Don't need walks like dogs."

  "But why do you want any pets at all? I would've thought you'd prefer being completely alone."

  Victor considers this. "They're... simple," he says finally. "No expectations beyond food, water, clean litter. Don't care if I'm in a bad mood. Don't need me to talk about feelings." He watches Box stretching on the pillow. "They do their thing, I do mine. But they're there." He pauses. "Also, they make me stop. Take breaks. Can't drive forever when they need food. Can't skip meals when they're hungry." There's another pause. "Maeve said I'd work myself to death otherwise. She's probably right."

  I look down at Coal, purring contentedly in my lap. "So they're like... what, furry alarm clocks? Reminders to take care of yourself?"

  "Something like that." Victor nods. "But also..." He seems to struggle for words, which is unusual for him. "They're alive. They sleep on my feet sometimes. But they know how to handle themselves. They tell me to back off when I bother them. They're not complicated like people are." He shrugs, apparently unable to articulate whatever he's trying to say. "I admire that."

  Practical. Convenient. Serving a function. Like his family. But he couldn't meet their emotional needs the way he meets the cats' physical needs.

  "You know," I say carefully, "it's a lot easier to take care of cats than people. Cats don't ask for emotional support. They don't need you to love them, just feed them and give them a safe place to sleep."

  Victor's eyes narrow slightly. "Yes. That's why they work for me."

  "But people aren't cats, Victor. They need more than food and shelter. They need emotional connection. Safety that's more than just physical."

  He watches me for a long moment. "I know," he says finally. "That's why I left. I know what I'm good at and what I'm not."

  The cooking show comes back on, and we both turn to watch it again. The contestants are now presenting their creations to the judges. One by one, they're evaluated, praised, criticized. Victor watches with the same mild interest he might show a weather report.

  After a few more minutes, he glances at the clock on the nightstand. "You should probably go soon," he says. "Rachel will be worried."

  "Yeah," I agree, though I'm reluctant to move and disturb Coal. "Mom's probably already freaking out."

  Victor nods. "One more thing before you go."

  Victor reaches into the desk drawer and pulls out an envelope. It's white, standard business size, with "Rachel" written on the front in the same precise handwriting as his note to me.

  "Give this to your mother," he says, holding it out.

  I hesitate before taking it. "What is it?"

  "A letter."

  "Yeah, I figured that much. What does it say?"

  Victor shakes his head. "Not for you to read. For Rachel."

  I turn the envelope over in my hands. It's sealed, of course. "She might just throw it away, you know. Without opening it."

  "Her choice," Victor says with a slight shrug. "Information is provided. What she does with it is up to her."

  I slip the envelope into my pocket, next to my phone. "I'll give it to her," I promise, though I'm not entirely sure why I'm agreeing to be his messenger.

  Coal stretches in my lap, clearly sensing that I'm about to disturb his comfortable position. I gently move him aside and stand up, feeling stiff from sitting so long.

  "I should go," I say, though part of me is reluctant to leave. Not because I'm enjoying Victor's company, exactly, but because I still have more questions. But I can sense we've reached the end of this strange encounter. Victor's already turning off the TV, returning to his precise, economical movements.

  "Yes," he agrees, standing as well. He walks to the door and opens it, clearly expecting me to leave without further conversation.

  But something stops me. Maybe it's the finality of it - the knowledge that I might never see this man again, this stranger who shares my blood and possibly some of my traits. Or maybe it's just curiosity about how he'll react.

  Before I can overthink it, I step forward and hug him.

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  Victor goes completely rigid in my arms. His body feels thin but wiry, with none of the softness I associate with older people. His arms remain at his sides, making no move to return the embrace.

  "I don't do hugs," he says, his voice muffled against my hair.

  "Yeah, I know," I reply, but I don't let go immediately. I feel his heart rate increase slightly - not dramatically, but enough that I can tell this physical contact is deeply uncomfortable for him. After a count of three, I step back. "You remind me of some other guy who doesn't do hugs."

  Victor's expression hasn't changed, but there's a slight flush to his face that wasn't there before. "Interesting," he says, as if making a note for future reference. "Increased heart rate. Skin temperature elevation. Physical discomfort."

  "Are you... describing your own reaction to being hugged?" I ask, slightly weirded out.

  "Yes." He meets my eyes. "I can't remember the last time someone hugged me. If you were anyone else, I would've knocked you out on the spot."

  This admission, delivered in the same flat tone he uses to discuss everything, somehow makes me sadder than all his talk of threats and tactical errors. I imagine him going decades without physical contact beyond the occasional handshake or accidental brush in a crowded space. Or the collision of knuckles on jawbone.

  "Well," I say, suddenly feeling like there's a giant spotlight on me. "Thanks for... talking. And for the cats. I think what you did with my Mom was really bad, and I don't like you. But I can't think of anything more I could do to punish you than you aren't already doing yourself."

  And at that, he laughs. No, like, for real. Something barking and hissing, like a horse getting air drained out of them, head lolling back, eyes shutting. When his face tries to pull itself back to normal, it takes longer than last time. "That's a funny sentence. You think I live in Hell?"

  "No, I think your life suits you just fine. It's just sad. Empty. Regardless of what you did to my Mom, you're old and wrinkly now. You're not some supervillain like those guys on the street. You're just... kind of pathetic, really," I send rocketing at him. I expect him to swing, but his body doesn't move an inch. "So I figured you could use a hug, just in case it magically unfucks you. The opportunity cost for me is so small, I mean. Even if you tried to knock my lights out, I don't think you could."

  "...That's a funny way of thinking," he says back, corners of his lips turned upwards. "You're a very funny, strange girl. I'm..." He stops, trying to grab for a word. "Proud of you?"

  "Proud of me?" I almost gag, flabbergasted all the way up and down.

  "That's what I'm wondering," he replies. "It was nice to meet you, Sam. You gave me a lot to think about."

  "You too, Victor," I say.

  "Goodbye, Sam."

  "Goodbye, Victor."

  And then he shuts the door.

  I stand in the hallway for a moment, the envelope in my pocket feeling suddenly heavier. What did he write to Mom? An apology? An explanation? More "tactical" observations about his parenting failures? Part of me wants to steam it open, read it, and then reseal it. But that would be crossing a line I'm not ready to cross. This is between them, whatever it is.

  The bus ride back to Tacony is uneventful. I text Lily to meet me somewhere convenient - the abandoned loading dock behind the old paint factory. She's waiting when I arrive, perched on a concrete barrier, tapping away at her phone.

  "Hey," she calls as I approach. "How was your secret mission?"

  "Weird," I reply, dropping down beside her. "Really weird. How's everything here?"

  Lily shrugs. "Quiet. Too quiet, like in the movies right before something bad happens." She puts her phone away. "Kingdom fronts are still closed. Rogue Wave hasn't been spotted, but they're still selling Jump, obviously. Argus Corps is doing high-visibility patrols downtown, but they're staying out of North Philly. And then, you know. The, uh, huge prison break. That's been on everyone's mind."

  "So everyone's lying low?"

  "Seems like it." She frowns slightly. "The Titans are getting nervous. And Crossroads and Rampart are getting busy."

  I think about the envelope in my pocket, about Victor's revelations, about the Kingdom (probably? who else, I mean) arranging his visit to destabilize us. "Yeah, something's definitely brewing."

  We chat for another twenty minutes, comparing notes on street-level observations - which corners have gone quiet, which usual troublemakers haven't been seen lately. Nothing concrete, just a general sense that the usual patterns have been disrupted.

  Finally, I check the time - almost 9 PM. "I should head home. Mom's probably freaking out."

  "You going to tell her where you were?" Lily asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I hesitate. "Yeah. Probably. Eventually." I hop down from the barrier. "Keep me posted if anything changes?"

  "Always," she promises. "Be careful out there."

  The walk home from the bus stop takes me through familiar streets that suddenly feel different tonight. It's not just the growing darkness or the unusual quiet. Something feels... off. I can't put my finger on it until I'm about three blocks from home, when my blood sense suddenly spikes.

  Blood. A lot of it. Small amounts, but everywhere. Above me, around me, scattered across the neighborhood.

  I stop in my tracks, trying to pinpoint the sources. Rooftops. Mailboxes. Small patches of blood that shouldn't be there. My first thought is people - injured civilians, maybe victims of some kind of attack. But the pattern is wrong. The quantities are too small, too evenly distributed.

  As I start walking again, more cautiously now, I notice a neighbor across the street looking up at something on his roof. Another woman is standing on her porch, phone in hand, staring at something in her mailbox with a horrified expression.

  I cross to the nearest mailbox and peer inside. A dead pigeon stares back at me, its body stiff and cold. A single puncture wound goes clean through its body - large entry hole on one side, small exit hole on the other, like someone shoved a cone through it. Or a big thorn or a spike, it's not a stab wound or a knife wound. Precise. Deliberate.

  My pulse quickens as I look around. More neighbors are emerging from their homes, pointing at rooftops, at trees, at mailboxes. Everyone finding the same thing - dead birds, dozens of them, all killed the same way.

  This isn't random. This isn't weather or disease or some freak accident. This is a message. But who's it for? And what does it mean?

  I pick up my pace, the letter from Victor momentarily forgotten as I hurry toward home. Our street looks normal at first glance, but my blood sense tells me otherwise. There are dead birds on our roof too, and something in our mailbox.

  Mom and Dad are still inside - I can see the living room lights on through the front window. They haven't discovered what's happening yet.

  I reach for the front door, my mind racing. Is this a warning? A threat? Some kind of sick calling card? And why birds, specifically? My heart starts racing with a fear I can't place. Something so much worse than the tiny spark Victor stirred.

  What the fuck is happening?

  And fade out again

  And fade out again

  Immerse your soul in love

  Immerse your soul in love