The drive back to Philadelphia takes a little over two hours, but it feels longer with Mom insisting I use the time to catch up on the schoolwork I've missed. So here I am, hunched over my notebook, trying to do pre-calc while the car bounces over every pothole on I-76.

  "You could have at least let me have the front seat," I grumble, erasing a mistake for the third time. "There's more room."

  "The back is safer," Mom says automatically, eyes on the road. She's been quiet since we left Harrisburg, the initial elation of victory giving way to a thoughtful silence. The NPR station has moved on from discussing the vote to reporting on the Daedalus manhunt.

  "...authorities continue to withhold the identities of the so-called 'Magnificent Seven' escapees, citing ongoing investigation protocols. However, sources close to the matter suggest these individuals represent some of the facility's most dangerous inmates..."

  "Do you think they'll come to Philadelphia?" I ask, giving up on calculus for the moment.

  Mom glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Unlikely. They'd be looking for places to lie low, not major cities with significant law enforcement presence. Most of them are probably going to try to flee to Canada."

  "But they haven't said who they are yet. Just that there's seven of them."

  "They're being cautious. Releasing names might cause panic or vigilantism." Mom changes lanes to pass a slow-moving truck. "The important thing is that we focus on our normal lives now. You going back to school, me back to work. Finishing the Morrison Collection."

  "And Bloodhound?"

  Mom's hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. "Let's discuss that when we're home. For now, I think we both need some recovery time. These past few days have been intense."

  I start to argue but decide against it. No particular reason. That I'm willing to think about.

  "When we're done with the Morrison Collection," Mom says after a moment, "we can discuss finding safer ways to channel your... impulses."

  I can't help but laugh. "My impulses? You make it sound like I have a drug habit."

  "You know what I mean." There's no humor in her voice. "I recognize that completely stopping you from doing superheroics isn't realistic. I'd have an easier time asking a stoner to quit weed out of the goodness of their heart. But there has to be a level below 'getting in random hospitalizing fights' and 'getting my husband shot', Sam."

  "I've been pretty restricted lately," I point out, trying not to visibly wince. Ouch? "Curfews, check-ins, approved patrol zones."

  "And look how well that's worked out for all of us." Mom's tone is dry, but there's a hint of genuine acknowledgment there. Maybe she's finally accepting that I'm going to do this regardless.

  I return to my homework, managing to solve two more problems before giving up again. My mind keeps circling back to the Daedalus escapees. Seven dangerous supervillains, somewhere in the Northeast. No names, no powers listed, just the ominous "Magnificent Seven" label that some clever reporter felt great about coming up with.

  I think about Belle's notebooks, wondering if any of her old enemies might be among them. I've read enough to know she put away dozens of powered criminals during her career. How many of them ended up in Daedalus? How many might hold grudges?

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The thought follows me as we drive through the familiar streets of Philadelphia, finally turning into our neighborhood as the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Mayfair. After days away, I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, checking in with the team in person, maybe even doing a quick patrol if Mom will allow it.

  We're about a block from our house when Mom suddenly stiffens, her knuckles going white on the steering wheel.

  "What is that doing here?" she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

  I follow her gaze and spot what's got her attention - a massive big rig cab parked on our street, its chrome gleaming in the sunlight. No trailer attached, just the tractor unit taking up way more space than our neighborhood's parking can comfortably accommodate.

  "Someone visiting a neighbor?" I suggest, not understanding why a truck would provoke such a reaction.

  But Mom doesn't respond. She's gone completely pale, her breathing shallow and quick. As we get closer to our house, she slows the car to a crawl, then suddenly makes a sharp U-turn in the middle of the street.

  "Mom? What are you doing?"

  "We're going out for dinner," she says, her voice strangely flat. "To celebrate our victory. Anywhere you want."

  "But we just got home. All our stuff is—"

  "I'll buy you new clothes if necessary," She hisses, her entire body clenched up. "We're not going home right now."

  I stare at her profile, trying to make sense of this bizarre behavior. Mom is not impulsive. Mom does not make U-turns in the middle of residential streets. Mom definitely does not offer to buy entirely new wardrobes on a librarian's salary.

  I turn in my seat to look back at the big rig, now receding behind us. "Mom, whose truck is that?"

  Her hands are trembling on the steering wheel. "It doesn't matter. We're going to dinner, then maybe a hotel for tonight. I'll call your father and--"

  "Mom, stop the car."

  She ignores me, accelerating slightly. We're heading back toward Frankford Avenue now.

  "Mom. Stop. The. Car." I unbuckle my seatbelt for emphasis, and then grab the handle so she knows I'm not fucking around. "Or I swear I will open this door and roll out right now."

  She glances at me in the rearview mirror, sees I'm serious, and finally pulls over to the curb with a soft "Fuck!" The car idles as we sit in tense silence.

  "Whose truck is that?" I ask again.

  Mom stares straight ahead, her hands still gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. "That man," she says finally, the words coming out like they're being physically extracted.

  It takes me a second to process. "But... why is he at our house? Did you invite him?" I ask, dancing around naming the word - grandpa - like it'll kill her if I say it.

  She laughs, a short, harsh sound with no humor in it. "I would sooner invite a rattlesnake."

  "Then why--"

  "I don't know." Her voice is tight with controlled panic. "But nothing good. He doesn't do social calls. He doesn't do family. He doesn't... care about people. At all."

  "He's already inside," I announce more than I ask. "That's why you don't want to go home."

  It's not a question, so I don't need her to answer. And she doesn't.

  "Dad's there too," I remind her. "And he's expecting us. We can't just leave him alone."

  "I'll call him. Tell him to meet us."

  "Mom. Rachel," I shift in my seat to face her directly, trying to put on my Mom voice back at her. "Nobody was in the cab. So either he's on a walk, or he's already in the living room, and if Dad, with a cane, needs to get out, he's going to have to go by him. He can't jump out a window like I can."

  "...Fuck!" Mom shouts, grabbing her hair. I see her wrists visibly straining against her own tendons, trying not to pull in front of her daughter. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

  I try my best not to look disturbed. I'm not sure if I've got it. She buries her face in her hands, so I try to act supportive. Come on, Sam. Rachel voice. What would Rachel say? In... a situation where it was someone else's father, and not hers. "Mom, we just spent three days fighting politicians and winning. Including a lady who I am pretty sure has murdered people before," I squeeze her shoulder gently. "I don't think an old guy is going to pose a real threat. I'll break his legs if he tries anything funny."

  She closes her eyes briefly.

  "Fine," she breathes, though the words clearly cost her. "But Sam, promise me something."

  "What?"

  "If I tell you we need to leave - at any point, for any reason - you don't argue. You just come with me. Immediately."

  The gravity in her voice makes me nod without hesitation. "I promise," I lie.

  Mom takes a deep breath, puts the car in drive, and makes another U-turn in the middle of the road.