December 31, 2058 –
Abandoned church basement, South Side Chicago
Midnight creeps closer. Outside, fireworks crackle over the city—early celebrations for a new year that feels like the old one wearing different clothes.
Inside, the basement is quiet except for the soft breathing of sleeping kids and the low hum of Jonah's radio scanning frequencies.
Elijah sits by the boarded window, new hoodie soft against his skin, Saints chain tucked underneath. Shadows pool at his feet like loyal dogs waiting for orders.
Malik floats a few inches off the floor beside him, gravity restless. "They're doing countdowns on every channel. Ten… nine…"
Aisha hobbles over on her clunky prosthetic, leaning on Maya for balance. "World's pretending everything's fine for one night."
Maya's light glows warm, steady. "Let them pretend. We know better."
Kenji and Kayden share the far corner, passing a small pouch of cedar between them—smoke curling thin, cleansing the air the way their grandmothers taught.
Amara curls in Elijah's lap, half-asleep, Mr. Raffi clutched tight. "Is it a new year yet?"
"Almost," Elijah says.
Jonah turns the radio down. Static hisses, then a clear voice: Iron Patriot's pre-recorded message playing on every sponsored station.
"America, as we enter 2059, remember: true heroes wear the flag proudly. Report unregistered threats. Together, we keep our children safe."
The basement goes colder.
Malik's gravity flickers; a plastic cup lifts, then drops.
Kayden's illusion ripples—brief flash of Patriot's face twisted in pain, then gone.
Kenji puts a hand on his cousin's shoulder.
Elijah stands, careful not to wake Amara. He walks to the center of the room.
The kids stir, sensing the shift.
He looks at them—forty small faces, plus Malik's taller one among the adults now.
"Tomorrow," he says quietly, "they'll start the year hunting harder. New laws. New bounties. New lies."
No one speaks.
"But tonight," he continues, "it's still 2058. And we're still here."
Maya's light brightens, washing the room gold.
Aisha raises her mug of weak coffee. "To the ones who didn't make it this far."
Jonah echoes. "And the ones who will."
Kenji and Kayden nod.
Malik lowers himself to the floor. "To family we chose."
Amara yawns. "To Mr. Raffi."
Soft laughter ripples—real, rare.
Outside, the city counts down.
Inside, no one joins.
When midnight hits and fireworks explode over Chicago, the Liberty Line sits in golden light and cedar smoke, shadows guarding the door.
The new year comes anyway.
They're ready for it.