Grief 7.10

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg shoved open the glass door to the store with just enough force to let it swing freely. It didn't slam, though—of course it didn't.

Places like this didn't do slamming doors.

The movement was caught by a smooth hydraulic hiss, like even the door had standards. Stepping inside, Greg adjusted his jacket and strolled in like he belonged there, despite having never set foot in the place before.

The air hit him first: a crisp, artificial chill that smelled faintly of leather, polished steel, and some overpriced air freshener that probably had a name like "Wealth Breeze" or "Success No. 5." The place oozed money in that subtly posh way high-end clothing stores only could, with a facade of catering to the every-man despite the fact that everything was branded with designer labels to showcase their 'quality'. Racks of carefully curated streetwear stood like soldiers in formation, spotless and expensive, their tags dangling like quiet warnings.

Greg's brain wasn't really here, though. It was two streets over, still chewing on the phone call he'd let ring out earlier. The screen had lit up with that familiar name and, like a pro, he'd sent it straight to voicemail.

Again.

He'd been doing that a lot lately.

The irritation was there, bubbling under the surface, but Greg shoved it aside, cramming it into the same mental junk drawer where all his unresolved stuff lived. Instead, he focused on the here and now: clean floors that gleamed under soft, recessed lighting, mannequins dressed like they were ready for a post-apocalyptic runway show, and racks that didn't creak or wobble.

A glance toward the counter confirmed what he already knew. The clerk had clocked him the second his sneaker hit the polished marble. She was young, sharp-looking, in a tight black v-neck with an artsy blue "V" logo that screamed, "I don't get paid enough for this. Her eyes flicked up from the counter, scanning him in that subtle-but-not-subtle way trained retail workers had. It was quick—sneakers, jeans, jacket—enough to decide Greg probably didn't belong.

Greg didn't blink, didn't roll his eyes or scowl at all. The woman's look slid off him like rain on an overpriced raincoat. He wasn't here for her, wasn't here for the store, really.

No, he was here because Sparky and Theo needed new outfits for cape stuff and, apparently, couldn't pick a damn place to shop without arguing about it for an hour.

He turned back toward the door, where it was taking far too long for his so-called friends to follow him.

"Oi, Tweedles!" Greg called, loud enough to make the clerk twitch. His voice bounced off the polished walls with a casual kind of authority that dared someone to tell him to shut up. "Hurry it up!"

The door swung open again, and Sparky strode in, all long hair and annoyance, golden eyes narrowing at Greg like he'd personally ruined his day. Theo followed right behind, dragging his feet like they'd walked a mile uphill. His silver-gray eyes scanned the store with an expression that hovered somewhere between bored and curious.

"Tweedles?" Theo asked, his tone mild,

Greg nodded, tilting his head toward them. "Yeah, you know, like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee." He gestured vaguely between the two of them.

Sparky snorted, crossing his arms. "Tweedle Dum? I know you're not talking—"

Greg smirked, turning back toward the racks of streetwear and giving a dismissive wave. "Yeah, yeah, just pick out what you want."

Sparky's eyes widened slightly as he glanced at a nearby rack. The jacket closest to him had a tag that practically screamed 'Do not touch unless you've got a trust fund'. "From here?" he asked, his voice pitching up in disbelief as he caught sight of another price tag. "What happened to the thrift store?"

Greg grinned, casually picking up a shirt to inspect the fabric. It felt ridiculously soft, like it had been handwoven by the collective effort of clouds and angels. "What? You're acting like I expect you to pay."

Sparky raised an eyebrow, already unimpressed. "Uh-huh."

"Consider me your sugar daddy," Greg said, his tone as smooth as the AC.

Sparky made a face, half-disgusted, half-exasperated. "Shut up."

"No, really," Greg continued, grinning wider as he threw an arm over Theo's shoulders, pulling his shorter godbrother into a loose side hug. "You two are my dependents now. I'm officially adopting you. Congrats. Paperwork's in the mail."

Theo blinked up at him, clearly unsure how to respond. "Uh… thanks?"

"Don't thank me yet," Greg said, releasing him and stepping toward the nearest mannequin. It was dressed in a sleek, military-style jacket that looked like it could survive a nuclear winter and still make you look cool while looting the wasteland. "Just wait until I start making you do chores."

Sparky rolled his eyes, his friend already flipping through a rack of jackets with half-hearted interest. "You're the worst."

"And yet," Greg shot back, winking, "here we are."

The clerk was still watching them, her expression blank but her posture stiff, like she was ready to swoop in if any of them so much as breathed on the merchandise wrong. Greg caught her eye and gave her his best I dare you grin, then turned back to Theo, who was inspecting a hoodie like it might bite him.

"Yo, Theo, you good?" Greg asked in a whisper, leaning over his shoulder. "You look like you're debating whether or not to call security."

Theo glanced up. "Just wondering if this place is worth the markup."

Greg let out a short laugh. "Spoiler alert: it's not. But you'll look sick, so who cares?" He grabbed a random jacket from the rack and tossed it to Theo, who caught it with a quiet oof. "Here, I figure you might like gray."

Sparky, still flipping through options, glanced over his shoulder. "Seriously, why are we even here? You could've just taken us to, like, the mall or something."

"And miss out on this vibe?" Greg gestured around the store with both hands. "Look at this place. It's got aesthetic."

Sparky raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "It's got overpriced bullshit."

"Exactly," Greg said, already reaching for another jacket to try on. "And you're welcome."

Greg's pockets were heavier than usual—not just with his usual assortment of gum wrappers and loose change, but with cash.

Real cash.

Lee Joon, the head of finance for the Ronin, always made sure to keep Greg's "investments" working for him. With most of the ABB's old business ventures in shambles, Greg had gotten into the habit of handing most of his earnings to Joon anyway. The guy was like a human calculator with an attitude and it honestly beat Greg having to figure out how to manage it himself.

Still, he could feel Sparky's judgment radiating off him from ten feet away as the other boy flipped through jackets, grumbling loud enough for half the store to hear.

"Why are we here again?" Sparky asked, holding up a neon green jacket like it had personally offended him. "This stuff's not even practical. Who needs a jacket you can see from space?"

"It's practical if you want to be a cape," Greg whispered without looking up, his voice carrying to Sparky and Theo's enhanced ears as he lazily brushed his fingers over a pair of gloves on a nearby shelf. "You know, dazzle the normals."

Sparky snorted, dripping with sarcasm. "Great plan. 'cause staying stealthy is overrated."

"So's complaining," Greg shot back, a slight smirk on his lips.

Theo, standing nearby and watching the exchange with his usual calm detachment, glanced at Sparky. "He's right, you know."

Sparky rounded on Theo, pointing at him with mock indignation. "Don't start. You're just as bad."

Theo shrugged, reaching for a hoodie that looked about three sizes too big. "I didn't drag us here." He paused, glancing at Greg. "But I'll take some things, since you're apparently feeling generous."

"Sugar daddy Greg strikes again," Greg said, rolling his eyes. He picked up a sleek blue jacket with white carbon-fiber panels on the shoulders, inspecting it for no reason other than it looked expensive. "You two are lucky you've got me. I'm like the Robin Hood of teenagers, except I keep the money and spend it on my friends instead of the poor."

"Yeah, so selfless," Sparky muttered, shoving the neon green jacket back onto the rack with exaggerated force.

Greg ignored him, his attention shifting to the clerk who had been hovering a little too close for comfort. She wasn't the problem, though. The real problem was standing near the main checkout desk: a man, late twenties, with hair so perfectly styled it bordered on aggressive. His name tag read Bennett in sleek, minimalist font, the kind that tried to convince you it belonged on a designer ad.

Bennett wasn't staring outright—too professional for that—but his gaze lingered just long enough for Greg to catch it. The kind of look that said I see you, but the thin, too-polite smile that followed said I don't trust you. Standard Boardwalk retail-worker procedure when you were sixteen and wearing sneakers that were clean but not brand-new clean.

Greg glanced at him once, then dismissed him just as quickly. He drifted past a rack of bullet jackets, their polished zippers and carbon-fiber trim practically daring him to care. One of them caught his eye—$600 on the tag—but he kept walking. no need to give Bennett the satisfaction of looking interested.

His fingers brushed a guardian wristband on a nearby display, sleek and black with some kind of hidden tool tucked inside. It felt cool for half a second before Greg dropped it, already bored. He could almost hear Bennett spinning up a Can I help you? line from across the store, and that was the last thing Greg needed.

Instead, he focused on the gloves—black, carbon-fiber knuckles, serious gear. They looked like something you'd wear if you planned to punch steel and walk away with your hand intact.

"Need help?" the clerk asked, her voice a little too chirpy for the vibe she was going for. She'd clearly scurried over on orders from Bennett, her ponytail bouncing like it was rehearsed.

Greg turned slightly, holding the gloves like they were nothing special. His face didn't shift, his tone perfectly level. "Nope."

She lingered for a second too long, her eyes flicking between Greg and the gloves like she wasn't quite convinced. After an awkward pause, she finally turned and walked away, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

Greg rolled his eyes and set the gloves back on the shelf. "Think they've got a quota for how many teenagers they kick out a week?" he muttered, loud enough for Sparky and Theo to hear.

Sparky snorted. "Probably. Let me know when they get to us."

Theo, now holding a shiny robe-like oversized drop shoulder gray hoodie and inspecting the stitching, glanced up. "They're definitely watching you more than us."

"Jealous?" Greg shot back with a smirk, stepping toward another rack of jackets.

"Nope," Theo said simply, pulling the hoodie over his arm.

Sparky muttered something under his breath about "stupid boardwalk stores" and the "freaking overpriced everything" as Greg casually slid his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen.

Emma.

His smirk vanished, the usual lightness in his expression replaced with something heavier. his thumb hovered over the screen for a second—just a second—before he shoved it back into his pocket, his jaw tight.

"Yo, Greg," Sparky called, oblivious, holding up a jacket that looked like it could double as body armor. "You gonna get anything, or are you just here to piss off the staff?"

Greg blinked, forcing a grin back onto his face as he turned toward Sparky. "Pissing off the staff is the purchase. Everything else is a bonus."

Sparky rolled his eyes and tossed the jacket back onto the rack. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," Greg said, already heading toward another display, "you're still here."

Eyes scanned the rack, fingers brushing lightly over blue and white jackets, hoodies, and shirts. The material ranged from sleek, futuristic cuts to the kind of baggy, overdesigned nonsense that belonged on the runway, not the Boardwalk. Each piece whispered 'buy me, you'll look invincible'—but his mind wasn't on looking cool, not entirely.

The phone in his pocket buzzed again, a persistent vibration that he ignored for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. Emma's name flashed behind his eyelids every time it went off, like his subconscious was keeping track for him. He gritted his teeth, pulling a jacket off the rack and holding it up to the light.

Not bad.

But unlike what he'd told Theo and Sparky, he wasn't here for his usual casual gear while they grabbed costume-related stuff.

No, this was about something else entirely.

Greg knew he'd need a new costume soon—one for himself, not Hardkour.

It had been sitting at the back of his mind for over a month now, gnawing quietly since school started back up. And no matter how much he tried to shove it aside, it kept coming back, louder every time.

He'd told Sparky before: his identity wouldn't stay secret forever.

And he'd meant it.

It wasn't a matter of if, only when.

The confirmation that someone had put a hit out on him only made it more urgent. Whoever it was, they were tracking his movements closely enough to follow Hardkour, to somehow track his patrol habits he thought he randomized, to set up fucking repeated ambushes.

How long until they connected the dots? How long until they started following Greg Veder?

How long till they decided to go after other people?

There wasn't a constant tail on his mom just because he was paranoid.

Greg exhaled sharply through his nose, flipping through another set of jackets. He picked out a navy blue hoodie with a simple white trim, holding it up before tossing it over his arm. The motion made his phone buzz again, and he froze for a moment, his fingers tightening around the fabric.

Emma.

Again.

He didn't even bother pulling it out this time. Instead, he shoved the hoodie, undershirt and shoes into Theo's hands as the boy wandered past, earning a placid "mm?" in response.

"Hold this," Greg said. Theo didn't even blink, his calm, unbothered demeanor somehow grounding.

Greg sighed and moved toward Sparky, who was muttering to himself about how much money they were about to burn in this store.

His fingers slipped into his jacket pocket as he reached him, hand diving into his inventory. In his head, he spoke the word, feeling the familiar pull of his power as he summoned what he needed without a hint of the motion showing.

A tied stack of hundred-dollar bills slid into his grip like magic.

"Here," Greg said, dropping the stack into Sparky's open hand.

Sparky blinked at him then down at his palm, his golden eyes widening as he stared at the money like it might explode. "Wha—what's this, brah?"

Greg smirked faintly, brushing past him toward the door, grabbing a few more things. "A down payment on a new car. Should be enough to cover whatever you guys want in here. Theo?"

His godbrother looked up from the hoodie Greg had handed him, his expression as calm as ever. "Hmm?"

Greg dropped the pants, jacket and gloves he'd been looking at into Theo's hands. "Add this to the pile."

Theo gave a faint nod, his silver-gray eyes glancing briefly at the clothes before settling back into his usual calm gaze. He didn't question it.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

There was a lot the chubby blond didn't seem to question, those gray eyes blank but piercing at the same time.

And a lot more he should have, honestly.

Greg started walking toward the exit, his steps deliberate but not hurried.

"Where are you going—" Sparky began, but Greg quickly cut him off.

"Need to clear my head," he waved him off without turning. "I'll be back in ten minutes tops. Just buy the stuff."

He pushed open the door, the hydraulic hiss catching the movement as it swung shut behind him. The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, the noise of the boardwalk muted but still present—a steady hum of distant laughter, conversations, and the faint crash of waves somewhere in the distance.

He glanced down at the black screen of his phone, the missed calls glaring back at him like a silent accusation. Seven missed calls.

Greg shoved the phone back into his pocket, his jaw tightening as he let out a sharp breath.

"Fuck me," he muttered, heading toward the railing overlooking the water.

Greg kept walking, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the dull buzz of the boardwalk pressing in around him. The lights, the sounds, the smells—usually, they were enough to keep his brain busy, to drown out whatever he didn't want to think about. Not tonight.

Emma.

He couldn't keep ignoring her forever, and he knew it. His phone was proof of that, still vibrating every few minutes like it had a personal vendetta against him.

But the thought of actually picking up, of hearing her voice again after everything Taylor had told him…

He didn't want to talk to her anymore.

He couldn't.

Not right now.

The locker had been bad enough. Greg had known about that part—everyone had heard about it at Winslow—but he hadn't known how bad it I was. How long it had been planned. How calculated it all was.

Greg had been shoved into lockers before.

Not like that.

And everything else… God, he hadn't realized how insane girls could get with their version of bullying. He'd take a black eye and stolen lunch money over whatever that psychological-warfare shit was.

Don't lie, Veder. You weren't thinking with your head.

Or, well, he was, but not the bigger one.

He hadn't bothered to push on Emma's mean girl behavior from the beginning, even when he had seen what she did to the girls in her own friend group. At the time, she had seemed to be defending him, and Sparky had said worse, but it wasn't exactly a good look either way.

And Sophia… well, Sophia was just a darker-skinned Sparky in his head. A darker skinned Sparky who liked wearing track shorts and tight shirts and…

Greg shook his head furiously. Get it together, big boy. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, Greg kicked a loose pebble off to the side, watching it launch across the sand with a bit more force than it should have. Shit.

Thankfully, the Boardwalk was nowhere near as full as it should have been, for some reason.

A yell cut through the night air, sharp and panicked.

Shit! Greg's head snapped up, his attention pulled toward the north end of the boardwalk. He hadn't even realized he'd wandered this far. The alley near the exit toward the docks loomed ahead, dimly lit, a few trash bags scattered near the mouth like some lazy attempt at camouflage.

Another yell.

Louder this time.

Greg's stomach twisted as he glanced around, his eyes zeroing in on movement just beyond the alley's edge. A girl, her back pressed against the wall, struggling as some guy loomed over her.

The man had a wiry frame, his clothes loose and disheveled. His face was shadowed, but Greg could see the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his posture as he grabbed at the girl's shirt, his fingers curling like claws.

Rage spiked in Greg's chest, hot and instant. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was moving, his feet hitting the pavement harder than he meant to.

"Hey!" he barked, his voice slicing through the alley like a whip.

The man barely had time to turn before Greg shoved him aside, his hands finding the man's shoulders and pushing with more strength than he probably should have. The guy stumbled, his face twisting with rage as he turned back toward Greg.

For a split second, their eyes met.

Blank.

Almost dead, like he wasn't in the driver's seat.

The guy lunged, but Greg was faster.

And stronger.

He slapped an open hand into the man's chest with enough force to knock the air out of him for a good few minutes at the very least. The guy hit the ground with a wheezing thud, clutching at his ribs as he heaved for breath.

+ 100 XP

Greg didn't spare him another glance. He turned to the girl, his voice softer. "Are y—"

The words died in his throat as his eyes locked onto hers.

He blinked, his thoughts scrambling like they'd just hit a brick wall.

The girl—no, woman—was pressed against the wall, trembling so hard Greg could see it in her shoulders, even with her hands braced against the brick. Her breath hitched every time she exhaled, coming out fast, shallow, panicked. She looked like a rabbit cornered by something with claws. Thin, dark-haired, pale, with a streak of red in her hair that somehow made her seem more fragile, like someone had put it there to mark her as a target.

Her eyes—wide, wet—stayed glued to him.

Not the guy on the ground.

Not the alley around them.

Him.

The fear in them wasn't vague or general; it was specific. She wasn't just scared of what had just happened. She was scared of what might happen next, and it had everything to do with him.

Greg felt his jaw tighten.

"Hey… you good?" he asked, voice low and steady, keeping his movements slow and both hands loose at his sides, nonthreatening. The last thing she needed was someone else making her feel cornered.

Her head jerked slightly, the barest nod, like her body was on a delay. She sucked in a shaky breath, then tried for a second nod. Her fingers curled against the brick, gripping it like it might anchor her. "I—yeah. I think. Yeah."

The words barely made it out. They weren't practiced, not polished. No one faked that kind of stammer. Her voice sounded like it had been dragged out of her.

Greg's eyes flicked to the guy groaning on the ground, curled up and holding his ribs. He wasn't getting back up anytime soon. Good. Greg turned his focus back to her, and she flinched like she'd been caught doing something wrong.

"It's fine," Greg said, shrugging. Like it was just a fight. Just some asshole. Like it wasn't her fault. "You're fine."

She didn't look convinced. Her back stayed flush against the wall, but her hands slid down slightly, like she was starting to believe the brick wasn't going to hold her up forever. Her lips parted, and for a second it looked like she was trying to say something else. Nothing came out.

Greg gave her a moment. No pressure. No rush. People had to process these things in their own time. "You got a name?" he asked finally, casually, like he was asking for the time.

She blinked, her mouth working around the question like she hadn't expected it. "Cherie," she said, soft, almost too quiet. Her voice cracked on the second syllable, and she swallowed hard, like she hated how weak it sounded.

"Greg," he said. He kept his tone even, level, like he was handing her something solid to hold onto. "You're okay, Cherie."

When Greg said the words, her whole body seemed to sag, and before he could blink, she was on him, arms wrapped tight around his middle like a lifeline. The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a split second he froze, hands halfway raised, unsure where to put them.

She pulled back just as fast, her face inches from his, her wide eyes locking onto his. For a moment, it felt like the entire alley had gone silent except for the pounding of her pulse. Or his. "My hero," she whispered, her voice soft and trembling, but with something underneath.

Something he couldn't name.

Then it hit. Like a wave that wasn't a wave, a sensation he couldn't put his finger on. Greg blinked, and then—

Whoa, what the fuck.

The blue words flashed across his mind like a neon sign:

> [Obsessive Infatuation] negated by Gamer's Mind.

He stepped back instinctively, his hands coming up between them as if to ward something off that wasn't there. "The hell was that?"

Her face twisted in confusion, her hands still hovering, raised cautiously like she might reach for him again. "What?" she said, her voice small but searching.

And then it came again, the same strange feeling, but sharper, like a hook had snagged something in his head and was trying to pull.

> [Blinding Desire] negated by Gamer's Mind.

Greg's eyes narrowed. His pulse was steady, his breath even, but his brain was kicking into overdrive. It had been—what, weeks? Weeks since Gamer's Mind had done anything like this. Not since that rooftop, when Sparky called, and the Empire—yeah, he didn't want to go back there. He hadn't even felt it since then.

But now?

That.

He stared at her.

Cherie's face was a perfect mask of fear and confusion, her lips slightly parted, her eyes flicking to his fists as they clenched instinctively. Was she—? No, she didn't look like she could be. She looked terrified.

But then again…

Greg sighed, forcing himself to loosen his grip. "That."

She shook her head quickly, almost frantically. "I don't know wh—"

> [Pure Awe] negated by Gamer's Mind.

Greg took another step back, the space between them finally letting him think clearly. His jaw tightened as he scanned her face, her hands, her posture.

Nothing screamed threat, but this was Brockton Bay.

Threats didn't always scream.

Analyze.

> Cherie Lvl 22

> Drama Queen

> HP: 150/150

> Trait: Socio-Emotive Influence Spectrum

>

> Hailing from a background rich in questionable parenting and free-range debauchery, Cherie turned "walking away" into an art form. Fleeing Canada and a dad who thought 'Daddy issues' needed a new benchmark, she didn't just escape; she practically invented ghosting. Her life reads like a bad reality show where every vice was on the table before she could even spell 'hedonism.'

> Now in America, she's the girl who might remind you of that one friend who's into all the drama but claims they hate it—except, with her, the drama really does follow.

"...You're a cape," he said finally, his voice low, careful.

Her eyes widened even more, and she flinched, the fear in her face somehow looking sharper, more real. "I—yeah. Y-yeah," she stammered, her shoulders hunching slightly like she expected him to hit her.

Greg sighed again, less irritated, more resigned. "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you or anything, okay?" He kept his voice calm, even. "Just… Your power. What is it?"

If she lies, she's going down.

She hesitated.

Her lips trembled like she was searching for the right words, and then they came out all at once, rushed and shaky. "I-it's instinctive. It makes people who like me… like me more. Like a little bit more, but it's useless in a fight, you know."

> [Euphoria] negated by Gamer's Mind.

HIs hands twitched. Greg raised an eyebrow. "'Like' you?" He glanced pointedly at the man groaning on the ground, still clutching his ribs.

Her eyes dropped, and her voice was quieter this time. "He… liked me in a bad way. Too much."

Greg nodded slowly. "Okay."

He didn't press further. Not here, not now. Whatever this was, it was more than he wanted to deal with at the moment.

"I gotta head out," he said, jerking his thumb at the guy on the ground. "Can you… I dunno… call the cops? Or the enforcers or something? For him?"

She nodded quickly, her hair falling into her face. "Y-yeah. Thank you."

"No problem," Greg said, already stepping back toward the mouth of the alley, not turning his back on her just yet. "Stay safe, okay?"

"I will," she said softly, her voice almost swallowed by the distance.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg was almost all the way back to the store he'd left Sparky and Theo at, the faint buzz of the boardwalk's nightlife starting up as the sun began to set. The distant scent of saltwater mixed with fried food, and the neon lights from nearby shops cast shifting colors over the pavement.

His thoughts were somewhere else, back on Emma and Taylor and Sophia (of all people) when a small figure darted out from the corner of his eye, fast but clumsy, and before he could fully register it, she collided with him.

The girl—no older than nine—bounced off his side like a pinball, stumbling backward. She was small, with messy black hair tied into pigtails and a face sticky with melted strawberry shortcake popsicle. Her clothes looked like she'd been in them all day, a little wrinkled but still cute in that mismatched kid way—bright purple shorts and a neon yellow t-shirt with a cartoon bear on it.

The half-eaten popsicle she'd been holding went flying, spinning end-over-end in the air like a sugary comet of doom.

Greg moved without thinking. One hand shot out, catching her by the stomach before she hit the pavement, while his other blurred forward, snatching the popsicle by the stick an inch before it hit the ground.

He blinked. That was close.

Straightening up, he carefully set the dazed girl back on her feet, brushing her off like it was no big deal. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, her popsicle back in her hand before she even realized it.

Greg crouched slightly, meeting her gaze with a lopsided grin. "You okay there?"

She blinked again, glancing down at the popsicle, then back at him. "Uhhh… uh, yeah! Thanks, mister!"

Greg's grin faltered for a split second. Mister? Am I old enough for mister? He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or just accept his apparent entry into "adult" territory.

"No problem," he said smoothly, standing back up as she shuffled off, moving much slower this time.

He watched her go, his grin softening into something closer to a smile. Ever since that day with the ABB, pulling those imprisoned girls out of that hellhole, he'd found himself wondering—what would it be like to be a big brother?

A sigh escaped him before he realized it, and he muttered under his breath, "Man, I want one of those."

"Uhhh," came a voice from behind him.

Greg spun around, his eyes widening slightly as Sparky and Theo stood there, arms full of black boxes and bags. Sparky's face was somewhere between disbelief and mock horror, while Theo's was, as always, unreadable but definitely judging him.

"Wait, no—" Greg started, hands shooting up in protest.

Sparky raised an eyebrow, his expression deadpan. "FBI?"