It had been nearly six months since the fall of Sunnydale—since the crater swallowed what little remained of their hometown. The dust had settled, quite literally, but Xander's life still felt like it was in limbo. Anya was gone, and the pain of that loss followed him everywhere, lingering like a shadow he couldn't shake. The Scoobies had scattered after the battle—Buffy was working with newly activated Slayers across Europe, Willow had returned to South America to continue her magical studies, and Giles had been pulled into Watcher business, helping to rebuild the Council. They were all doing something, moving forward. But Xander? He was stuck, floating through L.A. with no real direction, still feeling the weight of everything they'd lost.

His phone buzzed on the chipped bedside table, shaking him out of his thoughts. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the TV that he wasn't really watching. The number on the screen wasn't familiar, but that wasn't uncommon. He picked up, more out of boredom than curiosity. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Harris? Alexander Harris?" The voice on the other end was sharp, professional.

"Uh, yeah. This is Xander."

"This is Joshua Silverman, from Silverman & Associates. We're an inheritance office based in L.A. I'm calling regarding your late mother's estate."

Xander sat up straighter, the words sending a jolt through him. His mother. He hadn't even thought about her estate—not after everything that had happened. It felt like Sunnydale had taken all of it with it when it crumbled into the earth. "What… what do you mean?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"You are listed as the sole beneficiary of her will. There are some assets—property, a small sum of money, and personal effects. I'd like to schedule a time for you to come by and go over the details. You'll need to claim them."

Xander blinked, trying to wrap his head around it. His mother. She had been gone for months, but everything else had been so chaotic that he hadn't even had time to think about what she'd left behind. His life, once full of vampire-slaying and apocalypse-preventing, now felt eerily normal. And yet, nothing felt right.

"Mr. Harris? Are you still there?"

"Yeah," Xander managed, clearing his throat. "I'm here. What... uh, what do I need to do?"

"If you can come to our office tomorrow at 10 a.m., we'll handle all the paperwork and transfer the estate to you."

"Right. Yeah. Tomorrow, 10 a.m.," he repeated, still feeling like he was in a daze.

"Excellent. I'll send you the address. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Harris."

The call ended, leaving Xander holding the phone in his hand, staring at the screen. The word "inheritance" echoed in his mind. His mother. The home they'd lost. He thought he'd buried all of it in the rubble of Sunnydale, but here it was again, rising from the ashes.

He tossed the phone onto the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. Buffy and Willow were out saving the world, and here he was, trying to figure out what to do with the remnants of a life he hadn't even realized was still clinging to him.

---

The next morning, Xander stood outside a nondescript office building in downtown Los Angeles, staring up at the faded sign for "Silverman & Associates." It wasn't much to look at—just another building in a city filled with buildings—but today, it felt heavier, like a door to a past he wasn't sure he wanted to open. He hadn't slept much the night before, his mind replaying the conversation with the lawyer over and over again. His mother's voice kept slipping in between his thoughts, memories of her long hospital shifts and her distant, exhausted smile swirling in his mind.

He was here now, though. The others were busy with their new lives—Willow in South America, Buffy with the newly-formed Slayer army—but Xander wasn't sure he even had a new life to move on to. It was just him. Alone. As usual.

The streets of L.A. buzzed with people rushing to work, cars honking, and vendors setting up their stalls. For a moment, he stood there, lost in the flow of the city, feeling small and disconnected. Sunnydale had been destroyed, and yet life just went on. The world didn't stop for him, or for anyone, it seemed.

Xander adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and took a breath. It was time to go in.

He pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the cool, sterile interior of the office. The front desk receptionist gave him a quick glance, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pointed toward the elevators.

"Third floor," she said with a practiced smile.

Xander nodded, barely registering her tone, and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and the quiet hum of the elevator only amplified the strange buzzing in his head. His reflection in the polished metal doors looked tired. Older. The scars on his face, especially the patch where his eye once was, reminded him of everything he had been through. The nightmares, the battles, the sacrifices. But this… this was different.

The elevator dinged, and he stepped out into a narrow hallway lined with dull, beige walls. At the end of it, a small plaque read "Silverman & Associates – Joshua Silverman, Esq." Xander sighed and walked toward the door, his heart pounding a little harder with each step.

He wasn't sure what he expected when he reached the office, but it wasn't this. The room was modern and sparsely decorated, with a row of chairs along one wall and a tall, glass desk where a young woman sat typing away. Behind her, Joshua Silverman—presumably the lawyer—was speaking on the phone, his voice a low murmur. Xander's arrival didn't seem to register with anyone. Just another client in a long line of people with too much baggage and not enough closure.

Finally, after a few moments, the lawyer hung up and turned to greet him with a small, professional smile.

"Mr. Harris? Please, come in."

Xander followed him into the office, trying not to let the nerves show. He wasn't ready for this, but when was he ever ready for anything?

---

The office was quiet, save for the sound of rustling papers and the low hum of the air conditioner. Xander sat across from Joshua Silverman, who was flipping through a stack of documents on his desk. The lawyer was an older man, late fifties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of demeanor that came with years of dealing with grieving families and complicated estates.

"You've inherited a few things," Silverman began, his tone professional but not entirely unsympathetic. "Primarily, there's the deed to your family's house in Sunnydale, although, given the circumstances, the property itself is... well, it's gone."

Xander nodded, the pit in his stomach growing a little deeper. Gone. Of course it was gone. Sunnydale was a hole in the ground now, a memory of what used to be. He wasn't sure why hearing it said out loud made it worse, but it did.

"There's also a small savings account your mother kept," Silverman continued, sliding a paper across the desk for Xander to look at. "It's not much, but it should be enough to help with any immediate expenses."

Xander glanced at the paper, the numbers blurring slightly. It wasn't a fortune, but it was more than he'd expected. His mother had worked herself to the bone for as long as he could remember, and yet she had somehow managed to put something away for him. That realization made his chest tighten.

"And lastly," Silverman said, reaching into a drawer, "your mother left you this." He pulled out a sealed envelope, yellowed around the edges, with "Xander" written in his mother's handwriting across the front. The familiar loops of her letters made his breath catch in his throat.

"What's in it?" Xander asked, though part of him already knew.

"I'm not privy to the contents," Silverman replied. "It's a personal letter, addressed to you."

Xander took the envelope, his fingers brushing over the ink. It felt heavier than paper should, like it carried more than just words. He stared at it for a moment, feeling the weight of everything his mother had never said, of all the years of silence between them.

Silverman cleared his throat, drawing Xander's attention back to the moment. "You'll need to sign here," the lawyer said, pointing to a line on one of the documents. "And here, to acknowledge receipt of the estate."

Xander scribbled his signature, barely registering what he was agreeing to. His mind was stuck on the letter, on the words it might contain, on the secrets his mother had kept all these years. He couldn't shake the feeling that once he opened it, things would never be the same.

Silverman watched him for a moment before offering a measured smile. "I understand this might be difficult for you. If you need any assistance with financial planning or legal advice in the future, our office is always available."

"Yeah, thanks," Xander muttered, slipping the letter into his jacket pocket. He stood up, feeling like he was moving through fog. "I appreciate it."

Silverman extended his hand, and Xander shook it out of habit, the exchange feeling hollow. The meeting was over, but the questions had only just begun.

---

Xander didn't wait until he was back at the motel. He couldn't. The moment he stepped out of the lawyer's office, he found a bench on the street and sat down, the envelope heavy in his jacket pocket. His fingers hesitated at the edge of the seal for a moment before he tore it open, his breath catching in his throat. He wasn't sure what he expected—maybe an apology, maybe just some closure—but what he found inside was something else entirely.

The letter was short, her handwriting neat and careful, as though she had taken her time with every word. As he read, Xander's hands trembled slightly.

*Dear Xander,*

*There are things I should have told you a long time ago. Secrets I kept, not to hurt you, but because I didn't know how to face them myself. You deserve to know the truth, and I can only hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner.*

*Your father... the man you've known as Anthony Harris... he wasn't your biological father.*

Xander's heart skipped a beat. He re-read the line, the words not fully sinking in.

*Your real father was a man named James Howlett. I met him in 1980. We were both different people back then, and we fell in love. He disappeared not long after you were conceived, and I never saw him again. Anthony was an old friend, and he stepped in to help, to raise you as his own. I thought it was best for you to have someone there, someone steady.*

*I don't know if that was the right choice. Maybe if I had told you the truth, things would have been different. Maybe the years of pain could have been avoided. I'm so sorry, Xander. I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me most. I'm sorry for everything you went through with Anthony. I failed you in so many ways.*

*There are rumors that James may still be alive. A friend of mine, an investigator, spent years searching for him. Recently, he told me that James might have resurfaced in New York, working under a different name as an instructor at a school for the gifted. I'm not sure if it's really him, but if you want answers, that's where you should start.*

*I love you, Xander. I always have. I hope, wherever you go from here, you can find peace. You deserve that much.*

*Love, Mom.*

The paper fell from Xander's hands, drifting slowly to the ground. His breath came in short, uneven bursts as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, trying to process what he'd just read. James Howlett. His real father. A man he had never known. All these years of thinking Anthony Harris was his blood, and now this. It wasn't just the name or the fact that he had another father somewhere out there—it was the fact that his mother had known and never told him. Not during the years of abuse, not when things fell apart, not when he needed someone to explain why his life had gone the way it had.

Why hadn't she told him sooner? Had she thought it would somehow protect him from the truth? Or had she been too afraid of what he might do with that knowledge?

The mention of New York, of this "school for the gifted," brought with it a strange, unsettling feeling. Xander had heard whispers of people like that—special people, people with abilities. He wasn't sure what to make of it. But if his biological father was still out there, it meant that everything he thought he knew about his past, his family, his identity was a lie. The ground beneath him shifted, making everything feel unsteady.

The memories of Anthony—the yelling, the anger, the bruises—flooded back, stronger than before. He thought back to all the times he'd wondered why his father had seemed to resent him so much. Maybe now he had an answer. Anthony hadn't wanted to raise someone else's son. He'd done it out of obligation, not love. That realization stung more than anything.

Xander's hand instinctively went to his eye patch, rubbing at the edge of the scar. The itching sensation in his hands was back, a subtle burn under his skin, but he ignored it. He had more pressing concerns now. His real father. New York. The idea of a man named James Howlett walking around, alive, while he had spent years suffering under the wrong father's roof made his blood boil. But it also brought a small flicker of hope—a chance for answers, for something that made sense.

With the letter still crumpled in his lap, Xander stared out at the crowded L.A. streets, his mind already moving forward. There were things he needed to know, and the only place he was going to get those answers was in New York.

---

Xander wandered aimlessly through the streets of Los Angeles, the letter burning a hole in his pocket. The city's noise faded into the background as his thoughts churned. *James Howlett. New York. School for the gifted.* It was hard to make sense of it all. He'd been living his life under one assumption, and now... everything was different. The mother who worked endless hours, the father who raised him—none of it was what he thought.

As he walked, his hands began to itch again, the sensation deep and relentless, crawling under his skin. He rubbed them together, trying to shake the discomfort, but it only grew stronger. His eye—a dull ache in the empty socket—joined in, sending a wave of discomfort through his skull. It wasn't the first time he'd felt something like this since leaving Sunnydale. At first, he thought it was just stress catching up with him, the fallout from the battle, the loss of Anya, the endless guilt. But now, he wasn't so sure.

*Something's happening to me,* he thought, staring down at his hands. They felt different, somehow, like they weren't entirely his anymore. But he pushed the thought away. It wasn't the time to deal with that. Not yet.

Xander stopped in front of a diner, the neon sign flickering against the glass. He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling slightly as he searched for flights to New York. His mind kept drifting to the name, *James Howlett,* and what it could mean. The letter had mentioned a school for the gifted. Was his father... one of them? A mutant? Xander's gut twisted at the thought, but then again, his entire life had been filled with the impossible. What was one more surprise?

He found a flight that left the next morning. The price wasn't too bad, and with the small inheritance, he could cover it. He'd figure out what came next when he got there.

There was a part of him—maybe the part that had always followed Buffy and Willow—that wondered if he should call them, tell them about this. But something stopped him. This was different. This was personal, and for once, it wasn't about saving the world. It was about finding out who he really was. He'd spent his whole life fighting demons and saving people, but never once had he stopped to think about where he came from, or why.

He booked the flight.

As the confirmation screen popped up, he felt a small sense of resolution. Maybe this trip wouldn't give him all the answers, but at least he wouldn't be left wondering. His mother's secrets were out now, and the only way to move forward was to face them.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and began walking again, hands still itching, the sensation almost burning now. Something was changing in him, something that had been dormant for years. But right now, that was a mystery for another day. Tomorrow, he was heading to New York, and with any luck, he'd find the man who could give him some answers.

---

As Xander made his way back to the motel, the streets of L.A. buzzing around him, his thoughts turned inward, replaying memories he hadn't touched in years. His mind drifted to Anthony Harris, the man he had called "Dad" for so long. Anthony had been rough around the edges from the start—never one for tenderness or warmth—but it wasn't always bad. When Xander was little, there had been moments when things felt almost normal. Anthony would take him fishing at a small lake just outside of town, the two of them sitting on the dock in silence, lines cast into the still water. Xander had clung to those moments for a long time.

But the bad times outweighed the good.

The yelling had started when Xander was ten, the first time Anthony came home drunk, his temper flaring for no reason Xander could understand. It escalated from there—nights of raised voices and smashed bottles, mornings spent tiptoeing around the house to avoid setting him off. His mother was always working, always too tired to step in, though she must have known. Xander wondered if she had blamed herself for leaving him alone with Anthony. Maybe that's why she had never told him the truth.

By the time Xander hit fifteen, the abuse had slowed, but the damage had been done. He had shut down emotionally, keeping his distance from Anthony, never able to rebuild what had been shattered. The man who had once taken him fishing had become a stranger, someone he couldn't recognize or trust. And his mother, though she had worked hard and provided for them, had never been around enough to bridge that gap.

Now, knowing that Anthony wasn't his real father... it changed everything. Xander's hands clenched into fists as he walked. He had spent so many years trying to make sense of why things had gone so wrong between them, blaming himself at times for being the cause of Anthony's anger. But maybe now he understood. Anthony had taken on a responsibility that wasn't his, raised a son who wasn't his own, and somewhere along the way, that bitterness had turned into resentment. It didn't excuse what he had done, but it made sense in a way Xander hadn't been able to see before.

His mother... she had done her best, he knew that. But reading the letter, knowing she had kept this from him for so long, hurt more than he wanted to admit. Maybe she thought she was protecting him. Maybe she didn't want to burden him with the truth. But in the end, the lies had done their own kind of damage. She had failed him too, just in a different way.

Xander's hand brushed against his jacket pocket, where the letter still rested. *James Howlett,* he thought again, the name almost foreign in his mind. This man, his biological father, had disappeared before he was even born. What kind of person just leaves like that? Was he running from something? Or was it just bad luck, bad timing? There were so many questions swirling in his head, and the only person who could answer them was halfway across the country, in New York.

As Xander approached his motel, he felt the itching in his hands again, the sensation more insistent now. His fingers tingled, like something was crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, trying to break free. It was unnerving, but he tried to push it aside. He had enough to deal with without adding weird physical symptoms to the mix.

He stopped outside the door to his room and took a deep breath. Tomorrow, he'd be on a flight to New York, chasing a ghost from his past. For now, all he could do was hold on to the small bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd find some answers there.

---

The next morning, Xander stood in front of the cracked mirror in his motel room, his reflection staring back at him with tired eyes. His bag was already packed, sitting at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much to bring—just some clothes, a few personal items, and the letter, still folded neatly in his jacket pocket. The room felt colder than it had the night before, though that could've been the nerves settling in. He wasn't sure what he expected to find in New York, but sitting around and doing nothing wasn't an option anymore.

The itching in his hands had become more persistent overnight, a strange, almost burning sensation now. He flexed his fingers, the skin feeling tight and hot. It reminded him of those nights back in Sunnydale when the Hellmouth was at its most active—like something under the surface was shifting, waiting to be unleashed. But he was far from the Hellmouth now, wasn't he? This had to be something else.

*"School for the gifted,"* Xander muttered to himself as he rifled through his bag. His mother's words from the letter echoed in his head. A man named James Howlett. A school where people were gifted. It sounded like something out of one of those comic books he used to read as a kid, but the supernatural had been his reality for so long now that anything seemed possible.

He paused for a moment, considering calling Buffy or Willow. Part of him wanted to reach out, to tell them what he'd learned, but another part—the stronger part—knew he needed to do this alone. This wasn't about saving the world, this was about saving himself. Buffy and Willow were off fighting the good fight on their own terms now, and this... this was something Xander had to face without them. He wasn't even sure what he'd say if he tried to explain it to them. *Hey guys, turns out my real dad might be some guy named James Howlett who disappeared for decades, but now he's teaching at a school for mutants?*

It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head.

He checked his phone—his flight was scheduled for mid-morning, leaving him a little time to grab something to eat before heading to the airport. His stomach growled in protest, but his mind was too preoccupied to care. The weight of what was coming, of the truth he was chasing, made it hard to focus on anything else.

As he zipped up his bag, his hand twitched, the itching now a full-on burn. He clenched his fist, feeling the strange energy pulsing beneath his skin. *What the hell is happening to me?* It wasn't just the itching anymore. Something was wrong—different. He'd been noticing it since he left the Hellmouth, but now it was intensifying. The healing, the strength, the subtle shifts in his body... it felt like something was waking up inside him.

The letter had suggested that his father was different. *Was that what was happening to him now?* Was this part of the reason his mother had kept the truth from him? Had she known that something like this would happen eventually? Xander didn't know, but he was determined to find out.

He took one last look around the room, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, before grabbing his bag and heading out the door. The morning air hit him, crisp and cool, a contrast to the weight of everything hanging on his shoulders.

As he walked down the street, making his way to the nearest bus stop that would take him to the airport, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a storefront window. He looked the same, more or less. But beneath the surface, something was shifting, waiting to be discovered. He couldn't help but wonder if the answers he was looking for in New York would be more than just about his father. Maybe they were about him too.

With a sigh, Xander boarded the bus. Tomorrow, he'd be in New York, standing on the doorstep of a new mystery—one that might change everything, again.