Part A : Alicia
Two boys.
Alicia had learned early that proximity didn't mean similarity.
Francis broke things loudly. Doors. Dishes. The coffee table that one summer when he'd decided parkour was a reasonable indoor activity.
Cassian broke things so quietly she'd find them weeks later—already fixed, the seam barely visible unless you knew where to look.
Francis got calls from school. Alicia kept a notepad by the phone specifically for tracking which vice principal was handling which incident. Fights, mostly. Sometimes theft. Once, inexplicably, a fire alarm.
Cassian got calls from school too. Different kind. Teachers asking if everything was "okay at home." If he was "adjusting well." Code for: your son doesn't participate, doesn't socialize, sits in the back and watches everyone like he's filing reports.
She'd wanted to say: He's fine. He's always been like that.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that "always" was doing too much work.
Francis at 14 had already been taller than her, louder than his father, taking up more space than any room could comfortably hold.
Cassian at 14 was still slight. Still careful. Still the one who appeared in doorways without making a sound, who answered questions she hadn't asked yet, who knew where Francis had gone before Francis did.
Not magical. Not unnerving.
Just—attentive.
The kind of attentiveness that made her wonder what he was paying attention to.
Last week, she'd found her case files rearranged on her desk. Not misplaced—reorganized. Chronologically instead of alphabetically.
She'd asked Cassian if he'd been in her office.
He'd said no.
But he'd said it too quickly.
Part B : Alicia
She was in bed with a book when Francis came home.
The clock on her nightstand read past 12am.
Alicia didn't look up at first. She already knew what the sound meant—the front door closing too carefully, shoes kicked off instead of placed, the faint scrape of the hallway wall where Francis always cut the corner too tight.
She waited.
Tanaka got out of bed "stay out if it , don't come to his defense this time. Let me handle it, its time he learns some manners"
Her husband's voice came from downstairs.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, coming home at this hour?"
Francis scoffed. "Dad, relax. It's not a big—"
"First of all, shut up."
Alicia smiled into her pillow.
There was a pause. Then her husband's voice dropped—lower, controlled, the way he thought whispering worked. It didnt
"What's your answer if your mom asked you that?"
Francis hesitated. Alicia could hear it even from upstairs.
"I was with friends," Francis muttered.
"And what did I tell you about sneaking out?"
"That it's dumb," Francis said quickly. Too quickly.
"And?"
"And that Mom notices everything."
Her husband exhaled. "Good. So now tell me where you went."
Francis laughed despite himself. "Seriously?"
"Yes. Seriously."
The next ten minutes were supposed to be discipline.
Instead, they turned into whispered logistics—who was there, which girl had shown up late, who drank what, and which friend's parents were out of town.
intercut with her husband pretending to do the parenting part loudly for her to hear
Dad (loud, for Alicia to hear): "HOW DARE YOU—"
Dad (whispered): "—okay so then where were you?"
Francis (whispered): "Tommy's basement, his parents were—"
Dad (loud): "WITHOUT PERMISSION—"
Dad (whispered): "—so did you get her number at least?"
Francis (trying not to laugh): "Dad—"
Dad (loud): "PAST MIDNIGHT OF ALL TIMES—"
Dad (whispered): "—seriously though, when are you seeing her again?"
Alicia pressed her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
She could HEAR her husband's awful whispering. Francis wasn't even trying to be quiet anymore.
They thought they were so slick.
She didn't mind. Francis was loud, messy, and reckless.
But he came home.
And he told them everything—even when he was trying not to.
Alicia pressed her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking.
Francis was loud, messy, reckless.
But he came home.
And he told them everything—even when he was trying not to.
She looked at the ceiling.
Cassian's door was closed. It always was.
She couldn't remember the last time he'd come home late.
Or early.
Or at all, really—he just appeared when expected,
like he'd calculated the exact moment no one would notice his arrival.
Francis broke curfew and got caught.
Cassian didn't have curfew violations.
Not because he followed rules.
Because he never triggered the systems designed to catch him.
Part C : Tanaka
Tanaka found the notebook by accident.
He'd been looking for his reading glasses—he could've sworn he'd left them in the living room—when he noticed Cassian's backpack open on the couch.
Not hidden. Just... there.
The black composition book sat on top. The kind you got at CVS for two dollars.
He should have left it alone.
He didn't.
---
Page one: a photograph. Printed. Not a phone screenshot.
A man in his fifties. Leaving a glass office building. Time-stamped: 6:47 PM.
Below it, in Cassian's precise handwriting:
RICHARD KOVACH
KOVACH & ASSOCIATES
487 CASES. 487 WINS.
EXITS BUILDING: 6:30-7:00 PM (M-F)
SECURITY: 2 GUARDS (LOBBY ONLY)
CAMERAS: ENTRANCE + ELEVATOR BANKS
BLIND SPOT: NORTHWEST STAIRWELL
---
Tanaka turned the page.
Building schematics. Floor plans. Printed from somewhere—maybe public records, maybe somewhere worse.
Red circles around exit points. Blue lines showing camera angles.
Notes in the margins:
- "3rd floor after hours?"
- "Service entrance code rotates weekly"
- "Files likely physical + digital"
---
He flipped faster.
More photos. Different angles. Different days.
Kovach getting coffee. Kovach at lunch. Kovach's car in the parking garage.
A schedule:
MONDAY: Arrives 8:15 / Leaves 6:45
TUESDAY: Arrives 8:00 / Leaves 7:30
WEDNESDAY: Arrives 8:30 / Leaves 6:30
THURSDAY: Arrives 8:15 / Leaves 7:15
FRIDAY: Arrives 9:00 / Leaves 6:00
Then, on the last page with writing:
MOM'S CASE: REYNOLDS V. CHEN
CUSTODY DISPUTE - HEARING: JUNE 14
OPPOSING COUNSEL: KOVACH
MOM'S WIN RATE VS. KOVACH: 0/3
Below that, underlined twice:
HE'S CHEATING. HAS TO BE.
FIND PROOF = MOM WINS = PROBLEM SOLVED.
At the very bottom, in smaller writing:
"Control is the only power that matters."
---
Tanaka stood in his living room, his fourteen-year-old son's surveillance notebook in his hands.
His stomach dropped.
Cassian wasn't just researching.
He was planning.
Planning a break-in.
---
Footsteps on the stairs.
Tanaka closed the notebook. Set it back in the backpack exactly as he'd found it.
Cassian appeared in the doorway. Stopped when he saw his father.
"Hey, Dad," Cassian said. Calm. Always calm. "Looking for something?"
"My glasses."
---