I watched him.
Because for all the years I'd hated him, for all the resentment I'd carried like armor, I'd never seen him like this.
Broken.
Human.
When they zipped the bag closed, something in his expression crumpled and smoothed all at once—like he was closing a chapter he'd been trying to rewrite for thirty years.
We loaded into the helicopter in silence. Victoria between us. The weight of her small, ruined body pressing down on all of us in ways that had nothing to do with physics.
The flight back felt longer than it was.
I kept replaying it. Her hand moving. The gun appearing. The calm in her voice when she'd told me to take care of Joy.
I hope you're a better man than your father.
I glanced at Dad.
He stared out the window, jaw tight, hands folded in his lap like he was praying or trying not to fall apart.
I didn't know him well enough to tell the difference.
But tonight—tonight I'd gotten a deeper look into who he was. Who he'd been. Who he'd become.
Softer. More empathetic.
Still carrying the weight of choices made decades ago.
I didn't know yet if I could trust him.
But I understood him better.
And maybe that was enough for now.
When we touched down at Dominion Hall, the lawn was lit up like a command center.
People everywhere. My brothers. The Charleston Danes. Silas coordinating logistics with the kind of calm that said he'd done this before.
I didn't wait.
I went straight inside, searching.
Joy.
I found her in one of the sitting rooms, wrapped in a blanket, Portia beside her with a hand on her shoulder. Other women hovered nearby—faces I recognized from passing moments.
Joy looked up when I entered, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.
"Micah," she said, standing immediately.
I crossed to her, pulling her into my arms without thinking.
She went rigid for a second, then melted.
"I have to tell you something," I said quietly, my mouth against her hair.
She pulled back just enough to see my face. "What?"
