Rain still whispered against Avalon's windows as night thickened around the city. The storefront had long been locked, the blinds drawn, the lights dimmed to a low amber glow.
In The Den, Bob Diamond sat slouched on the couch, wrapped in a blanket Lorna had fetched earlier. His ribs were freshly wrapped, jaw dark with bruising, eyes more alert than his battered frame suggested.
Across from him, John Cruz leaned forward in a folding chair, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. The first-aid kit, cleaned and resealed, sat on the table between them.
The silence had weight. But John was done waiting.
"You know who sent them, don't you?"
Bob didn't answer right away. He exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers tracing the edge of a mug Lorna had filled with lemon tea.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Not names, but intent. I ran into a guy a few days ago—real cloak-and-dagger type. Robes. Polished boots. Said something cryptic about balance and tribute."
John raised an eyebrow.
Bob continued, his voice flat. "Said I'd make a 'fine gift' for his boss—someone named Master Khan."
That name lingered in the room like smoke.
Lorna, seated nearby on the couch's armrest, tilted her head. "Master Khan?"
Bob nodded slowly. "An old name. Old power. From a place even the streets don't talk about unless they're whispering."
John leaned back. "So they were after you."
"Yeah." Bob's tone was dry. "That part's clear now."
"But why?" John asked. "What do they want from you?"
Bob looked away for a long time.
"I have something," he said at last. "It's old. Small. Something they seem to want real bad."
He tapped his chest.
John's gaze followed the motion to the small, thin medallion hanging beneath Bob's shirt. A subtle bulge beneath the fabric, about the size of a silver dollar.
"You gonna tell me what it is?"
Bob met his gaze. "No."
Not angry. Not evasive. Just… certain.
"You don't trust us?"
Bob shook his head. "I do. That's why I'm not telling you."
John blinked.
Lorna frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
Bob looked down at his tea.
"Some things aren't secrets because they're dangerous to know. They're secrets because they change people once they do." He looked back up at John. "You've got a good thing here. A place with weight and peace. If I drag the wrong stories into that, it won't survive."
John crossed his arms. "You're already dragging stories in."
Bob nodded. "Yeah. And I'm sorry for that."
They sat in silence for a while. Rain. Clock ticking. The low hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
Eventually, Lorna stood and wandered to The Den's bookshelves. She didn't say much, but John saw the way her hand hovered over the science magazines she'd shelved earlier—like she needed something solid to remind her of the world's order.
Bob finally broke the silence.
"I've been hunted before. I can disappear again. I've done it plenty."
John didn't hesitate. "You're not leaving."
"Why?"
"Because if you were meant to face this alone, they wouldn't have sent ninjas. They'd have sent a bullet." John glanced toward the window. "And because Avalon doesn't close its doors when someone knocks."
Bob looked like he wanted to argue.
But didn't.
Later that night, John rechecked the storefront security. Lorna organized the stockroom. Bob stayed quiet on the couch, dozing with one eye half-open.
John stood at the Den's rear panel and looked at the wall where his father's secret files and the serum remained locked away.
So many layers hidden beneath Avalon's clean walls.
And now a new layer had arrived—wrapped in a medallion Bob wouldn't explain and enemies who dressed like a bad martial arts flick but moved like real killers.
Whatever the medallion was, it was important enough to make Avalon a target.
And that meant it was important enough to protect.