The warm aroma of curry simmering on the stove filled Mr. Thompson's modest Brooklyn apartment. The low hum of the news playing on the television in the corner barely registered in his ears as he stirred the pot, his thoughts lingering on the long day he'd had. The Brooklyn Brew café reconstruction had been more taxing than expected, and his joints ached from moving furniture and repairing fixtures. He glanced at the clock on the wall—it was late. Too late for someone his age to be standing in a kitchen, cooking.
He chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he reached for the spice rack. "What are you doing, Thompson? Should've gone for takeout," he muttered. Still, he knew Alastor would be hungry when he finally arrived.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet. Thompson froze for a moment, his hand hovering over the ladle. He wasn't expecting any calls, especially not at this hour. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he crossed the room to the small table where his phone buzzed insistently.
The screen lit up with Jack's name.
Thompson's brow furrowed. "What's this kid up to now?" he muttered before swiping to answer.
"Jack? It's late," Thompson said, leaning back against the counter. "What's going on?"
On the other end, Jack's voice was rough, a mix of exhaustion and strain. "Hey, Mr. Thompson. Sorry to call you so late, but… I thought you should know."
Thompson's grip on the phone tightened. "Know what? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I mean—sort of. We, uh… we ran into some trouble tonight. Me, Alastor, and Emily."
"Trouble?" Thompson's voice sharpened, his exhaustion forgotten. "What kind of trouble?"
Jack hesitated, his words slow, as if piecing together a fragmented memory. "We were at this bar… and some guys showed up. They weren't just your average barfight types. It got bad, real bad."
Thompson's heart sank. "Bad how? Are you hurt?"
Jack let out a weak laugh. "A bit, yeah. But Emily's patched me up. Alastor's hurt worse, though. He's here, at Emily's apartment."
Thompson's stomach churned, worry gnawing at him. "Emily? The reporter?"
"Yeah, that Emily. She's… she's handling things. But I figured you should know. Alastor… he's in rough shape."
Thompson exhaled heavily, running a hand through his graying hair. "Alright. Stay put, both of you. Don't move an inch. I'll figure something out."
"Thanks," Jack said, his voice quieter now. "And, uh… do tell Rachel. I think she deserves to know."
Thompson's jaw tightened. "I'll handle Rachel. Just focus on resting."
Jack mumbled something akin to agreement before the call ended. Thompson stared at his phone for a long moment, his mind racing. He glanced at the curry bubbling softly on the stove, suddenly unappetizing.
With a resigned sigh, he tapped Rachel's name on his contacts list.
In a dimly lit café in Queens, Rachel stirred her coffee absently, the silver spoon clinking softly against the porcelain cup. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the near-empty room. It had been a long day, and the caffeine was barely keeping her upright.
Her phone buzzed on the table, and she frowned at the screen. "Uncle Thompson?" she murmured, picking it up. She swiped to answer, bringing the phone to her ear.
"Uncle? What's up?" she asked, her tone light but tinged with curiosity.
"Rachel," Thompson's voice was steady, but there was an undertone of urgency she didn't miss. "It's about Alastor."
Rachel sat up straighter, her grip on the phone tightening. "What about him? Is he okay?"
"No, he's not," Thompson admitted, his voice heavy. "Jack called me just now. He and Alastor ran into some kind of trouble at a bar tonight. They're at Emily's apartment, and she's taking care of them. Alastor's hurt, worse than Jack, but both of them sound like they've been through hell."
Rachel's heart twisted, her stomach dropping. "What happened? Who hurt them?"
"I don't know much about the details," Thompson said. "But it sounds like a fight broke out. Something serious."
Rachel exhaled sharply, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. "Goddamn it, Alastor," she muttered under her breath. "Why can't he keep himself out of these messes?"
Thompson's voice softened. "Rachel, I know you've got your… issues with him. But I can tell you're worried."
Rachel closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of course I'm worried. He's… Alastor." Her voice cracked slightly, and she quickly cleared her throat. "And Jack, too. And Emily—she's probably losing her mind dealing with all of this."
Thompson sighed. "I thought you should know. I'm still figuring out what to do."
Rachel glanced out the café window, her mind racing. "I'll head over. Emily's place, right?"
"No, don't," Thompson said quickly. "Let them rest tonight. If you show up now, you'll just make things worse."
Rachel clenched her jaw, but she didn't argue. "Fine. But first thing tomorrow, I'm going to check on them."
Thompson's voice softened. "I knew you would. Just… be careful, Rachel."
"I always am," Rachel replied, though her mind was already spinning with possibilities. She ended the call and stared at her coffee, untouched and now lukewarm.
"Damn it, Alastor," she muttered again, standing abruptly and grabbing her coat. As she stepped out into the cool night air, her worry for Alastor, Jack, and even Emily followed her like a shadow.
The early morning light cast a pale glow over Brooklyn as Mr. Thompson maneuvered his old truck through the quiet streets. The hum of the engine filled the silence between him and Rachel, who sat in the passenger seat with her arms crossed. She stared out the window, her gaze distant, her thoughts undoubtedly on Alastor.
"Do you know exactly what kind of trouble they ran into?" Rachel asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was clipped, but the worry underneath was unmistakable.
"Jack didn't say much," Thompson replied, his hands gripping the wheel. "Only that some guys started a fight, and Alastor got the worst of it."
Rachel exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Thompson gave her a sidelong glance. "You look more frustrated than worried."
"I'm both," Rachel muttered, her voice softening. "I just want him to be okay, Uncle."
Thompson didn't respond, but the frown etched on his face deepened as they turned onto a quieter street in Brooklyn Heights. The apartment complex was modest, its brick facade blending in with the neighboring buildings. Thompson parked along the curb, pulling his phone from his pocket to confirm the address Jack had sent him.
"This is it," he said, stepping out of the truck. Rachel followed suit, adjusting her jacket against the crisp morning air.
They walked up the steps to the entrance, Thompson leading the way. He knocked firmly on the door, and they waited, the sounds of the city muted in the background. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Emily.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she looked exhausted, but her expression was composed. The sharpness that had defined her demeanor during their last encounter was notably absent.
"Good morning," Emily said, her voice steady, though there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes as they landed on Rachel.
"Morning," Thompson replied, his tone polite but concerned. "Jack gave me your address. I hope it's alright we came by."
Emily nodded, stepping aside to let them in. "Of course. I was expecting you."
Rachel lingered for a moment before crossing the threshold. The tension between her and Emily was palpable but unspoken. They exchanged awkward glances before Rachel broke the silence.
"How are you holding up?" Rachel asked, her voice softer than usual.
"I'm fine," Emily replied quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear. "It was a long night, but… I'm fine."
The two women exchanged a brief, uneasy smile before Thompson cleared his throat, drawing their attention.
"Where are they?" he asked.
Emily gestured toward the living room, where the couch and armchair had been transformed into makeshift recovery stations. Alastor lay on the couch, his chest rising and falling steadily, his face still pale but far less strained than the night before. Jack was slumped in the armchair, his bandaged shoulder peeking out from under a loose shirt. His eyes opened groggily as they approached.
"Hey," Jack croaked, offering a faint smile. "Morning."
"Morning, kid," Thompson replied, his voice filled with quiet relief. He crouched beside Jack, inspecting him. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Jack said, though he winced as he shifted. "Shoulder's stiff, and my head's killing me, but… I'll live."
Thompson patted Jack's uninjured shoulder, the worry easing slightly from his features. Then his gaze shifted to the couch where Alastor lay. Rachel, already making her way toward him, knelt down beside the couch just as Thompson stepped closer, his brow furrowed with concern.
Alastor's breathing was steady, but the pallor in his face hadn't fully lifted. Thompson crossed his arms, leaning slightly forward to get a better look. "He doesn't look great," he said, glancing at Emily. "How's he holding up?"
Emily stepped toward them, her arms crossed. "Better than last night," she said, her voice calm but measured. "He was in bad shape when I brought him here, but… he's recovering faster than I expected."
Rachel placed a hand on Alastor's arm, her thumb brushing lightly over his skin as if reassuring herself he was still there. "Good," she said softly, though her tone carried an edge of lingering worry. "That's… good."
Thompson straightened slightly, his gaze flicking between Alastor and Emily. "Recovering fast, huh? You sure he's okay?"
Emily nodded but hesitated. She glanced at Rachel, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she leaned slightly closer. "It's strange, though… how fast he's recovering, isn't it?"
Rachel froze, her back straightening. She turned to face Emily, forcing a nervous laugh as she whispered back, "What do you mean?"
Emily shrugged slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Just seems… unusual. Most people wouldn't bounce back so quickly after a night like that." Her words were quiet, measured, her tone calm but laced with subtle curiosity.
Rachel's face hardened briefly before softening into something more resigned. She sighed, lowering her gaze before finally whispering, "You know, don't you?"
Emily blinked, her brow furrowing. "Know what?"
Rachel glanced at Alastor, her voice dropping even further. "That he has powers."
Emily's eyes widened, though she kept her expression neutral. "Oh… so you knew," she whispered back, her tone both surprised and intrigued.
Rachel looked down through her lashes, her hands clasping together tightly. She closed her eyes for a moment before exhaling deeply. "I've known for a while."
Emily studied her for a beat, her lips pressing into a thin line before she nodded. "We'll talk about all this later," she said, her voice firm yet understanding.
Rachel's gaze shifted back to Alastor, her worry momentarily overshadowing her reluctance. She didn't argue. Thompson, meanwhile, straightened, his frown deepening as he observed the two women. He clearly noticed the weight of their whispered exchange but chose not to comment.
Across the room, Jack adjusted the bandage on his shoulder, his expression groggy but curious. He watched the interaction quietly, exchanging a glance with Thompson, who gave a slight shake of his head as if to say, not now. What the hell are they whispering about? Jack wondered, his curiosity poking through the fog of exhaustion.
Rachel crouched back down beside Alastor, gently brushing a strand of hair away from his face as he slept. Thompson stood nearby, his arms crossed and his worry still evident, while Emily stepped back, her expression unreadable. Her mind was clearly racing with unanswered questions.
For now, the fragile truce between them would hold. But the unspoken understanding in Rachel's eyes told Emily one thing: there was far more to Alastor—and to Rachel—than she had realized.