KASPER
Three days. Still watching. Question was why they hadn't moved.
Kasper crouched behind his bedroom curtains, field glasses trained on the brass-fitted Chrysler parked across the street. Steam wisped from its modified exhaust ports like dragon's breath while two men in wool overcoats maintained their vigil. Professional surveillance—eight-hour shifts, different vehicles, always two observers with military-grade optics.
The coal smoke from their idling boiler mixed with automobile exhaust, creating the familiar industrial haze that blanketed San Juan most mornings. His enhanced hearing caught every sound—camera shutters clicking, leather creaking as the men shifted positions, the mechanical heartbeat of pressure valves cycling.
"Kasper?" Isabella's voice from his doorway, careful and questioning. "You missed breakfast. Again."
"Wasn't hungry." He kept the glasses focused on the street. "Auburn this time. License plate starting 'M-7.'"
Isabella rolled into his room without invitation, her wheelchair's brass fittings catching the morning light filtering through industrial smog. The sight of tactical gear spread across his bed—KS23 shotgun field-stripped for cleaning, ammunition sorted by type, enhancement maintenance kit—made her motors whine to a stop.
"Maybe they're just... watching. Not everyone who pays attention wants to kill you."
"Costa del Sol taught me different." Kasper finally turned from the window, noting the dark circles under his sister's eyes, the way her hands trembled on her controls. "Surveillance means someone's picking targets. Question is what they're waiting for."
"Maybe they're waiting for you to do something stupid." Isabella's voice carried the sharp edge she got when engineering problems had too many variables. "Like start a war in our own neighborhood."
The radiator clanged like gunfire, making Kasper's hand twitch toward his weapon before he caught himself. Three days of this—every sound potentially hostile, every shadow a threat assessment. His enhanced senses were designed for battlefields, not family homes.
"Bella." He set down his field glasses. "If this goes bad—"
"Don't." She held up one grease-stained hand. "No contingency plans. Just tell me what you're actually gonna do."
Through the wall, the Philco radio crackled with morning news—President Hoover's latest economic promises, stock reports from Wall Street, the comfortable lies of people who didn't live under surveillance.
"Marco Moretti wants a meeting," Kasper said finally. "Maybe it's time to find out what he actually wants."
"Talk instead of violence?" Isabella's voice held desperate hope. "What a revolutionary concept."
MARCO
The mirror told the truth about damage.
Marco catalogued his injuries with the clinical detachment his father had taught him for business assessments—yellowing bruises where enhanced fingers had left their mark, the careful shallow breathing to avoid triggering pain in cracked ribs. Three days of healing had improved the visible damage, but the lesson remained carved into his bones.
He'd been reduced to gasping helplessness by someone who'd been holding back.
"You look like hell warmed over," Camila said from his bedroom doorway, carrying coffee that smelled like salvation and wearing the determined expression he'd learned meant serious conversation incoming.
"Feel worse." Marco accepted the cup, ceramic warm against his palms. "But thinking clearer now."
"Clear enough to explain why you want to meet the man who nearly killed you?"
Marco moved to his window, looking out at San Juan's morning bustle. Steam cars chugged alongside horse-drawn delivery wagons, the city caught between centuries like everything else in New Karenan. Coal smoke mixed with the scent of fresh bread from bakeries that still used wood-fired ovens. Normal people living normal lives while his family and hers played dangerous games.
"Because this surveillance isn't solving anything." His ribs protested as he gestured toward the street. "It's making everyone more paranoid. Camila, your mother had a panic attack yesterday. Your brother's cleaning weapons like he expects a siege."
"Someone else gets hurt," she finished quietly.
"Someone else gets hurt." Marco's reflection caught the morning light, showing scars that would probably never fully fade. "I'm tired of being the reason families can't feel safe."
Camila sat on his bed, coffee steaming between her hands. "What makes you think he'll listen?"
"Because monsters don't avoid public places to protect civilians. Monsters don't change their routines to minimize collateral damage." Marco turned back to face her. "He could've killed me in seconds. Instead he sent a message about boundaries."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then at least I tried being better than the man who provoked him." Marco's voice carried new conviction. "Your brother protected his family the only way he knew. Time I protected mine by making peace."
Heavy footsteps in the hallway announced Vincenzo's approach. His father entered without knocking—privilege of ownership that Marco was beginning to question.
"Surveillance teams report no change in target behavior," Vincenzo said, settling into the reading chair with newspaper precision. "Maintains defensive postures but shows no offensive preparation."
"Because he's not planning to attack anyone," Marco said. "Papá, he's protecting his family from us."
"You base this on what? Three days of psychological observation?" Vincenzo's voice carried thirty years of managing dangerous men. "Marco, that individual is a precision instrument of death. His restraint doesn't make him safe."
"Then let me talk to him. Find out what he wants instead of assuming."
"Absolutely not."
"Why?" Authority crept into Marco's voice despite his injuries. "Because you're afraid I'll get hurt? Or because you're afraid I might be right?"
Vincenzo was quiet for a long moment, businessman's instincts warring with paternal protection. Finally, he folded his newspaper with sharp creases.
"If I arrange this, you go unarmed. No backup, no observers. Just conversation between civilized men."
"And if he kills me?"
"Then we'll know exactly what we're dealing with." Vincenzo's smile was winter steel. "But I suspect we'll learn something more interesting."
CARMEN
Coffee sloshed over Carmen's knuckles as her hands shook—hands that had stayed steady through twenty years of nursing finally betraying her.
The scalding liquid mixed with tears she couldn't seem to stop, burning against skin that felt raw from three days of accumulated stress. She'd been scrubbing the same plate for ten minutes, needing something to do while her mind raced through impossible scenarios.
The kitchen radio played soft música romántica while steam from the morning dishes fogged the window where she used to watch Kasper play stickball. Now that same window felt like a vulnerability, another angle for surveillance teams to observe their family falling apart.
"Mami?" Isabella's voice from the doorway, careful and questioning. "Can we talk?"
Carmen dried her hands on her apron, the rough cotton catching on skin made tender by too much scrubbing. Isabella looked exhausted—grease stains on her work clothes, brass wheelchair fittings dulled from nervous polishing, the telltale signs of someone working too hard to avoid thinking.
"¿Qué pasa, mija?"
"It's about Kasper. About this whole mess." Isabella rolled closer, her motors humming with anxiety. "I think we're handling this wrong."
"How do you mean?"
"We're treating him like a patient who needs fixing, or a problem requiring solution." Isabella paused, choosing words with engineer's precision. "But maybe he's not broken. Maybe he's just different now, and we need to learn how to love the person he became."
Carmen sank into her kitchen chair, the weight of observation settling on her shoulders like lead. "Isabella, when I look at him sometimes... I don't see my son. I see a stranger wearing his face."
"Then maybe you need to get to know the stranger."
"And if I don't like who he's become?"
"Then at least you'll know the truth instead of living with fear." Isabella reached across the small space between them. "Mami, he's upstairs planning how to protect us. Thinking about our safety every minute, even when we treat him like a threat."
The telephone's shrill ring cut through the morning quiet like a blade. Carmen answered on the second ring, her voice steadier than her hands.
"¿Diga?"
"Mrs. de la Fuente? This is Marco Moretti." The young man's voice was formal but respectful, carrying the careful pronunciation of someone trying not to sound threatening. "I'd like to request a meeting with your son. To apologize, and to discuss how our families might move forward."
Carmen felt her heart stop, then restart with painful intensity. "Marco, that might not be safe. For you."
"Mrs. de la Fuente, I was wrong to provoke him. Wrong to treat his trauma like a character defect." The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. "I'd like the chance to make that right, if he's willing."
"And if he's not willing to listen?"
"Then at least I'll have tried being better than the man who started this mess." Marco's voice carried genuine conviction. "Could you ask him? Please?"
Carmen looked at Isabella, seeing her own desperate hope reflected in her daughter's eyes.
"I'll ask," she said finally. "But Marco? Come alone. And remember that my son has very good reasons not to trust people right now."
"I understand. Thank you, Mrs. de la Fuente."
After hanging up, Carmen stared at the telephone like it might ring again with worse news.
"What did you tell him?" Isabella asked.
"That I'd ask." Carmen stood, gathering courage she'd been saving for emergencies. "Time to find out if your brother remembers how to have conversations instead of confrontations."
VINCENZO
The surveillance photographs told a story more complex than simple threat assessment.
"Day three, 1400 hours," Torres reported, settling into the leather chair across from Vincenzo's mahogany desk. The afternoon light filtering through industrial smog cast everything in sepia tones, like photographs from another era. "Target maintains consistent defensive patterns—weapons maintenance, perimeter observation, tactical planning behaviors."
"Preparation for offensive action or protective measures?"
"Hard to determine. He's clearly aware of our presence, but no counter-surveillance attempts." Torres tapped one photograph with a calloused finger. "This is interesting—he's modified daily routines to avoid civilian areas. Market, church, anywhere families gather."
Vincenzo studied the images with thirty years of experience reading dangerous men, the scent of leather and tobacco smoke lingering in his office like the ghosts of a thousand negotiations. Kasper de la Fuente looked like a weapon maintaining itself—precise, controlled, coiled for action. But the careful avoidance of public spaces suggested something else entirely.
"He's protecting others from himself," Vincenzo realized. "Not preparing to attack—preparing to contain collateral damage if we attack."
"Should we interpret that as weakness or intelligence?"
"Wisdom." Vincenzo set the photos aside, moving to his office window. Outside, San Juan moved at its own pace—steam cars navigating between horse-drawn carts, the city caught between industrial progress and traditional ways. "How's the family responding?"
"Mother's stress increasing daily. Sister working excessive hours to avoid situation. Both following modified routines—less predictable schedules, avoiding isolation." Torres consulted his notes. "They know we're watching."
"And adapting appropriately." The afternoon air carried the scent of coal smoke mixed with ocean salt, the familiar combination of industry and nature that defined their island home. "Your assessment of threat level?"
Torres was quiet for a moment, choosing words with the care of someone who'd survived by reading situations correctly. "If pushed, he could eliminate our surveillance teams in under two minutes. Probably our backup units too. But he's choosing restraint."
"Because he's not the monster we expected," Vincenzo said quietly. "He's a soldier trying to remember how to be human."
A knock interrupted their discussion. Marco entered, moving under his own power but still favoring his healing ribs. Three days of recovery had improved his physical condition, but something in his eyes had fundamentally changed—hardened into adult understanding of consequences.
"Papá, I've made a decision about the surveillance."
"Which is?"
"It ends today. I'm meeting with Kasper de la Fuente to apologize and find out what both families need to feel safe." Marco's voice carried new authority. "With or without your blessing."
Vincenzo studied his son, noting changes that went beyond physical healing. The boy who'd provoked an enhanced veteran out of casual arrogance was gone, replaced by someone who understood that actions carried consequences.
"Marco, he could kill you before you finished your first sentence."
"He could've killed me three days ago. Instead he taught me about respect." Marco straightened despite obvious discomfort. "I was wrong. About him, about the situation, about what it means to take responsibility."
"And if he's not interested in forgiveness?"
"Then I'll know I tried being better than the person who started this." Marco moved toward the door. "But I'm done hiding behind surveillance teams. Time to face what I did directly."
Torres cleared his throat diplomatically. "Sir, if I may—direct communication might yield better intelligence than continued observation."
Vincenzo was quiet for a long moment, weighing family honor against practical wisdom. Finally, he nodded curtly.
"Very well. But Marco?" He fixed his son with a stare that had intimidated grown men. "You go alone, unarmed, and you remember that some mistakes can't be undone."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because if this goes wrong, if he decides you're a permanent threat, I won't be able to protect you."
Marco's smile was grim but genuine. "Papá, the best protection I can give this family is proving we're capable of making peace instead of maintaining war."
KASPER
The family meeting started with good intentions and ended with everything on fire.
Carmen had set the table with her best china—the wedding set from Abuela Rosa that only came out for special occasions. The afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, casting delicate shadows on porcelain that had survived three generations of careful handling.
"This needs to stop," Carmen began, her voice carrying three days of accumulated stress. "The watching, the weapons, treating everyone like potential enemies. Kasper, you're scaring your own family."
"I'm protecting my own family." Kasper kept his tone level, but Isabella could see tension coiling in his shoulders like a spring under pressure. "Those men outside aren't tourists."
"So we talk to them. Find out what they want." Isabella positioned her wheelchair between mother and brother, trying to create a buffer zone. "Marco Moretti called. Wants to meet, to apologize."
"It's a trap."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's a chance to end this before someone else gets hurt." Carmen leaned forward, her nurse training reading stress signals in her son's carefully controlled posture. "Mijo, you can't fight the whole world."
"Fought most of Costa del Sol. Worked out fine."
"This isn't Costa del Sol!" The words exploded from Carmen with months of accumulated fear. "This is home! This is family! This is supposed to be where you feel safe!"
The porcelain teacup rattled against its saucer as Carmen's hands finally betrayed twenty years of nursing steadiness. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence, like glass breaking in a cathedral.
Kasper went very still, his enhanced senses cataloguing threat levels and defensive positions out of pure instinct. "Safe. Right."
"Kasper, that's not what I—"
"Simple question, Mami." His voice was quiet, dangerous. "Do you feel safer when I'm in the room, or when I'm not?"
The silence stretched like a taut wire. Through the walls, the radio played evening música romántica while normal families lived normal lives. Isabella's wheelchair motors whined to a stop as even she held her breath.
"Sometimes," Carmen whispered, the words barely audible, "I don't know which son is going to come downstairs. The one who helped me with groceries, or the one who can kill people with his bare hands."
"There's only one son now." Kasper's voice was final, carrying the weight of two hundred thirty-seven confirmed kills and a year of necessary violence. "Question is whether this family can love him, or whether he needs to find somewhere else to be human."
Isabella felt the moment crystallizing, the conversation reaching a cliff edge where words would either build bridges or burn them completely.
"Then let us try," she said quickly, her engineer's mind calculating emotional variables. "Let Marco come. See if conversation works better than surveillance. If it goes wrong, if he threatens any of us, then you handle it however you need to. But give peace one chance."
Kasper looked at his mother, at his sister, at the kitchen where he'd eaten breakfast before his first day of school seventeen years ago. The same table where Carmen had helped him with arithmetic, where Isabella had explained gear ratios, where normal childhood had happened before enhancement ports and government training.
"One chance," he said finally. "But it happens here. Our ground, our rules. And if he makes one wrong move..."
"Then you protect us," Carmen finished, her voice steadier now. "Like you always have."
Outside, the Moretti surveillance maintained their posts, steam engines idling in the evening air, unaware that tomorrow would bring conversation instead of continued watching.
The radio played on, filling the silence with music that sounded almost like hope.
For better or worse, the families were about to discover if peace was possible between people who'd forgotten how to trust each other.