"¡OOOOOYE!" Diego Ramírez shouted, rubbing his bare biceps with his hands as broken glass crunched under their sneakers past an abandoned pawn shop. "You missed one hell of a check-up today, hermano."

His breath clouded in the darkness, and his lips had started to turn purple from the cold.

"How'd it go?” Lance's attention snapped toward Diego. “Everything okay?"

"Well, first of all, Dr. Patel was looking incredible in that lab coat. And she actually touched my leg! Not in that way, but still." The shiver in Diego's voice wasn't entirely from swooning - he'd insisted on wearing his lucky Real Madrid jersey over a thin t-shirt despite the December cold.

"Come on, Diego... seriously, did she figure out what's causing the pain?"

"Hear me out first - I know she's not your type, but you've known her since the arma trials started. Sooo hook your boy up with some intel."

“Do you want her to help you or not?”

"Fine, but speaking of types... you and Vicky though—"

"Stop. With NARS turning people into ‘Great Value superheroes,’ dating isn't exactly a priority."

"Man, why you gotta be like that? Olvídate,” Diego sighed. “Since you asked - my leg's getting way worse."

"Worse how? I thought you said it wasn’t as bad as before."

"Like, can barely do leg day worse. Dr. Patel said arma’s not supposed to mess with muscles like this. So now I'm getting every test imaginable, hermano. X-rays, MRI, the works.”

“And?”

“Nada yet. I don’t get the results until tomorrow. I'm telling you - something's not right. It's like... like my muscles are rewiring themselves or something.”

"That's not how muscles work."

"¡Exacto! That's what freaks me out. Used to crush five plates on squats, now I can barely walk some mornings."

“Hmm. Although…”

“What are you thinking?” Diego asked.

"My system's calling it Adaptive Limbs... maybe that's exactly how they're meant to work." Lance ran a hand over his chin. "Weird thing is, I've got like twelve percent of what you have, and I haven't felt anything."

"I don’t know, man. Also, my quads are getting massive again, like peak training massive. And I haven't touched a weight since the wheelchair."

"Yeah, that's definitely concerning."

"I’m telling you, something's gotta give," Diego said as they approached the community center doors. "Either I forget about gains, or I buy all new pants."

Lance snorted. "Your problems are so unique."

"Hey, you try finding jeans when your quads are the size of—" Diego stopped mid-sentence, grabbing Lance's arm.

Voices leaked through the gymnasium doors. One belonged to Dr. Rodriguez, but her usual calm tone had an edge Lance had never heard before.

"...can't keep ignoring this," she was saying. "Three more this week alone."

Diego shot Lance a look. They crept closer to the door, which stood slightly ajar.

"No, listen to me." A pause. "If they find out what's really happening, we'll lose everything we've built." Dr. Rodriguez's voice shook. "The authorities are already—no, you don't understand. These people trust me."

Lance's enhanced hearing picked up papers rustling, the sharp clicks of heels on hardwood.

"I don't care about protocol!" Her voice rose. "They're dying, and we're just—" She broke off. More pacing. "Fine. Yes. But if one more person disappears, I'm going public. I mean it this time."

Diego mouthed 'what the fuck' at Lance.

A chair scraped inside. "Tomorrow at noon. Okay. And please… don’t bring anyone."

'Click.'

Lance grabbed Diego's sleeve and yanked him back from the door. They scrambled away just as Dr. Rodriguez's footsteps approached.

"Shit, shit, shit," Diego whispered, nearly tripping over his own feet.

They made it halfway down the hall before the gym door opened. Lance forced his breathing to steady, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He tapped Diego's elbow twice and raised his voice to an unnatural level. "Man, I can't believe Jordan squatted six plates yesterday. That's insane."

"YES, SPORTS!" Diego practically shouted back.

"Oh!" Dr. Rodriguez's voice came from behind them. "Lance, Diego. You're early."

They turned. She stood in the doorway, perfectly composed save for a slight tremor in her hands as she straightened her blazer.

"Traffic was light," Lance said with a shrug.

"Yeah, w-weird day," Diego added, scratching the back of his neck. "Nobody on the roads."

Dr. Rodriguez smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Well, come on in. Help me set up the chairs?"

As they followed her into the gym, Lance caught Diego's eye. His friend's face said it all: What the hell did we just walk into?

He headed for the neatly arranged row of metal folding chairs, and Diego broke away to the beverage station, arranging cups and napkins while sneaking sips of coffee between tasks.

Dying. Disappearing. Going public. Dr. Rodriguez’s phone conversation rollercoastered through his thoughts as he grabbed another chair.

Mitsuki had asked about Dr. Rodriguez earlier. Is she a suspect too? Lance moved his head in refusal. Two weeks of support group meetings had shown him one thing: Dr. Rodriguez genuinely wanted to help them. Didn't she?

He was still wrestling with that thought when the gymnasium doors swung open.

Lance looked up to see Rick sauntering through the double doors, his usual easy smile in place. But there was something off about it—a tightness around the eyes, a slight hesitation in his step.

"Lance, my man!" Rick called out, his voice carrying that theatrical projection that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. "Good to see you up and about. I was starting to worry."

Lance set down the chair he was holding and arranged his features into a smile. "Hey, Rick. Just helping set up."

The drama teacher crossed the room, clapping Lance on the shoulder. His grip lingered a moment too long. "How are you feeling? Any... side effects from your recent, ah, acquisition?"

Lance's muscles tensed involuntarily. The black substance—Morphoplasm—shifted beneath his skin, as if responding to Rick's words. "I'm fine," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Why do you ask?"

Rick's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just looking out for a friend. You know how it is with these new abilities. Never know what might pop up."

Pop up. The phrase froze Lance's blood with sudden awareness. One ability down, two to go. Black goop was next. He needed this to be more than just a tumor sprouting from his shoulder.

"I appreciate the concern,” Lance said. “But really, I'm good. No unforeseen consequences so far."

"Glad to hear it." Rick's gaze swept over Lance, as if searching for some visible sign of change. "You know, I've seen what happens when people rush into embracing new powers. It's not always pretty."

Lance's heart rate picked up. What did Rick know? Was he fishing for information, or genuinely concerned?

"I'm being careful," Lance said. "Taking it slow, you know?"

Rick dipped his chin, his expression softening. "Smart man. That's why I like you, Lance. You've got a good head on your shoulders."

"Thanks," he managed. "I try."

Rick surveyed the room, then lowered his voice. "Listen, if you ever need someone to talk to about all this—someone who gets it—I'm here. Day or night."

The offer hung in the air. Lance watched Rick, trying to spot any lies. Is he really part of the club? Then again, his help last night had gotten them out of trouble. Still...

"I appreciate that," he said finally. "Same goes for you."

A few regulars trickled in, finding their usual spots. Elena checked her watch and called out, "We'll start in five, everyone."

Rick tilted his head, squinting at Lance's face. "Something's eating at you."

"Just thinking how to go about Morphoplasm." The thought stumbled from his lips unplanned.

"Care to explain?" Rick gestured for him to continue.

"The black mass. I can move it. But then it's like it gets angry."

"Ah. From what you're describing... I think you might be approaching it wrong. Maybe stop fighting the chaos."

"What, just let it do whatever it wants?" Lance asked.

"Think of it like improv. Yes, and..." Rick gestured with his hands. "Flow with it."

"This isn't exactly community theater."

"No, but the principle stands. Control through surrender."

Lance rubbed his shoulder. "That makes zero sense."

"It’s how I’ve controlled all of my abilities. Trust me, it works. Try it. Next time, don't resist. Dance with it."

"Please never say that again." Lance pulled back, nose wrinkling.

Rick's advice wasn't completely crazy. Lance had seen him use his abilities - they could heal. He'd fixed a cut on Wren's forearm during group one time, and last night he'd kept that dead arma user alive… kept a dead person alive. That sentence made his brain hurt. No, soothe, that's what Rick had called it. Lance had thought his powers would be like that when he first got them. Great job there, universe. Instead of helping people, I got power theft and mind control. Straight out of the villain's handbook.

"Give it a try," Rick said, grinning.

"Now?" Lance stiffened.

“Sure, we still have a couple of minutes.”

Lance hesitated, glancing around the room. Most of the group members were still milling about, chatting or grabbing coffee. He turned back to Rick, who was waiting expectantly.

For science! his inner voice grumbled.

"Fine," Lance muttered. "What do I do?"

"Alright, first things first. Close your eyes and take a deep breath."

Reluctantly, Lance complied. He felt ridiculous standing there with his eyes shut, but he had to admit he was curious.

"Now," Rick's voice came low and smooth, "I want you to imagine the black mass as a living thing. Not just a substance, but an entity with its own desires and fears."

Lance rubbed his ear. "That's... unsettling."

"Just go with it. Picture it moving, pulsing. Can you feel it?"

He could. The Morphoplasm seemed to respond as Rick spoke, shifting beneath Lance's skin.

"Good. Now, I want you to raise your right arm, slowly. As you do, invite the mass to flow with the movement."

Lance lifted his arm, focusing on the sensation of the mass on his back. To his surprise, he felt it begin to move, sliding along his shoulder and down his bicep.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

"Excellent!" The pitch of Rick's tone lifted as he raced through the next set of instructions. "Now, let's try something a little more... dramatic."

Lance opened his eyes. "Dramatic?"

"Trust me. I want you to act out a scene for me. You're a ship captain in a storm, fighting to keep control of the wheel."

"You can't be serious."

"Deadly. Come on, give it your all!"

Embarrassment and heat and shame flooded Lance's cheeks. He looked around, relieved to see that most people were still preoccupied. Taking a deep breath, he planted his feet and gripped an imaginary wheel.

"The wind howls!" Rick narrated. "Waves crash over the deck! You're losing control!"

Lance gritted his teeth, twisting his body like he had in that senior year production of Our Town, where his 'natural performance' had won praise he didn't want - because he wasn't acting, just being his awkward self on sta—

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To his amazement, the tumor responded, flowing across his torso and down his arms.

"That's it!" Rick encouraged. "Now, here comes the big one! A massive wave, about to capsize the ship!"

Lance threw himself into the role, letting out a guttural yell as he mimed being thrown against the railing. The blob of tar surged under his skin, thinning itself, spreading across his entire upper body.

Exhilarated.

Rick leaned in close. "Now, I want you to let go. Give yourself to the storm."

Lance's muscles locked up. Every instinct screamed at him to maintain control. But Rick's philosophy from earlier cut through his doubts: Control through surrender.

Eyes shut. One breath. And... let go.

The sensation was indescribable. The dark mass pulsed and flowed beneath his flesh, leaving trails of weightlessness wherever it passed."

Then, slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. The black substance retreated, settling back into its usual spot on his shoulder.

He blinked back to awareness, panting slightly. Rick stood before him, beaming.

"That," Rick said, "was incredible."

He couldn't disagree, but the more he analyzed the experience, the more his initial triumph soured. Morphoplasm responded to raw instinct, to surrendering control - while Energy Cycling demanded the opposite. Every time he circulated energy through his meridians, he needed absolute focus, precise control over each pathway and flow. It was like trying to direct traffic while sleepwalking. The more he understood each power, the more certain he became that using both simultaneously was beyond him.

Lance studied his palms, testing each finger in turn. "It… it felt so easy."

"Sometimes we need to step outside our comfort zone to truly understand our abilities. Lance, I want you to try one more scene for me. This one might be... intense,” Rick said with a lift of his chin.

Lance nodded, still riding the high of his newfound control. "Okay. What is it?"

"I want you to imagine a moment when you felt completely powerless. A time when everything was spinning out of control, and you couldn't do anything to stop it."

Lance almost laughed - this was like printing 'Hello World.' Memories flashed through his mind: the chaos of the NARS outbreak, his entire department wiped out from that last happy hour, the desperate act of stealing the experimental treatment.

"I don’t want to go back there," Lance stammered. "Not to that day."

"You can," Rick said firmly. "Don't just think about it. Feel it. Let the emotions wash over you."

He looked around. Wren sat cross-legged in the circle, already waiting for the session to start - she turned her gaze to the floor when she caught him looking. By the coffee station, Vicky gestured wildly during what looked like a heated debate with Diego and Frank… or maybe Zack. Whatever.

No one else seemed to notice his internal struggle - just another night at support group. He was good at that, keeping the messier parts locked away like deprecated code that might break the build.

Lance's shoulders sagged in defeat. Darkness claimed him as his breath came in short gasps. He let the memories surface, reliving the fear, the desperation, the overwhelming sense of helplessness.

A tickle deep in his muscles pulled Lance from the memory. The Morphoplasm responded, writhing just beneath the surface. But this time, Lance didn't try to control it. He let it move freely, mirroring the turmoil within him.

"That's it," Rick's words seemed to come from far away. "Now, show me. Don't tell me, show me how it felt."

Lance's body moved of its own accord. He fell to his knees, hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together. A wordless cry escaped his lips, visceral and primal.

The abnormal growth went ‘thump, thump, thump’ and spread around his muscle fibers, following the paths of his panic. For a moment, he was lost in it, consumed by the memories and emotions he'd been suppressing for so long.

"Stay with it. Don't fight,” Rick said.

A message flew past his vision.

[Warning: Arma Energy Low. Energy Reserves at 25%.]

New alert. One he’d never seen. Seemed important. He ignored it anyway.

Lance's fingers scraped against the hardwood floor, his whole body shaking as the darkness wormed deeper. Too much input, too many sensations, everything spiraling out of his grasp. Someone touched his shoulder. He flinched, but the steady pressure kept him anchored to the present.

The hand was warm. Was solid. Was soothing.

Then, slowly, the storm began to subside. The substance retreated, leaving Lance kneeling on the floor, trembling and raw.

He opened his eyes to find Rick crouching beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

"You did it," Rick said softly. "You faced it, and you came out the other side."

Lance managed a slight bob of his head, unable to speak. He felt drained, but also... lighter somehow. As if a weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying had been lifted.

"Thank you," he managed finally.

Rick helped him to his feet. "No, thank you for trusting me. You've made incredible progress today."

The sudden explosion of applause made Lance flinch. His groupmates were on their feet, some wiping at their eyes, others grinning widely. Lance's neck burned as he stared at his shoes, wishing he could sink through the floor. This wasn't a performance - it had been real, stripped-bare, and far too personal for an audience.

Dr. Rodriguez stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "I think," she said carefully, "it's time to start our session."

Lance pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. A smile felt wrong, a bow ridiculous, words impossible. He felt like he’d fallen off a twelve story building, but one thing was clear:

Energy Cycling

Morphoplasm

Dark Resonance

***

‘Clap-clap-clap, clap-clap!’

Mitsuki Yamada froze in the doorway of the community center's gym, her hand still on the handle. A circle of people sat in folding chairs, their faces turned toward a man in the center. Lance Lawthorn. Again.

She pressed her tongue against her cheek, a habit she'd never quite shaken. The group's enthusiasm felt out of place, like stumbling upon a party she hadn't been invited to. Mitsuki's eyes narrowed, scanning the room for any signs of trouble.

"That was... intense," the blonde said, each word rolling through the big space. Vicky, Mitsuki reminded herself. Her name was Vicky.

Lance stood in the middle, looking dazed. His shoulders slumped, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. Whatever had happened, it had taken its toll.

Mitsuki's fingers twitched, itching to reach for her notepad. But she held back. Observe first. Act second. She heard her mother's voice again, the same lecture she'd given at every dinner about police work.

She slipped into the room, grateful for the distraction of clapping hands and murmured conversations. No one seemed to notice her arrival. Good. Mitsuki preferred it that way. Staying invisible was a detective's best friend.

As she edged closer, she caught snippets of conversation.

"...never seen anything like it..."

"...the way it moved..."

"...you okay, man?"

The last comment was directed at Lance. He nodded, a weak smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, just... drained."

She took a harder look. Drained from what? The support group was supposed to be about talking, not... whatever this was. She shifted to the balls of her feet, ready to move if needed.

A man with colorful tattoos of Aztec warriors – Diego, if Mitsuki remembered correctly – approached Lance with quick steps. "Maybe you should sit down," he said, helping him to an empty chair.

Lance didn't resist. He practically collapsed into the seat, his breathing heavy. Mitsuki's suspicion grew. This wasn't normal exhaustion. It was something else entirely.

"Alright, everyone," called Dr. Elena Rodriguez. The group facilitator. "I know that was interesting, but we need to begin. Remember, this is a safe space. We're here to support each other."

Mitsuki found an empty chair near the edge of the circle, close enough to observe but far enough not to draw attention. As she sat down, her eyes locked with Lance's for a brief moment.

He went from relaxed to guarded the moment he saw her face. He knew who she was. And he clearly wasn't happy to see her here.

Good, Mitsuki thought. Let him be uncomfortable. Discomfort often led to mistakes. And mistakes led to answers.

When silence settled, Dr. Rodriguez spoke up.

"This," she said, gesturing between Rick and Lance, "is exactly why group therapy works - we heal better together."

Mitsuki's knee bounced once, detective-mode engaging. Her fingers found her blue streak of hair - something about his reaction felt off.

"Lance, would you share how that exercise made you feel? Particularly in relation to your Appropriation ability?"

Lance's casual demeanor wasn’t so casual anymore. Appropriation? What could that even mean? Would this be his arma whatever?

She'd need to do more digging on these arma abilities. The internet was full of wild theories and contradicting information, and her official briefing had barely scratched the surface. She couldn't exactly raise her hand and ask for an Arma 101 lecture - undercover work and all that.

"I... prefer not to discuss that particular ability."

Dr. Rodriguez tilted her head, her voice gentle. "This is a safe space, Lance. Everyone here has abilities they're learning to accept." She gestured to the group. "Many of us struggle with powers that can affect others. It's natural to have complex feelings about that."

Lance's eyes darted to Mitsuki, then away. Appropriation affects others… First time she'd seen Lance this uncomfortable. The information went into her mental grid.

"That’s not it." Lance's words came out clipped, precise. "The exercise helped with... other aspects."

“I see," said the doctor. We'll explore this at your comfort level."

Lance relaxed. "Thanks." He sank back in his chair, clearly done sharing.

The next moment, Mitsuki stopped herself just after her head whipped up because Dr. Rodriguez had shifted her attention to the man she was almost certain went by Frank.

"Mack, how has your day been going?"

Mack? The name hit Mitsuki wrong. She'd been sure he was Frank, a surly individual with barely contained rage. Yet here he sat, calm and collected, worlds away from her recollection.

Was I that off my game last night? She suppressed a grimace, mentally scanning her grid for other mismatched facts. Sleep deprivation could mess with observation, but one wrong ID could compromise months of casework.

"It's been alright, Elena. Had a bit of a headache earlier, but it's cleared up now."

Mack smiled, his demeanor pleasant. His voice, his mannerisms - they were all wrong. She'd interviewed enough suspects to know when something didn't add up. But what? And why?

"And how are you managing with your companions?" Dr. Rodriguez asked. "Have you found ways to coexist?"

"Oh, we've reached an understanding. They do their thing, I do mine. Though let's be honest - they know who's really in charge here." He chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke with himself.

She forced her attention back to the group, hyper-aware of every twitch, every glance. Dr. Rodriguez gave Mack's response the measured consideration it deserved, then turned to Diego.

"Diego, would you like to share something with the group today?"

The tattooed man stood, his muscular frame dwarfing the folding chair behind him. His thighs were like tree trunks beneath his gym shorts. That's new, she thought. Mitsuki tensed, ready for... what? She wasn't sure. But her instincts screamed that something was amiss.

"Yeah, I'd like to say something." There went her hearing, Mitsuki thought - Diego's voice could probably reach the parking lot. "I want to thank Lance for being such a good friend."

Everyone's gaze, including Mitsuki's, snapped to Lance. He looked surprised, maybe even uncomfortable.

Diego continued, his words laced with genuine emotion. "Man, you've been there for me through some tough times. When my legs were acting up, you were right there, offering support."

Lance's face cycled through several expressions, landing somewhere between touched and terrified at being the center of attention. When he caught Mitsuki watching, his deer-in-headlights look transformed into something reminiscent of a second-grader who'd just won the spelling bee. He kept glancing her way, tiny head tilts included, like he was making sure she'd witnessed his moment of glory.

"I know we've had our ups and downs," Diego continued. "but you've always come through. Even when I thought I'd lost everything, you found a way to help."

Lost everything? Diego's legs acting up, Lance helping him recover, abilities involved... Three data points that suggested a pattern. Either Lance had some kind of healing power - unlikely, given his reaction earlier - or his "appropriation" ability had something to do with transferring physical traits. That might explain why Diego's thighs didn't match her files—no, that’s not it. It was too fantastical.

She studied the faces around the circle, gauging reactions. Most seemed touched by Diego's words, but a few - Rick, and oddly enough, Mack - wore expressions that didn't quite fit. They knew something the others didn't.

Clues. Secrets. Answers.

As Diego sat down, Mitsuki caught Lance's eye again. This time, his guard was down, raw emotion evident on his face. Gratitude, yes, but also... guilt?

The pieces refused to fit together. Mitsuki felt like she was trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle in the dark, fumbling with fragments that should connect but didn't. Her frustration mounted, tempered only by years of training and discipline.

Dr. Rodriguez beamed at Diego. "Thank you for sharing that, Diego. It's wonderful to see such strong friendships forming within our group."

Mitsuki fought down a snort. Friendship didn't begin to cover what she was seeing. Lance sat in the middle of it all, sure - but the connections spread outward like a case board. Wren, silent and watchful. Mack, wearing Frank's face but none of his rage. Vicky, whose protective hovering around Lance suggested... what exactly? Even Rick carried himself like someone guarding a secret. Only Diego seemed to be exactly what he appeared - and that, in itself, was suspicious.

She needed more. More information, more context, more anything to make sense of this bizarre gathering. But where was it?

“Let’s take five,” said the facilitator, and the circle broke apart, people drifting toward a table laden with snacks and drinks. Mitsuki used the movement as cover, sliding closer to where Lance sat. She needed to hear more.

"Are you feeling better, boludo?" asked Vicky.

Lance's head sank in a sluggish yes, his eyes still unfocused. "I’ll be fine soon. That Rick’s something else."

In her peripheral vision, Mitsuki caught Vicky shiver - there and gone, like a ripple in still water.

“Let’s get a refill.”

Vicky nodded. Lance stood. Three steps to the coffee station.

Mitsuki waited ten seconds. Grabbed her empty cup. Casual. Natural.

She inched closer, straining to hear more. Move slow. Look bored.

Another joined in. Mack. Mitsuki dug through her bag.

"Lance, finally get to meet you face to face. Been looking forward to this."

"Mack, I presume?"

"In the flesh. Or, well... you know how it is."

Mitsuki reached for the sugar packets. First time they meet? Another puzzle, she thought.

"I see you've picked up some new tricks since my visit," said Mack.

"Not interested in a reunion tour," Lance answered, taking a sip of his black coffee, steam still rising.

"Come on, we had fun!” Mack spread his arms wide. “Let me tell you, the others seem to think you're worth keeping around, and so do I."

Mitsuki took a careful sip. Too hot.

"Cut the crap, Mack,” Vicky snapped.

"Ah, you’re the needy one.”

"I mean it.”

"Don’t interrupt. I'm having a chat with my friend,” Mack said. “Thinking you'd make a great sidekick, by the way. What do you say, Lance?"

"Hard pass."

What kind of sick game are these people playing? Mitsuki busied herself with her coffee, watching the cream swirl.

"We’ll let it marinate,” Mack shrugged. “Either way - this support group thing? Boring as hell - I’m out."

"And as boring goes... Hey, pig. Your coffee's getting cold."

The cup trembled slightly in Mitsuki's hand.

"See you around, Lance. We'll catch up properly so—"

Mitsuki didn’t hear the last part. She was already five strides away from the coffee station with her nearly overflowing cup, brain sorting through her growing list of suspects and inconsistencies that would keep her up tonight, and realizing she should probably skip these meetings for her own safety, but these people were like kendo opponents who'd switched stances mid-match.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump.

"Detective Yamada," Dr. Rodriguez said, her voice low. "I wasn't expecting you today."

Mitsuki pivoted on her heel, composing her features into a neutral expression. "Just observing the dynamics. Nothing to worry about."

"I hope you're not planning to interrogate anyone. This is supposed to be a safe space."

"Of course not," Mitsuki said smoothly. "Actually, I've got what I needed. Won't be troubling your group anymore."

"I see." Dr. Rodriguez didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "Well, I hope you found some clarity here."

As the doctor walked away, Mitsuki's gaze drifted back to Lance. He was talking quietly with Vicky and Diego, his color slowly returning to normal. Whatever had happened, it seemed the worst had passed.

But questions still burned in Mitsuki's mind. What kind of "support group" left its members drained and disoriented? And why did Lance Lawthorn always seem to be at the center of it all?

Mitsuki reached for the door. The floor shifted beneath her feet. Her coffee sloshed all over her navy blue jacket.

The basketball court swayed gently, then not so gently. Around her, the building creaked.

She steadied herself against the doorframe. North Carolina doesn't get earthquakes.

The rolling motion continued. Not violent, but persistent. Not stopping. Getting worse.

In the parking lot, car alarms started wailing.

Then stillness. Complete stillness.