Location: Bruce Family Home, New Orleans
Time: 8:50 a.m.
The scent of cinnamon and… smoke… drifted lazily through the Bruce family kitchen.
Ryan stared down at the griddle like it had personally betrayed him. "That was supposed to be a pancake. Not a biohazard."
Faith, perched on a stool with batter on her nose, clapped. "It looks like a pirate ship crashed into a volcano!"
"Thank you, sweetheart. That's exactly the Michelin star review I was going for."
He scraped the charred remains into the compost bin and tried again. This time slower. More deliberate. Less… arson-y.
From the living room, Holly's voice rang out. "Dad! If breakfast doesn't pass FDA standards, I'm filing an appeal!"
"You'll get a pancake," he called back, "or at least a reasonably pancake-shaped object!"
Emily stumbled in a moment later wearing a hoodie over her pajamas and a look that said 'don't speak until coffee touches lips'. She accepted a mug from Ryan wordlessly, took a sip, then gave him a skeptical side-eye.
"You're cooking again?"
Ryan looked wounded. "I cooked last week. Remember? It was edible."
"You toasted Pop-Tarts."
"It's called minimalist gourmet."
Holly shuffled in, holding a clipboard—because of course she had a clipboard. "This is your nutritional intake audit. Did you know breakfast is 23% of a child's daily brain fuel? We haven't had anything green since we got back."
Faith raised her hand. "I ate a crayon yesterday."
Everyone paused.
"Okay," Ryan said. "So that explains the blue tongue."
Emily gave him a look that was half marriage is a sacred bond and half I regret everything.
But when Ryan finally flipped a pancake that landed with an actual bounce, the kitchen erupted in cheers—mostly sarcastic, partly sincere. And when they all sat down—plates messy, syrup in places syrup should never be—they shared something far rarer than intelligence briefings or tactical wins.
They shared peace.
Emily leaned her head against Ryan's shoulder. "So... what do we call this phase of our lives?"
He smiled. "Early retirement?"
Faith smeared syrup on her cheek like war paint. "Family mission: sugar rush!"
And Ryan laughed—not the tense, calculating chuckle of Agent Veltrix—but the kind of laugh that made you forget how much danger you'd danced through to get here.
10:14 a.m. – Backyard Chaos
The sprinkler had not been part of the original plan. Nor had the army of neighborhood kids that somehow materialized the moment Faith screamed "WATER FIGHT!"
Ryan stood soaking wet, holding a deflated unicorn float like a shield. Holly had claimed the trampoline as her kingdom. Emily was laughing so hard she dropped her phone into a flowerpot.
Bella Castini had texted once that morning—just a check-in, no threats, no blackmail, no fire. That alone felt like a win.
Later, while Holly and Faith chalked galaxies onto the driveway, Emily and Ryan lay on the lawn, arms tangled together, just watching the clouds.
"No missions. No secrets," she whispered.
"No underground labs," he added.
"No clone fights."
"No tranquilizer darts in my purse."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Wait—do you still carry those?"
Emily smirked. "You sleep like a rock. I need insurance."
They kissed slowly. The kind of kiss that says we made it. And for a while, they believed it.
8:42 p.m. – Quiet Hours
The girls were tucked in. Holly journaled beneath her blanket fort, flashlight in hand. Faith was already snoring, face smushed against Jumpy the stuffed frog.
Downstairs, Ryan sat on the porch with a glass of bourbon. A gentle breeze stirred the Spanish moss in the oaks. For once, New Orleans wasn't screaming.
He checked the backyard cam. All clear.
Checked the system logs. A few short power blips. Probably the air conditioning again. He made a mental note to call the repair guy.
Emily joined him with a blanket and two cookies. "You're still checking the perimeter?"
"Habit," Ryan said, sipping. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
She passed him a cookie. "Then eat this and pretend it's the shoe."
They sat in silence.
Until—
9:03 p.m. – Systems Glitch
Inside the house, unnoticed, the basement router blinked.
Upstairs, Holly's tablet rebooted. A glowing pixelated screen blinked once. Then again.
BOOTING… SYSTEM OVERRIDE DETECTED.
On the porch, Ryan's phone vibrated. No number. Just a message:
"REDACTED ISN'T DEAD. HE'S AWAKE."
He stared. The Glitch Wolf symbol flickered faintly beneath the text. His pulse didn't spike. Not yet.
"Ryan?" Emily's voice cut through the quiet.
He turned. Smiled. "Everything's fine."
But deep in his chest, in the place only spies know, the dread returned.
(To Be Continued...)