October 12, 2058 –
Abandoned warehouse district, South Side Chicago
Rain hammers the corrugated roof like gunfire that never quite lands.
Inside, the Liberty Line—still just the six adults and their forty core kids—huddles around a single lantern. The air smells of wet concrete and cheap instant noodles.
Jonah's laptop screen is the only other light. He's pale, eyes wide behind taped glasses.
"Kid named Malik Washington just signed," he says. "Fifteen. Gravity manipulation. Four-hundred-million deal with Prime Guardians. Livestreamed the signing from a detention center."
Aisha snorts. "They let him out for the cameras, then marched him right back in for 'orientation.'"
Maya's golden light dims. "Orientation means the shot."
Elijah stands at the broken window, watching rain streak the glass. Shadows cling to him like damp clothes.
Kayden sits apart, knees drawn up, illusions flickering unconsciously—ghost contracts floating in the air, burning at the edges.
Kenji watches him carefully.
Amara sleeps curled against Maya, Mr. Raffi tucked under her chin.
Aisha paces. "Malik's mom hired me—well, hired Blur—through a dark-web post. Wants her boy back before they turn him into a billboard with a kill switch."
Elijah turns. "We can't hit a Prime facility. Too many eyes."
Jonah spins the laptop. Grainy security feed: Malik in a white room, collar around his neck, gravity swirling weakly around his hands like he's testing chains.
Then the feed cuts to auction overlay: real-time bids on "exclusive power usage rights" climbing past half a billion.
Aisha's prosthetic fist dents the metal table. "They're selling pieces of him. Live."
Elijah feels the old rage rise, hot and familiar.
"We get him out," he says. "One kid. Quiet. No spectacle."
Maya looks up. "Prime's compound is downtown. Rooftop access. I can light a path from the sewers."
Jonah nods. "I'll loop the cams."
Kenji glances at Kayden. "We'll need misdirection."
Kayden meets his cousin's eyes. "No massacres this time."
Kenji nods once.
Elijah pulls the hood up.
Outside, thunder rolls over the city like distant applause for the highest bidder.
Inside, six ghosts and forty sleeping futures prepare to steal one boy back from the people who taught America how to monetize hope.
The Sponsor Wars just claimed their first casualty the Liberty Line intends to reverse.