August 15, 2058 –
Chicago, The Loop Tunnels
One Year Later
The tunnels under the L smell like rust, piss, and the faint copper of old blood scrubbed but never gone. Graffiti from the Great Migration era still clings to the walls: names in chalk, promises in charcoal.
Elijah Kane is twenty-eight now. The Saints chain hangs heavier around his neck. Forty-five kids became sixty-three over twelve months—rescues in Ohio truck stops, Kentucky coal towns, Indiana trailer parks. Some parents found them, took them back. Others vanished into the system. The core forty-five sleep in shifts on army cots, dreaming in three languages.
He stands at the mouth of a service tunnel, shadows thinner these days from overuse, watching a CTA train rattle overhead. The vibration shakes dust from the ceiling like dirty snow.
Aisha appears beside him, prosthetics upgraded with scavenged carbon fiber—faster bursts, quieter hum. "Newscast says registration's 'voluntary' now. Voss Tower got a plaque: 'Unity Plaza.' Iron Patriot has a Netflix special."
Elijah grunts. "They rebranded the cage."
Maya sits cross-legged ten feet back, blond braid longer, teaching Amara (now nine) how to braid frybread dough without burning it. Her golden light is steadier, brighter—hope practiced into habit. Amara's powers flicker: tiny shadows and sparks dancing on her fingertips.
Jonah hunches over three laptops, glasses taped at the bridge. "Corporate leagues are recruiting. AmazonPrime Guardians. TikTok Titans. They pay kids in crypto and clout."
Kenji leans against a support beam, turquoise ring polished, pouch of soil fuller. Kayden sits nearby, illusions now used for training: harmless loops of safe houses, escape routes. No massacres. Trust rebuilt, inch by painful inch.
A burner buzzes. Elijah answers.
"Shadow." Old voice from New Detroit. "Delphine made bail. Parish lockup couldn't hold her. Roux bribes and 'I know my rights.' She's heading your way. Three days."
Elijah closes his eyes. The weight lifts a fraction.
Then Jonah's main screen flashes red.
"Feds just reclassified 'Tier Red' as 'Corporate Asset Opportunity.' Unregistered minors under 16 get fast-tracked to hero academies. Sign the NDA, get the shot."
Aisha spits. "The shot?"
Maya's light dims. "Project Purity serum. Suppressed powers till they need you."
Kayden's illusion slips. For a second the tunnel walls show what academies really are: white rooms, kids in collars, eyes empty.
Elijah's shadows coil.
"Quiet Year's over."
He looks at his people: sixty-three futures, six scarred adults, one mother coming home.
"Pack the tunnels. We go dark again."
Above them, the L train roars north.
Below, the Liberty Line stirs—ghosts remembering how to haunt.