KASPER
The blood wouldn't come out.
Kasper scrubbed Marco's blood from his knuckles with grain alcohol, the sharp smell mixing with copper to create something that reminded him of field hospitals in Costa del Sol. Three hours since the ambulance. Three hours since his family looked at him like he was wearing a stranger's face.
The newspaper lay spread beside him, job advertisements circled in red ink. "Santo Domingo seeks enhanced operative for high-risk assignments." "San Juan bounty office requires specialist with combat experience." Every listing felt like an escape route—a way to put distance between himself and the people he loved before he destroyed them completely.
The nanotech was already closing the scratches on his forearms where Marco had clawed at him. By morning, there'd be no physical evidence of what he'd done. But the way Carmen had whispered "Dios mío" when she saw the blood—that would never heal.
"What's wrong with you?"
Camila's voice wouldn't stop echoing. Seventeen years of sisterly love turned to horror in a heartbeat. He'd protected her from everything—drunks at church socials, boys with wandering hands, even himself when the nightmares got bad. But he couldn't protect her from this. From what Costa del Sol had made him.
Maybe it was time to face the truth: the Void Killer couldn't come home. Not really.
A train schedule lay folded beside the classifieds. San Juan to Miami, Miami to anywhere that needed someone willing to do the necessary violence. He could wire money home, visit for Christmas, pretend they were still a family instead of three people walking on eggshells around a weapon that looked like their son.
The first-edition García Márquez still sat wrapped on his nightstand. A gift from someone who'd brought flowers for his mother and treated his sister with respect.
Someone he'd nearly murdered for suggesting he move past his trauma.
His KS23 shotgun lay field-stripped on the bed—clean, oil, reassemble. The familiar ritual steadied his hands while his eyes tracked the dark sedan that had been parked across the street for three days. Different men taking shifts, but always someone watching.
Vincenzo's response to having his son hospitalized. Or maybe something else entirely.
Kasper turned to another page of classifieds. The Tortuga Islands telegraph office was hiring bounty hunters. Six months minimum, good pay, and most importantly—two thousand miles from anyone who might still believe he was human.
He reached for his pen when footsteps creaked on the stairs. Too heavy for Carmen, too uneven for Isabella's wheelchair lifts.
Aldair.
CARMEN
Fifteen years ago - 1915
"Duele," Aldair whispered, his prosthetic attachment points weeping despite her careful cleaning.
"I know it hurts, mi amor." Carmen's hands stayed steady even as her heart broke. "But gangrene will kill you faster than the pain."
The man who'd left for the enhancement program was gone, replaced by someone who jumped at automobile backfires and checked door locks three times every night. The experimental procedures had saved his life but carved out pieces of his soul.
"I hurt you last night." He stared at her bruised wrist. "I didn't even know I was doing it."
"It wasn't you. It was the trauma—"
"¿Y si no mejoro? What if this is who I am now?"
She'd knelt beside the bed, taking his face in her hands despite the risk. "Then we'll figure it out together."
Present - 1930
Carmen sat at her kitchen table, staring at the bloodstained rug where her son had nearly killed a boy who'd brought her white lilies. The parallel was exact, and it made her stomach twist.
Different war, same wounds. Different enhancement, same violence.
The telephone had rung an hour ago. A man with a polite voice asking about "family schedules for security purposes" after "the unfortunate incident." When she'd pressed for details, the line went dead.
The radio crackled in the corner—evening news about the stock market, President Hoover's latest economic measures, normal concerns of normal people living normal lives. People who didn't have to worry about their sons becoming precision instruments of death.
Now she understood why Aldair had powered up his exoskeleton and spent twenty minutes checking window locks and sight lines. In their world, violence echoed for weeks, sometimes months.
But this felt different. Aldair's trauma had been... internal. Self-directed. Kasper's enhancement had made him something else—a weapon that looked like her baby boy.
The phone rang again. Camila.
"¿Cómo está Marco?"
"Stable. The doctors say he'll live, but..." Camila's voice cracked through the static. "Mami, what are we going to do? I can't bring Marco around Kasper, but I can't abandon my brother either."
Carmen closed her eyes, remembering the impossible choices. Love someone dangerous, or sacrifice love for safety.
"We'll figure it out, mija."
But even as she said it, Carmen heard Kasper moving around upstairs—the sound of drawers opening, newspapers rustling. The careful, methodical movements of someone making plans.
Maybe some wounds were too deep to heal at home.
CAMILA
The hospital smelled like ether and broken dreams.
Camila sat beside Marco's bed, counting each breath like a rosary prayer. The doctors said three seconds longer and there would have been brain damage. Another pound of pressure and his windpipe would have collapsed.
"Why isn't your father doing anything?" she asked when Marco's eyes opened.
He tried to speak, managed only a whisper. "He's... waiting."
That scared her more than Vincenzo's rage would have. Men like him didn't act impulsively. They planned. They waited. They struck when their enemies felt safest.
"Marco." She took his uninjured hand. "I need to tell you something."
His eyes focused on her, still clouded with morphine but alert.
"I choose you."
The words came out harder than expected, each syllable a small betrayal of blood and seventeen years of family loyalty. But sitting here, watching him struggle to breathe because her brother had decided he was a threat—the choice felt inevitable.
"If being with you means I can't be around Kasper anymore, then that's what it means."
Marco squeezed her fingers weakly. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"Your brother... he's not like other men."
"He nearly killed you."
"And if he wanted me dead, I would be." Marco's eyes were clearer now, more focused. "Hospital security... they asked strange questions. About his capabilities. About what he did in Costa del Sol."
Cold settled in Camila's stomach. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind people ask when they're studying a weapon."
Before she could respond, a nurse appeared—one she didn't recognize, carrying a clipboard and wearing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Visiting hours are ending soon," the woman said, her accent faintly European. "But perhaps I could ask a few questions about your brother's... service record?"
Camila stood slowly, every journalist instinct screaming warnings.
"I think visiting hours just ended," she said.
The nurse's smile never wavered. "Of course. Perhaps another time."
When she was gone, Marco struggled to sit up.
"That woman—she's not assigned to this ward. I've been watching the staff."
ISABELLA
Isabella's workshop had always been her sanctuary—the comfortable chaos of half-finished projects, the smell of machine oil and metal shavings, the methodical precision of gears that made sense when people didn't.
Tonight, it felt like a crime scene.
She'd been hiding here for three hours, ostensibly working on Marco's kinetic charging system but mostly staring at equations that no longer seemed to matter. Her slide rule sat fifteen degrees off its usual alignment. Someone had moved it.
Someone who knew enough about precision instruments to be careful, but not enough to be perfect.
Isabella locked her workshop door and powered her wheelchair to its fastest setting, but froze when she heard the soft scrape of metal on concrete outside. Through the window, she glimpsed a figure crouched beside her workbench's external electrical panel.
Her heart hammered as she watched gloved hands working with practiced efficiency, installing something small and rectangular. The man's movements were professional, methodical—like Aldair when he maintained his exoskeleton.
When he finished and melted back into the shadows, Isabella sat in the dark for ten minutes before wheeling to find Aldair.
She found him on the back porch, his exoskeleton powered down but his enhanced hearing obviously active. He turned before she'd said a word.
"Someone searched your workshop?"
"Someone bugged it. Just now. I saw them install something on my electrical panel."
Aldair's brass joints gleamed as he stood. "Professionals. They searched the house while we were distracted by blood in the parlor."
Isabella felt her engineering mind shift into analytical mode. "Variables?"
"Too many. Kasper's enhancement status is documented in medical reports now. His Costa del Sol service record makes him valuable to certain parties. And Vincenzo's restraint could mean respect..." Aldair paused. "Or very careful planning."
"What do we do?"
"We prepare for multiple contingencies." His expression was grim. "And we hope your brother's paranoia is justified instead of just trauma."
VINCENZO
Vincenzo Moretti sat in his sedan across from the De La Fuente house, watching shadows move behind lighted windows. His driver had the engine running—ready for a quick departure if the situation escalated beyond conversation.
Aldair emerged from the back of the house, his exoskeleton powered but moving with deliberate calm. No weapons visible, but Vincenzo knew better than to assume that meant anything with enhanced veterans.
"Mr. Moretti." Aldair approached the passenger window. "Unexpected visit."
"Thought we should talk." Vincenzo didn't get out of the car. "Man to man."
"About your son?"
"About what happens next."
Aldair's brass joints hissed softly as he shifted his weight. "That depends on your intentions."
"My intention is to go home, have dinner with my family, and forget this unfortunate incident ever happened." Vincenzo's voice carried the weight of thirty years managing delicate situations. "Your stepson taught my boy a valuable lesson about respecting superior force."
"Lessons can be expensive."
"The most important ones usually are." Vincenzo met Aldair's enhanced gaze. "I'm not here for revenge, Aldair. I'm here because someone's been asking questions about both our families."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest this incident wasn't as spontaneous as it appeared." Vincenzo pulled out a business card—hospital administration. "My contacts tell me someone's been very interested in enhancement specifications. Capabilities assessments. Combat effectiveness ratings."
Aldair took the card, examined it. "Professional surveillance?"
"Professional interest. Someone wanted detailed intelligence on what your boy can do." Vincenzo started to roll up the window, then paused. "For what it's worth, if I'd been in his position, your stepson showed remarkable restraint."
"Remarkable restraint?"
"Marco's still breathing."
After Aldair stepped back, Vincenzo's driver pulled away slowly. In the rearview mirror, he watched the enhanced veteran study the business card before walking back toward the house.
The conversation had served its purpose. Aldair would know that Vincenzo Moretti wasn't planning retaliation—but he'd also know that someone else was very interested in the Void Killer's capabilities.
Whether that someone was connected to the Morettis or working independently... well, that uncertainty would keep everyone appropriately cautious.
MARCO
The morphine made everything fuzzy, but one thing cut through the haze with crystal clarity: he'd been a fool.
Marco stared at the ceiling tiles, counting holes in each square because focusing on something simple kept the panic at bay. His throat felt like he'd swallowed broken glass. His wrist throbbed despite the hospital drugs.
But worse than the physical pain was the humiliation. Twenty-four years old and he'd been reduced to a gasping, broken thing on the floor while his girlfriend's family watched in horror.
The door opened. His father.
"How are you feeling?" Vincenzo asked, settling into the bedside chair with the careful movements of a man who'd learned to be cautious around violence.
Marco tried to answer, managed only a whisper. "Like an idiot."
"Sí." Vincenzo's voice carried no anger, just disappointment that cut deeper than rage would have. "You are."
Marco flinched. "I didn't know—"
"Exactly. You didn't know." Vincenzo leaned forward. "Marco, that man killed two hundred thirty-seven people in Costa del Sol. He is not your college friend who got a little rough. He is a precision instrument of death, and you provoked him like he was some street tough you could handle."
"Are you going to—"
"What? Retaliate? Against the Void Killer?" Vincenzo's laugh was humorless. "Marco, if I make one wrong move, he will end our entire family. Not because he wants to, but because that's what he was trained to do."
Marco's eyes widened. "Then why—"
"Because sometimes the best response to superior force is respect." Vincenzo stood. "He could have killed you. Instead, he sent a message: stay away from what he protects. The beating you took? That was him being gentle."
After his father left, Marco lay back against his pillows, trying to process what he'd learned. The man who'd nearly killed him had been... restraining himself?
A nurse entered—the same woman from earlier, the one Camila hadn't recognized.
"How are we feeling, Mr. Moretti?"
Marco studied her face, noting the too-careful smile, the accent that didn't quite place. "Who are you?"
"I'm here to help. Perhaps you could tell me more about your... encounter... with Mr. De La Fuente?"
Something cold settled in Marco's chest. His father's words echoed: superior force requires respect.
"I think," Marco said carefully, "you should leave before my girlfriend's brother finds out you've been asking questions."
The woman's smile never wavered, but something shifted in her eyes. "Of course. Rest well, Mr. Moretti."
When she was gone, Marco reached for the bedside telephone with his good hand. His father answered immediately.
"Papá, someone's been asking questions about Kasper."
"I know. We're being very careful not to give them any answers."
ALDAIR
Aldair stood in Kasper's doorway, watching the boy pack with military precision—bounty hunter gear, enhancement maintenance kit, enough ammunition for a small war.
"Running away?"
Kasper didn't look up from his tactical vest. "Protecting them."
"From you, or from what's coming?"
That got his attention. Kasper's hands stilled.
"Someone's been watching the house for three days," Aldair continued. "Professional surveillance. They bugged Isabella's workshop tonight—she saw them install the device. They searched the main house while we were distracted."
"Vincenzo's people."
"I just spoke with Vincenzo. He's not planning retaliation—and he's not the one asking questions about your capabilities." Aldair stepped closer. "Someone else wanted detailed intelligence on what you can do."
The question hung in the air. Kasper's face cycled through confusion, concentration, then something like horror.
"I... he said I should process my trauma. But it wasn't what he said." Kasper's enhanced memory was clearly replaying the moment. "It was how he said it. The exact words, the timing..."
"Like someone had coached him?"
"Mierda." Kasper sat heavily on his bed. "Someone wanted this to happen."
"Someone's been studying you both long enough to know exactly how to create this situation." Aldair moved closer. "Question is: why? What do they gain from you and the Morettis at each other's throats?"
Kasper looked at his packed bags, at the train schedule, at the newspaper classifieds still circled in red ink.
"I was gonna leave."
"I know."
"Maybe I still should."
"Maybe running's exactly what they want." Aldair powered down his exoskeleton and sat beside his stepson. "Twenty years ago, I made the same choice. Left your mother because I thought I was too dangerous to stay."
"Were you wrong?"
"No. I was dangerous. Still am." Aldair's brass joints caught the lamplight. "But leaving didn't solve the problem. Just meant I wasn't there when the real threats came calling."
Kasper stared at his enhanced hands—deadly, precise, still stained with another man's blood despite all his scrubbing.
"How do you live with it? Knowing what you're capable of?"
"You remember why you chose to become capable in the first place." Aldair stood. "And you make sure that when the monsters come—the real ones—you're ready to be the bigger monster."
Through the window, the surveillance car was changing shifts again. New watchers. Same patient observation.
"They're not going away, are they?"
"No. But maybe it's time to stop running from what you are and start using it to protect what matters."
Kasper looked at his packed bags one more time, then slowly began unpacking his ammunition.
Outside, the watchers continued their vigil, unaware that the Void Killer had just decided to stop being prey.