The notebook sits between us on my granddaughter's bed, its worn leather cover a silent accusation. Samantha's eyes are sharp, unflinching. She has her grandmother's eyes but that stubborn set to her jaw? That comes straight from me, though I'd never admit it to Rachel.

  "So," I say, buying time. "You have Liberty Belle's notebooks. Now what?"

  "Now what?" she repeats back to me, direct as always. No preamble, no careful approach. So much like me at her age, diving headfirst into whatever caught her interest.

  I look at the notebook, then back at her. "What exactly do you think you've found, Samantha?"

  "Your name," she says. "In Belle's investigation into Daedalus. She met with you multiple times. She wrote that you had 'ethical concerns' about the prison's design but were 'reluctant to elaborate.' What I don't understand is why you never mentioned it."

  The room around us seems to fade. Suddenly I'm sitting not in my granddaughter's bedroom but in my office at Horvath-Small Ltd., circa 2006. The blueprints for Daedalus Correctional Facility are spread across my desk, the edges curling slightly in the August heat. The air conditioner is humming but barely making a dent in the humidity. John Horvath stands across from me, arms folded, waiting for my sign-off.

  "These modifications," I say, tapping the revised specifications for the perimeter weatherproofing. "They've increased the thickness by sixty percent and added the carbon-fiber mesh."

  John shrugs, his practical mind seeing only the technical challenge. "Government's paying for it. They want it hurricane-proof, tornado-proof, earthquake-proof. Hell, they probably want it nuke-proof, but they didn't say that part out loud."

  I frown at the blueprints. "This isn't standard weatherproofing anymore, John. This is... something else."

  "It's a prison, Moe. For the worst of the worst. You read the papers? That freak in Brooklyn last year? The one who was stringing up families? That's who they're building this for."

  The memory shifts, and suddenly I'm walking the construction site, hard hat secure, work boots crushing gravel as I inspect the foundations. The scale of Daedalus is impressive even half-built - a fortress rising from the Adirondack wilderness, far from civilian populations. The isolation alone would make escape nearly impossible, but the government isn't taking chances.

  "Mr. Small."

  The voice startles me. I turn to find a man in a three-piece suit standing nearby, seemingly impervious to the July heat. His immaculate clothing looks absurd against the backdrop of dust and unfinished concrete. He has a sort of... hardness to him. Desert-kissed. He can’t be older than thirty, but there’s an emptiness in his eyes that makes my skin prickle. Men that young shouldn’t look like that.

  "Yes?" I ask, wondering how he's gotten past security.

  "Jared Cross, Royal Engineers." He doesn't offer his hand. His voice is thick, like sandpaper, unused to American English, but I recognize it immediately. British. The kind that's lived a life in the sticks. "I'd like to review your progress on the environmental containment systems."

  "Of course," I say, though I've never heard of him before this moment. Part of me would rather ask - what's someone from the Corps of Royal Engineers doing here? But that's not strange. I've already met a Mossad agent, three Mounties, and a handful of representatives from Hitachi and Mitsubishi (plus translators). "We're on schedule with the weatherproofing. The outer shell will withstand Category 5 hurricane winds, temperatures from minus forty to one-twenty Fahrenheit, and seismic activity up to--"

  "Yes, yes." He waves this away with an impatience that feels practiced. "I’m less interested in your hurricane ratings and more concerned with the perimeter interfaces."

  I blink. "The... interfaces?"

  "The transitional seams," he clarifies, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. "Where interior systems - ventilation, electrical conduits, drainage - meet your outer shell. We need assurances those junctions can be fully isolated from any emergent conditions."

  I try to keep my expression neutral. "Emergent conditions meaning...?"

  Cross doesn’t sigh, but there’s a heaviness in the way he tilts his head. He pulls out a free hand, and rubs his thumb and index finger together, and a small wisp of black, foul-smelling smoke leaks from between the skin. Like matchsticks. "Meaning that some occupants can generate phenomena that propagate - electromagnetic, thermal, kinetic. We’ve already seen incidents where ordinary utility corridors were used to compromise containment. We can’t afford that here."

  "I understand the concern," I say carefully. "But our brief covers structural resilience, not internal control systems. Any internal countermeasures would fall under the secondary contractors."

  His mouth twitches, maybe annoyance, maybe amusement. "No one is asking you to build the cells themselves. But your envelope must function as an absolute buffer. No transfer of force, temperature, or current beyond each designated conduit, no matter what occurs inside. Think of it as an unbreachable membrane around the entire facility."

  I exhale, trying to picture it. "So you want the entire building to act as a Faraday cage, a heat sink, and an impact dampener simultaneously."

  "Precisely," he says, voice softening by a degree. He produces a folder from under his arm and passes it to me. "These are the updated interface specifications. You’ll coordinate with the internal systems teams to ensure no unmonitored pathways remain. Every pipe, every seam, every access hatch - documented, controlled, and hardened."

  I open the folder, skimming the diagrams. My engineering mind instantly starts tallying the scope: thousands of linear feet of specialized sealing materials, negative-pressure valves, thermal suppression barriers. The costs alone...

  "This is... significantly beyond the original bid," I say finally. "I assume we'll be expected to shoulder the costs?"

  Cross tips his head in something like acknowledgment. "Not at all. Costs are not your concern. The Department will absorb all overruns. We’ll authorize any necessary materials and labor."

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  I look up from the folder, momentarily caught off guard. I remember now, this moment, specifically. I remember thinking: when does the government ever write a blank check? It should have been a bigger red flag. "You’re saying the federal government is underwriting everything?"

  "Everything," he confirms, his voice almost gentle now. "This is an international priority. What matters is that you implement these specifications precisely and document every step. If you can’t, we’ll have no choice but to bring in alternate contractors. But I’d prefer to avoid disrupting your team."

  He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t have to. The momentum of the project is its own inevitability.

  "I... I’ll review this with my partners," I say at last, trying not to think too hard about the mind-boggling difficulty of this proposition, costs be damned.

  "See that you do," Cross replies. He starts to turn, then pauses. "And Mr. Small - these specifications are classified under national security provisions. Dissemination without clearance is a prosecutable offense."

  I look up from the folder. "Understood."

  "Good. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

  He walks away without another word, disappearing between the cranes and scaffolding like he was never there at all.

  I watch him go, the heat suddenly pressing against my skin like a weight.

  Then I look back at the diagrams - page after page of barriers, failsafes, redundancies. Not torture chambers, exactly. Just... walls within walls. Layers of protection so dense nothing can ever get out. Or in.

  "Pop-pop?"

  Samantha's voice pulls me back to the present. She's looking at me with concern, the notebook still between us on the bedspread.

  "Sorry," I say, running a hand over my face. "Got lost in thought."

  "You were saying something about specifications," she says. "For Daedalus."

  Was I speaking out loud? I clear my throat. "Horvath-Small was contracted for the weatherproofing. External and eventually internal. Making sure the building could withstand extreme conditions."

  "Natural disasters?" she asks. "Internal weatherproofing?"

  "And unnatural ones," I add. "Powers, I mean. Weather manipulation. Seismic generation. Temperature extremes. The government wanted to be prepared for anything."

  "That makes sense for a supervillain prison," Samantha says carefully. "So what were these 'ethical concerns' Belle mentioned?"

  The scene shifts again. I'm sitting in my living room, Leah still alive, making tea in the kitchen. It's 2014, and the woman sitting across from me is not in costume, but I recognize her from the news. Diane Williams. Liberty Belle. She's wearing civilian clothes - jeans, a simple blouse, hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Nice curls, although I know better than to say anything about it. Only her intense focus gives her away as something more than an ordinary visitor.

  "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Small," she says. "I know this is unusual."

  "Not every day a superhero shows up at your door," I agree. "Though these days, you're not exactly rare."

  She smiles slightly. "No, I suppose not. I'm here about Daedalus Correctional Facility. I understand your company was involved in its construction."

  "Weatherproofing and environmental systems," I confirm. "That was about ten years ago. I’m semi-retired now."

  "But you remember the project."

  It isn’t really a question. "Of course. It was one of our largest government contracts."

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a photograph, placing it on the coffee table between us. A cell interior - concrete walls, no windows, a narrow bed bolted to the floor, a metal toilet-sink combination. A ceiling-mounted camera.

  "This is a standard isolation unit at Daedalus," she says. "Designed for powered individuals classified as ‘high risk.’ Currently, sixty-three percent of inmates are housed in cells like this."

  I study the photo, feeling an old unease. "I didn’t design the cells themselves."

  "No," she agrees. "But you designed the infrastructure that makes them possible. Your systems ensure that whatever happens inside stays inside."

  "That was the assignment," I say quietly. "Containment. No external propagation of dangerous phenomena."

  "And in practice," she continues, her voice measured, "that also means isolation - extreme, uninterrupted isolation."

  She sets another photo beside the first. This one shows a man sitting motionless on the bed, staring at nothing. "Dominic Reid. Weather manipulator. Three years in that cell. His psychological evaluations show marked decline. Depersonalization, catatonia."

  I exhale and push the pictures a few inches away. "I’m not surprised. But that wasn’t part of my purview."

  "I understand," she says, and her tone is surprisingly gentle. "I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to piece together how the place evolved into what it is now. You were there at the beginning. You saw how the priorities shifted."

  "To a degree," I admit. "But it was a big operation. Many contractors, many agendas. We were one part of it."

  "And you think you couldn’t have known the full scope."

  "I know I didn’t," I say. "If I had... I might have asked more questions. Or maybe not. It’s easy to imagine what you’d do in retrospect."

  She nods, as though she’s heard that before. "Did you notice anything unusual during construction? Any changes to the design that struck you as out of alignment with the stated goals?"

  I hesitate, sorting through memories: site meetings, revised blueprints, men in dark suits with vague titles. "There were modifications - more redundant barriers than initially specified. Additional isolation around critical systems. We assumed it was a precaution. I still think, in many cases, it was."

  "Was there ever a point when you thought it crossed a line?"

  I consider this. "Not in a way I could prove. If I’d seen something that was obviously criminal, I would have reported it."

  She doesn’t interrupt, just waits.

  "I did file some anonymous concerns," I admit. "Small things - about ventilation restrictions, about long-term viability of the negative-pressure seals. But nothing that seemed... illegal. Just things that bothered me."

  Her gaze sharpens. "And no one followed up with you?"

  "Not after the project closed out. They don’t exactly do post-occupancy check-ins with the subcontractors. My part was done. My hands were washed, I suppose."

  There’s a long pause. Neither of us speaks. Finally, she says, "Mr. Small, I’m not here to put you on the spot. I’m looking for any factual details - anything that could help clarify how this facility went from a containment center to what it’s become."

  "And what is that?" I ask quietly.

  She meets my eyes. "A place where people disappear."

  I feel something tighten behind my ribs.

  "You were an engineer," she continues. "You notice details most people wouldn’t. Even if you didn’t see the whole picture, you might have seen pieces that matter now."

  I rub a hand over my mouth. "I can tell you what I remember - who was on-site, what the plans looked like, what changes came in the later phases. But I can’t give you anything more than that. Speculation isn’t evidence."

  "That’s more help than you realize," she says, her voice softening again. "Even understanding the structure - how it was meant to function - can be part of building accountability."

  "And what happens if I talk out of turn?" I ask. "Some of this is still under classification."

  "Then you say what you’re comfortable saying," she replies. "No more, no less."

  I lean back in my chair, feeling tired in a way that has nothing to do with age.

  "All right," I say at last. "Ask your questions. I’ll answer what I can."

  The memory blurs, and I'm back in Samantha's bedroom, her expectant gaze fixed on me. She's waiting for an answer, this stubborn, brilliant granddaughter of mine who has somehow found herself walking the same path Belle did years ago.

  "Pop-pop?" she prompts. "The ethical concerns?"

  I sigh, feeling the weight of years pressing down. "It's complicated, Samantha. When you're building something like Daedalus, you don't see the whole picture at once. It's just blueprints and specifications and deadlines. You focus on your piece of the puzzle."

  "But at some point, you saw more," she presses.

  She stares at me like she's looking through a pane of glass. My shoulders sag, and suddenly, I feel all seventy odd years pressing down on top of my head. "Of course, bubelah. You see lots when you're building the fence."