I stood in the hallway, staring at the ceiling while the four of them waited for my explanation. My mind was working through probabilities, running scenarios the way Strategist would have helped me do if I wasn't so exhausted that even thinking felt like wading through mud.

Elliot.

Would he accept us?

I thought back to how we'd met. He'd been a fan of Mr. Angel—the persona I'd used during my astronaut days. Had looked up to that masked figure who'd somehow made it to Mars and back. When I'd encountered him in Europe while playing Mr. Jester, trying to save Evelyn, he'd been starstruck despite the different persona.

Then we'd found Anika. A victim of the Cain Protocol like Evelyn would soon become. A young woman whose brain had been rewired to see certain me as a threat, to attack on sight without conscious control.

Elliot had helped. Had been kind to her when she needed it most. Had shown a capacity for compassion that reminded me why I was fighting in the first place.

And when I'd finally revealed my identity—when Mr. Jester's mask came off and Reynard Vale stood there—he'd been shocked to know that Mr. Angel and Mr. Jester are the same people but he was understanding. We'd split up after that. Him taking Anika to his family's farm in Eastern Europe. Me continuing to search for Evelyn, who I'd eventually find as a subject of the protocol herself.

I'd kept very loose tabs on him since then. Knew he was still at that farm with his extended family. Knew Anika was living with them, but that's about it.

Would he take us in? Five people, all basically fugitives wanted globally?

The farm was perfect logistically. Remote. Eastern Europe, far from the immediate media circus. A place where being spotted would be unlikely. Where we could actually rest and recover without constant pressure.

But would Elliot see it that way? Or would he see it as bringing danger to his family? To Anika, who was still fragile and who he undoubtedly cared about?

I thought about his personality. Compassionate. Principled. The kind of person who'd help a stranger because it was right, not because it benefited him.

Yeah. He'd accept us. Might complain about it. Might worry about the risk. But he'd accept us.

"I think we can trust Elliot," I said finally, looking at each of them. "He's a good person. And he owes me for helping with Anika. More importantly, his family's farm is remote enough that we won't be spotted easily. It's not glamorous, but it's safe."

"Eastern Europe," Evelyn said thoughtfully. "That's… actually brilliant. Far enough from the immediate chaos. Close enough to our European contacts if we need them. And rural enough that media attention won't follow."

"Assuming we can get there without being followed," Alexis pointed out.

That was the problem. Getting from our penthouse—surrounded by hostile crowds and media—to Eastern Europe without anyone noticing. We couldn't just walk out the front door. Couldn't take a car that would be tracked.

Camille stood abruptly, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as an idea clearly struck her. "I've got this covered."

She headed toward her office, that manic creative energy taking over despite her obvious fatigue.

"Camille, wait—" Sienna started.

But the door had already closed.

We sat in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of Camille working. Fabric rustling. The hum of her sewing machines. Occasional muttered curses when something didn't work the first time.

"She's going to use her job title again," Alexis said with disapproval. "We already have Rey who's exhausted. The last thing we need is someone else to be tired too."

"She knows that," Evelyn replied. "But she's also the only one who can solve this particular problem."

An hour passed. We waited in the bedroom, occasionally making small talk but mostly just existing in nervous silence. The sounds from Camille's office continued—intense work happening at a pace that shouldn't be sustainable.

Finally, the door opened.

Camille emerged, and she looked worse than I felt. Her dark hair was disheveled, her eyes bloodshot, her movements unsteady. But she was smiling—that manic, satisfied smile of a creator who'd accomplished something impossible.

In her arms were five outfits.

"Ta-da," she said weakly, spreading them across the couch.

I forced myself out of bed, my body protesting but Superior Endurance making it possible. Moved closer to examine what she'd created.

They were… perfect.

Each outfit was completely different but shared a common philosophy: average. Forgettable. The kind of clothing that made you blend into any crowd without a second glance.

For Sienna, a simple traveling outfit—comfortable pants, a plain jacket, a scarf that could partially cover her face without looking suspicious. Nothing that drew the eye. Nothing that suggested wealth or importance.

For Alexis, business casual that looked professional but generic. The kind of thing a thousand people wore every day in airports and train stations. Perfectly unremarkable.

For Evelyn, something similar but with subtle differences that matched her body type and movement patterns. Still completely forgettable.

For me, the most complex—because my face was now globally recognized. A hooded jacket with the hood designed to shadow features without looking deliberately concealing. Glasses that somehow changed the shape of my face. Layering that made my build less distinctive.

And for Camille herself, something that made her wild energy seem subdued. Muted colors. Conservative cut. Everything designed to make her fade into backgrounds instead of commanding attention.

But it was more than just good design. I could feel something emanating from the clothes. Not obviously. Not like magic or a forcefield. Just… a subtle influence. An emotional suggestion.

These people are boring. Ordinary. Not worth remembering.

"Your job title," I said, understanding. "You're not just making clothes that look average. You're making clothes that make people feel average when they look at us."

Camille nodded weakly. "Every skill at level ten. Including the one's that allow emotional manipulation through design. These outfits will make us effectively invisible in crowded spaces. People's eyes will just… slide past us. We'll register as background noise."

"That's incredible," Sienna breathed.

"That's exhausting," Camille corrected, swaying slightly.

I moved quickly, catching her before she could collapse. Lifted her into my arms despite my own exhaustion and injuries protesting the effort.

She looked up at me with that teasing expression I knew well. "My hero. So strong. So capable. Totally not about to drop me."

"I'm not going to drop you," I said, managing a small smile despite everything.

"You better not. These clothes are masterpieces and I refuse to be dropped while wearing lesser work."

I carried her to the couch, laying her down carefully. She immediately curled into a ball, her body demanding rest after what she'd just put it through.

Evelyn examined the outfits more closely, her evaluator instincts cataloging every detail. "These will work. With these, we can move through public spaces without being recognized. The emotional manipulation aspect is subtle enough that it won't trigger suspicion but strong enough to be effective."

"The problem is getting to the airport," Alexis pointed out. "The building is still surrounded. Not as bad as before, but enough that leaving will be noticed."

"We use service exits," Evelyn said. "Maintenance corridors. The building has them for staff and deliveries. We can slip out through those while wearing the outfits, blend into foot traffic, and make our way to the airport separately."

"Separately?" Sienna asked.

"If we all leave together, even in these outfits, there's a higher chance of being spotted," Evelyn explained. "We stagger our departures. Meet at the airport. Travel on different tickets but the same flight."

"And we can't take a private plane," Alexis added. "The crowds are too aware of our movements. A private plane would be tracked immediately, reported to media, followed to its destination. We need to take a public airline. Blend in with hundreds of other travelers."

Nobody looked excited about that prospect. Commercial flights meant security lines, crowds, potential recognition despite the outfits, and hours of being in public spaces with nowhere to hide if something went wrong.

But it was the only option that made sense.

"When?" I asked.

"We wait for Camille to recover," Sienna said, glancing at the fashion designer who was already half-asleep on the couch. "Let her rest from the job title usage. Then we head out to Eastern Europe."

"How long?" Evelyn asked.

Sienna looked at Camille, then at me—both of us clearly exhausted from our respective job title usage. "Tomorrow evening at the earliest. Gives us both time to recover enough to travel. Gives Evelyn time to book the flights and arrange logistics. Gives all of us time to prepare mentally for what comes next."

"Tomorrow evening," Evelyn confirmed, already pulling out her phone to start making arrangements. "I'll book separate tickets on the same flight. Stagger the departure times by thirty minutes each. We meet at the gate, board separately, sit separately, and don't acknowledge each other until we've landed safely."

"And if something goes wrong?" Alexis asked.

"Then we improvise," I said, my voice tired but firm. "Like we always do."

They all looked at me—checking to see if I was really okay, really functional enough for this.

I wasn't. Not really. My body was damaged, my mind was fractured from grief and betrayal, and my System was only just coming back online.

But we didn't have the luxury of waiting until I was fully recovered. The situation demanded movement. Demanded escape.

So we'd move. We'd escape. We'd get to Eastern Europe and Elliot's farm.

And then… then we'd figure out how to fight back against Mark's narrative. How to reclaim what we'd built. How to prove that I wasn't just my father's son.

But first, we had to survive long enough to try.

"Tomorrow evening," I agreed. "We go to Eastern Europe."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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