The water was warm, too warm.
Elijah squirmed slightly in the deep clawfoot tub as delicate hands scrubbed his back. His cheeks burned, and he couldn't look either maid in the eye. The soap smelled of lavender, far different than the acidic sanitizer water he'd been doused in at the Spire.
"I can wash myself," he muttered softly, voice nearly swallowed by the steam. "I'm fourteen…"
One of the maids, a tall woman with honey-colored eyes and laugh lines, chuckled gently as she poured another bowl of warm water over his dark hair.
"You'd probably snap your arm if you tried to raise it," she said casually.
Elijah blinked, then looked down at his frail, pale limbs. She wasn't wrong. His wrists looked like twigs. He could see his ribs if he turned the right way. The mirror across from the tub — sleek, clean, not cracked and fogged like the one in his cell — made it worse. His self-esteem curled into a corner of his mind and tried to hide.
Still, he didn't amplify their emotions.
He didn't need to. He could feel it. The warmth. The maternal affection. They weren't cleaning him out of obligation. They weren't mocking him. In their hearts, they treated him like a stray kitten finally let into the warmth of a home.
"You're not the first scared boy we've cared for," said the other maid, a younger one with freckles and a firm but gentle touch.
"I'm not scared," Elijah lied.
They didn't call him on it.
After the bath came clean clothes — soft, layered fabric that didn't itch or cling to his skin like the prison suit had. The shirt was slightly oversized, the pants drawn tight with a string around his waist. He hated how small his body felt.
The younger maid knelt to tie the laces on his shoes. "You'll grow into them."
Elijah said nothing. Just stared at the knot she made and nodded once.
Then, without fanfare, he was gently nudged out of the guest hallway and escorted toward Kalen Opeol's office.
"Sit on the couch," Kalen muttered without looking up.
The massive office looked more like a war room than a study. Bookshelves lined the back wall, filled with law texts, political essays, and old reports on hero operations. The large desk at the center was covered in neat but endless piles of paperwork. Kalen, still in his dark suit, read and signed, read and signed.
Elijah sat.
He watched the fireplace. The flames moved differently than the sterile blue lights of his cell. They danced.
Two hours passed.
Kalen didn't speak.
Elijah didn't either.
Finally, the pen stopped moving.
Kalen leaned back with a sigh, cracking his knuckles, then turned his full attention toward the boy sitting quietly on the edge of the couch.
"You haven't asked me anything."
Elijah tilted his head. "I'd prefer Eli."
Kalen blinked. "Alright, Eli. But why haven't you asked me anything?"
Eli's voice was quiet. "Because I haven't found a need to."
Kalen nodded slowly, studying the boy with calculating eyes. "Alright. Then let me ask something. What's your opinion of the hero society?"
Eli's gaze flicked to the fireplace again. He took a breath.
"It's a marvel," he said. "A society built on ideals. Courage. Strength. Hope. For some people, those ideas mean everything. They look up and see something worth living for."
He paused.
"But it's corrupt. Too corrupt. If heroes were actually charged for their crimes, if responsibility meant anything anymore, I'd call it a flourishing system. But now? We're evolving backwards. There's too much greed. Too much cover-up."
Kalen folded his arms. "We are devolving. Reverting to survivalist roots. People care less about the world, more about themselves. Heroes? Half of them are just villains in better lighting."
Eli nodded once.
Kalen leaned forward slightly, hands steepled. "Would you like to go to Supe School?"
Eli turned slowly toward him. "What's that?"
The question caught Kalen off-guard.
"You're joking."
Eli shook his head, honestly confused.
Kalen exhaled. "Right. You've been in the Spire nearly seven years…"
He rubbed his temple, then gestured loosely. "Supe School is a government-funded academy for powered youth. It's supposed to train the next generation of heroes. Still corrupt in places, but the current principal does her best to keep it in line. It's better than most."
Eli tilted his head. "Can I join?"
Kalen snorted. "Why would I offer if I wasn't going to let you? I'll inform the principal. You'll be in the next exam cycle. That's about a month from now — early June."
He glanced toward Eli again. "And, Eli…"
Eli looked up.
"Thank you. For saving my daughter."
Eli shook his head slowly. "No. Don't thank me. I probably wouldn't have bothered if she wasn't a good person."
Kalen blinked.
"But you raised her to be a good person. Thank yourself for that."
For the first time, something shifted in Kalen's face. A crease of emotion, subtle and buried, passed through his features. He nodded once, quiet.
Eli stood up, his movements slow and careful. "I'll be in the garden."
Kalen watched him go.
Just before the boy disappeared through the hallway, Kalen whispered to himself, "The principal's gonna hate me."
Ten minutes later, the office door opened again.
A butler entered, carrying a new stack of reports and requisitions.
"More from the city council, sir. And the reconstruction forms for—"
"I know," Kalen said with a sigh, already reaching for his stamp.
He pressed it once, then again, then again.
And then stared at the ever-growing pile.
"I should retire," he muttered.
The butler said nothing.
But as he left the office, he murmured under his breath, "You won't."
And he was right.