(Emmalee's P.O.V.)

Within less than 24 hours, I’m on my way to the Blackwood household for the first time in 12 years. I’m a little hopeful. Maybe I can prove that Niko and I can handle ourselves—that “keeping us safe” by keeping us apart is pointless. If anything, it prevents us from trusting our parents.

I don’t care what other people say about Niko. They don’t even know him. I know him, and Niko is the only person I feel safe around in this fucked-up world.

It’s weird to walk toward the boxy barracks after I finish my lunch, but I’m not complaining. Not even with the disgusting catcalls I get on the way there.

I haven’t seen Hana since she was a baby, when we passed each other in the grocery store. Niko has shown me one or two Hana pictures throughout the years on Jay’s phone, but we’ve all only seen each other a handful of times since Hana was born—just over six years ago.

Either way, Niko and I don’t spend much time “talking” anymore. At thirteen, we created a tradition to celebrate our devious reunion. Every Christmas party, when the Departments merge for one night, I sneak him away… Minus when I dated his sister, in which the Christmas tradition paused for Niko, but continued for me.

Year after year, I’m overcome by the temptation to throw myself at him once we’re reunited. If my mom knew, she’d be disappointed and tell me “boys love the chase,” or something else outdated, and I’d tell her, “not this boy.” I love seeing the blush rise to his increasingly sculpted cheeks every year. Lately, freckles swarm his naturally tan skin when he’s had too much sun. They’re as much of a tease as his full lips. Flustering a top-ranking combat trainee is a feat not many can flaunt.

Commander Blackwood swings the door open before I can knock, tugging me inside and slamming the door behind me.

“Sorry,” he mutters to my terrified face. “I didn’t want anyone to notice you coming in right before I leave you two here alone.”

“Um… Okay.”

He leads me down the empty hall. Their house feels frigid: bare and bland, minus the essentials. More of a convenient place to sleep than a home.

“Emmalee, please don’t walk the barracks’ streets next time. Walk through the back passageway. It’s not safe in the streets, especially if you’re not in the DoTD.”

Commander Blackwood understands the dangers of navigating the Department of Tactical Defense better than I do, and I’m not about to question a Commander. At least not before I get paid.

“Niko isn’t a good example of the Tactical Defense Department, by the way. Don’t let his calm nature fool you into trusting anyone else there. He’ll never admit it, but he has… well, a heart.”

I snicker. “Finally, someone agrees with me.”

He hums in agreement, shooting me a quick smile. “But please don’t tell Clara I said so.”

“I won’t, Comman—”

I’m too taken aback to finish my thoughts. A little girl with chunky strawberry beads stationed atop two pigtails peeks over the couch’s edge, hiding behind it. From what Niko alluded to, Hana hasn’t been around strangers much, so I wanted to be extra warm and welcoming when we met, but my mouth can’t form words.

She has his dark eyes, his subtle spattering of freckles, and his bowed lips. If Niko was a little older, I could be convinced she was his. It revs up a biological need I shouldn’t have yet.

I don’t have to force a bright smile for her. “Hi, Hana! My name’s Emmalee.”

Hana dives back behind the couch. Her father eases toward her, holding out a hand, and they silently communicate. Even if he wasn’t her father, the Commander could catch the fear I sense in Hana’s emotions. He’s like me: he’s an empath.

Our sixth sense allows us to sense others’ emotions without words—and to be used by the Departments. If I wasn’t disabled, they would’ve used me as a Guide, my insight guiding unit members through otherwise impossible combat. Sixth senses aren’t brushed off as fake here, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing. The Departments’ studies have found about 1% of any population have a sixth sense, but we’re rarely combat-inclined, and we’re valued as such. They use combat unit members as emotionless weapons, and Guides are mere weapon upgrades.

I’d imagine Commander Yosuke Blackwood is overshadowed by his combat-focused wife. He even took her Irish last name in exchange for his Japanese family name. Commander Clara Blackwood followed the Blackwood Lionheart family legacy—a long line of elite Department of Tactical Defense members. It’s no surprise Niko is on track to do the same.

Clara never had a choice in the matter, and neither did Niko. None of us did. Just like Mom said, this is our livelihood.

The Commander speaks to Hana in Japanese, pausing to say my name with English pronunciation. This soothes her enough to take one teeny step from behind the couch.

I’m squatting at her eye level, my backpack on the floor beside me.

Hana does a double-take between her dad and me. “You’re really Emmalee?”

“Yes! And you’re Hana, right? It’s so nice to meet you! I love your pigtails with those big strawberries. They’re totally cute.”

She gives me a shy glance, trying her hardest not to smile.

Commander Blackwood chuckles, bending to kiss her forehead. “You don’t have to hide. She’s safe, I promise.”

“I-I know,” Hana says. I’m a little confused as to why, but she’s nervous. Not in an anxiety type of way, but a starstruck type of way.

With a smile in his eyes, Commander Blackwood says his goodbyes, assuring me he’ll be back at 7:30, before Clara. We watch him from the window as he flails out the door, late for work. It’s a torturous moment for us both to witness. For Hana, it’s because of separation anxiety. But for me, it’s because it’s not a common sight to see a Commander losing his cool, so now I’m trying not to lose my shit laughing at him in front of his daughter.

“So.” I gather the attention of her beautiful, obsidian eyes. “Is there anything you want to do first?” I’m met with stubborn silence. “A game? Book? TV show? Coloring?”

Her eyes light up at the last one, so I make my way to the living room. She follows, stopping at the hallway’s mouth to watch me hunt for art supplies.

“Any idea where the paper is, Hana? Maybe some colored pencils? Markers?”

She hums in deep thought like Niko does when he has no idea what to say, so I continue my search alone. The first hint of personality in this house sits next to the TV: a school photograph of Niko. Even then, he looked striking. Composed. I have to laugh at his little frown, taking himself so seriously when he couldn’t be much older than eight or nine. That’s the Niko I remember best.

If this mini picture frame was in Niko’s room instead of his parent’s living room, I’d happily take it home like he stole my school picture. I hadn’t noticed him stealing it with how dark it was when he last visited, but that guy is sly in all aspects of life. It wasn’t too shocking that he could take something in the dark, but his unexplained reasoning surprised me. He could’ve just asked me for the photo, and I would’ve given it to him. But he didn’t, and that makes me the most suspicious. I doubt he’ll tell me why when—no, if—he comes back.

“We don’t have paper,” Hana mutters, suddenly by my ear.

I gasp, holding a hand over my thumping heart to keep it in place. My nervous system is annoyingly sensitive, another reason I didn’t get wrapped up in Niko’s Department.

“But we have this!” Hana gallops to the kitchen and snatches a black permanent marker out of a drawer.

My eyes widen in horror, thinking of the destruction I caused with one of those as a kid. “Um, yeah, let’s stay away from the permanent stuff.” Hana deflates. “It’s okay! We can still draw! Let me grab some stuff out of my backpack.”

Hana sticks to my side this time, peering over my shoulder in anticipation of these mysterious art supplies—apparently a rarity in this household. She gasps with every black or blue pen I pull out, gasps even louder at the graphite pencil, and finally, hops with a light squeal when I reveal my six colored pencils, grouped together with an old hair tie.

Hana bounces on my shoulder with her pigtails flying in every direction, and I have to laugh.

“Alright, little kangaroo! I’ll set these on the table, okay? You can’t run with them because I sharpened them before I left school, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Okay.” She calms herself into nothingness in an instant.

This worries me. I wouldn’t be able to do that with how much of a fireball I was at six. Maybe Hana is just copying Niko, but this is a trauma response I’ve witnessed in him for as long as I’ve known him. It makes people think he’s emotionless.

I hold out my hand, relieved as she grabs on and allows her smile to return. I mimic her bouncy steps to the table, stirring a contagious giggle in her as we skip to the kitchen. She’s so cute, I could die.

As soon as she’s situated with a cup of water, some apple slices, and her art supplies, I pull out my Calculus homework. I only write the first equation before realizing something feels off.

Hana isn’t just zoning out, she looks… depressed?

I have no idea what behaviors are normal for Hana, so I try to appear as calm as I can. “Hana? Is something wrong?”

She continues to stare at her paper. After so much excitement, her emotions are frigid with panic, even more so since I noticed her behavior. Then she mumbles something into her hand.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you, little sprout,” I say softly.

Hana looks up in surprise, beaming.

I smile. “Niko told me he calls you that—since your name means ‘flower,’ right? Do you like that nickname?”

She nods, although her eyebrows furrow. “When did he tell you? Have you seen him?”

My heart flinches. “No, little sprout. I’m sorry. He told me a couple years ago. He’s still in another country.”

“Oh... I know,” she says, although it doesn’t sound like she wants to accept it.

“He’ll be back.”

Her eyes widen. “He will?!”

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “Well, he told me he would be, so he better.”

“Are you gonna beat him up if he doesn’t?” She eyes me.

I chuckle, tilting my head. “What? Uh, no. I mean, even if I wanted to beat him up, I don’t stand a chance against your big brother, but I’d never hit him. That’s not a nice thing to do.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I don’t understand why Mom does. She’s an adult.”

I force down my shock as I stare at this grown-up in a child’s body, clearly more mature than her parents. Then I calm the fire boiling in my gut. It’s an inappropriate reaction, considering what I just told Hana, but I have the urge to hit Clara: a taste of her own medicine. It’s such a vivid protection response that my arms twitch, anticipating a fight.

I quell my immaturity for Hana’s sake. But I’m afraid of what this means. Does Clara hit Hana too? Thankfully, Hana overlooks my internal battle, figuring I’m giving her more space to talk.

“If you won’t beat him up, what else do you do when you’re angry?”

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