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At the Hargrove residence, Marcus heard the front door open and shoved his phone into his pocket fast enough to pull a muscle.
Edmund Hargrove, returning from his morning walk, hung up his coat and studied his son with the cheerful disapproval of a man who'd earned the right to lecture.
"Marcus, I'm not trying to nag, but you should get outside more. Sitting indoors all day is terrible for your health."
"I just walked four flights of stairs without stopping. You were winded after two. At ninety-one, I'm outperforming you. That's embarrassing."
On any other day, Marcus would have fired back. Today, he had nothing.
Hargrove noticed the missing rebuttal but didn't press it. Instead, he shifted topics.
"By the way, is that boy Ethan still buried in that biochemical laboratory?"
Marcus's heart lurched.
"Uh — yes. Yes, still in the laboratory."
The old man's eyes narrowed. Something was off with his son's tone. But he filed it away and launched into a familiar grievance.
"That kid. I say one nice thing about him and he loses his bearings entirely. Running off to dabble in biology! Doesn't he know the saying about different fields being different mountains?"
"He's wasting his talent. And the Chancellor is just as bad — instead of stopping him, he helped the brat borrow a laboratory!"
Marcus could only offer a bitter smile.
Kid, you need to come back. Otherwise the old man will only have me to yell at from now on.
Inside the Aurelian Department of Defense's East Coast branch, Ethan was escorted down a corridor by a formation of agents so tight he could have reached out and touched four of them simultaneously.
Before he reached the office, Defense Secretary Callister emerged to greet him personally.
"Welcome! Welcome!"
The warmth was theatrical. The kind of warmth that powerful men deployed when they wanted something from you and believed the transaction was already in their favor.
"Mr. Mercer, although we've never met in person, your reputation precedes you. Those two inventions — truly miraculous. They've opened my eyes to what's possible."
Don't hit a smiling face. Ethan knew the man harbored intentions that had nothing to do with admiration. But with the Signal Bee broadcasting to a global audience and Frank's safety dependent on not escalating prematurely, he played the part.
"Mr. Callister, you're too kind."
Before he could continue, one of the agents flanking him made a move.
The man was fast. Trained. His arm swung upward toward the Signal Bee hovering at shoulder height, gun butt aimed at the drone's lens, the motion executed with the speed of someone who'd spent years perfecting the art of disabling things quickly and quietly.
Ethan caught his wrist.
Not after the swing. During it. His hand closed around the agent's forearm and stopped the motion dead, like a steel clamp engaging.
The agent's eyes went wide.
These were elite operatives. Selected from military special forces, then subjected to years of additional training. Any one of them could handle ten opponents in close quarters.
And an eighteen-year-old had just intercepted a strike that should have been too fast for a civilian to track, let alone stop.
Callister's expression flickered. Brief. Controlled. But real.
The agent whose arm was being held went red. Being stopped by a kid, in front of his colleagues and his commanding officer, was a humiliation that bypassed his training and went straight to his ego.
He pulled back, preparing for a second attempt.
"Enough." Callister's voice was sharp. "Is that how we treat a distinguished guest?"
The agent retreated, jaw tight, resentment visible in every line of his body.
Ethan released the wrist and turned to Callister with an expression of mild curiosity.
"Mr. Callister, does this little drone really bother you that much?"
He tilted his head.
"Or is what we're about to discuss not fit for the world to see?"
Callister was caught off guard for a beat, then recovered with a laugh that was genuinely amused. Or at least, a convincing simulation of genuine amusement.
"Of course not! If Mr. Mercer wants to keep his little gadget running, by all means. Let the people of Valoria and the entire world see how the Aurelian Republic treats its guests."
The concession cost Callister nothing. In his assessment, the Signal Bee was a security blanket. The digital equivalent of a child clutching a stuffed animal in a dark room, convinced that holding it would keep the monsters away.
It wouldn't. But letting the kid believe it gave Callister leverage he could use later: the illusion of safety made people careless.
The group moved toward the building's conference room. Callister walked beside Ethan, maintaining the performance of casual friendliness that the global broadcast required.
"Mr. Mercer, you seem to keep yourself in excellent physical condition."
The comment was probing. Callister's eyes had registered what his agent's arm had felt: the grip that stopped a trained operative's strike hadn't been the grip of a normal teenager.
"That move of my man's just now wasn't gentle. And you stopped it like it was nothing."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"What are you getting at, Mr. Callister?"
"Nothing sinister. If you enjoy training, we have a fully equipped gymnasium at Defense Department headquarters. State of the art. You're welcome to use it during your stay."
The recruitment pitch was barely disguised. Stay here. Use our facilities. Get comfortable. Become ours.
"That's generous. I'd love to explore more of the Aurelian Republic. But the fact that you kidnapped my uncle does cast something of a shadow over the tourism experience."
The word "kidnapped" dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water.
Callister didn't flinch.
"Kidnapped? Mr. Mercer, I'm not sure where you're getting your information. Mr. Frank Holloway is visiting the Aurelian Republic of his own accord. I personally invited him as a guest of the Department, out of my deep admiration for the man who raised such an extraordinary talent."
"How could anyone call that kidnapping?"
In the live broadcast, the comment sections detonated.
"This man is SHAMELESS."
"'Admiration for Mr. Holloway'? You wouldn't know a high school principal EXISTED if it weren't for Mercer."
"I'm genuinely curious whether the armor's laser could even burn through this man's thick skin."
"The Aurelian Republic's idea of 'hospitality': tranquilizer rounds and military transport planes."
The walk to the conference room continued with the specific awkwardness of two men maintaining a performance of civility while each silently calculated how to destroy the other.
When they arrived, Ethan walked directly to the center seat at the conference table and sat down.
He looked at the agents lining the walls — at least twenty of them — and frowned.
"Mr. Callister, I don't like crowds."
Callister blinked, then waved his hand. Most of the agents filed out. Only four remained. The best of the best, positioned at the room's corners with the relaxed alertness of men who could cross the distance to the table in under a second.
Callister didn't think Ethan could threaten him without the armor. A teenager, no matter how gifted, was still a teenager. But leaving a few professionals in the room was basic precaution.
Ethan looked at the four remaining agents. Looked at Callister. Looked at the Signal Bee hovering in the corner, its lens catching everything.
Then he leaned forward.
"Let's stop dancing, Mr. Callister. Here are my conditions."