The morning hum of Avalon was quieter than usual, and Lorna noticed the difference the moment she stepped through the back door with her usual thermos of black coffee. The air was lighter, not because the shop was busier or calmer—but because Hobbie Brown wasn't behind the counter cracking open the rolling cart or arguing with the mechanical register. The boy, now officially enrolled in a tutoring facility on the other side of Brooklyn, had left a handwritten note on the corkboard next to the staff calendar: "I'll make you proud."
And he was doing just that. The sponsorship John had organized had gone through without a hitch, giving Hobbie access to structured lessons, one-on-one instructors, and more importantly, a future. It was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But it left a vacuum in Avalon's small staff—and Lorna was the only one left to fill it.
She didn't mind. Not really. Even as she finished restocking instant noodles and slipped behind the counter to check the cash drawer, she felt something like warmth at her core. Hobbie was doing the thing she never could.
"Could never be me," she muttered with a smirk, half to herself and half to the memory of those grey school days. "Too many boring teachers, too many lockers slammed shut." She scoffed at the thought, her tone playful as she counted quarters into their tray. "If anyone threw a spitball at me now, I'd magnetize their braces shut."
John, emerging from the back with his usual clipped stride, caught her monologue and chuckled. "Glad to hear you're not bitter at all."
She winked. "What can I say? Growth."
John leaned against the counter for a moment, observing the near-empty bodega. A few regulars passed through during the morning rush—construction workers grabbing breakfast items, a tired mother picking up milk—but otherwise, the place ran quieter without Hobbie's energy filling every corner. Lorna handled it effortlessly, flipping the open/close sign, making change, and throwing casual banter over the counter like she'd owned the place since birth.
"I'm stepping out later," John said eventually. "Got a few places I need to check out."
Lorna raised an eyebrow. "The usual ghost-haunted alleyways or are we doing something productive?"
He smiled faintly. "The first one. Just want to… listen. Catch what's moving underground."
She made a show of sighing. "Fine. Leave the shop in the hands of a high school dropout mutant with a temper. Nothing could go wrong."
He clapped her shoulder as he passed. "Wouldn't trust anyone else."
John's boots echoed off the damp sidewalks as he made his way to a neighborhood he hadn't visited in years—not since the drifting days when he bounced between shelters and odd jobs, sleeping in boiler rooms and half-abandoned rooftops. He knew these streets. The forgotten corners where cigarette smoke clung to your shirt and old men watched the world from behind narrow eyes.
One of those corners housed The Bridge Tap, a bar with no signage and a door that groaned like a warning. Inside, the lights were dim, the wood floors sticky, and the music practically nonexistent. A few patrons nursed their drinks in silence or murmured beneath the television flickering overhead. John slid onto a cracked leather stool, ordered a soda with a twist of lime, and listened.
Behind him, two men in black biker jackets were talking with the bartender, their tone low but heated. John caught snippets between the hum of the ceiling fan.
"…they're spreading…"
"…don't belong here…"
"…mutants taking over our schools…"
On the back of one jacket, in threadbare red: Friends of Humanity.
John's jaw clenched. He kept his eyes on the soda, fingers tightening around the glass. The group had been whispering their way through the cracks of the city lately. He'd heard of them only recently, but here they were—brazen, half-drunk, and eager to scapegoat anyone different.
The bar's television suddenly cut to breaking news. The anchors were flat-voiced but firm.
"U.S. military is opening another recruitment wave for Afghanistan. New incentives offered to first-time enlistees, including bonus payouts and deployment exemptions. Anti-insurgency efforts escalate..."
The screen flashed with bold images—American flags, young men in uniform, propaganda in motion. Some in the bar clapped. Others muttered about foreign enemies and traitors. John finished his drink and signaled for a refill, though he hadn't touched the first.
At the edge of the bar, a ragged man with a beer-stained cap leaned closer to his friend and muttered something that caught John's ear.
"Another one gone. Fifth this week. They say they're just disappearing, man. Homeless folk, mostly. Nobody gives a damn."
His friend said nothing. The silence said more than enough.
John turned his head, brow furrowed. Five missing? No reports on the news beyond the vague clip two nights ago. No updates from precincts. Just silence swallowing the forgotten.
He left a tip for the untouched drink and slipped out before the sun fully set.
He returned to Avalon just after nine. Lorna was closing the register, humming under her breath. She looked up when he entered, expression turning serious at the look on his face.
"Trouble?"
He nodded. "Anti-mutant hate group's crawling in the open. They're getting louder."
She moved to stand with him by the counter. "What else?"
"War talk on the news. And people disappearing. Five homeless this week. No one's making noise."
She shook her head slowly. "Sounds like it's starting again."
Before he could answer, the store's landline rang—a shrill tone breaking the air. John reached for it quickly.
"Yeah?"
It was Bob.
"Meet me at Danny's," he said. "Now. We've got a location."
John's spine stiffened. "Confirmed?"
"Confirmed," Bob said. "They're planning to hit a neighborhood."
"I'll be there."
He turned to Lorna. "Hold the shop. Keep everything powered tonight. Shutters, sensors, shields."
She didn't ask questions. Just nodded and moved to the back to activate the night defense systems.
Danny's dojo was lit dimly by a single paper lantern. Bob was already there, pacing in a slow arc, the Tiger Medallion tucked beneath his shirt. Danny sat calmly before the golden dragon mural, his presence a steady weight in the space.
"They've chosen a target," Danny said without preamble.
John stepped forward. "Where?"
Danny turned over a folded paper—scribbled with street names and a marked circle.
John stared at it, his mind tugging at the familiarity.
"They plan to attack within forty-eight hours. This isn't recon anymore—it's the real thing. We strike first. Take them out before they can hurt anyone else."
Bob stood beside him, quiet but resolved.
John's mouth was dry. He traced the neighborhood with his eyes. And then, his heart dropped.
"I know this place," he said slowly. "That's… that's where Hobbie lives."
The room fell into a stunned silence. Danny bowed his head. "Then we move quickly."
John closed his fists. "He doesn't even know. His family—his siblings—"
Bob placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we protect them."
John looked at them both, the decision forming behind his eyes. The weight of the medallion. The silence of the missing. The promise Avalon had come to represent.
Tomorrow, they would move.
But tonight, the storm built just beyond the walls.