Blending in

"You sure this is the right place?" Remond muttered, craning his neck to stare at the sprawling estate before him. The mansion—no, the palace—loomed against the evening sky, its marble columns and arching windows aglow with soft, amber lights. High iron gates guarded the entrance, flanked by hedges trimmed with surgical precision. A fountain gurgled lazily in the courtyard, the statue at its center casting long shadows across the cobblestone path.

The car door slammed behind him. "Told you, didn't I?" Rebecca drawled, tossing her keys and smirking at his wide-eyed expression. "Come on, don't act so shocked. You knew we weren't exactly broke."

"Yeah, but this?" Remond shook his head, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag. "I was expecting… I dunno, a fancy apartment or something. Not a place straight out of a billionaire's daydream."

"Well," Rebecca said with a chuckle, "you're not entirely wrong."

Alina rolled her eyes, stepping ahead and waving a hand. "Stop gawking and get inside. You're the one who wanted the costume, remember?"

Remond sighed, following reluctantly. As if he'd had a choice. It was Troy's idea, after all—something about blending in better, making the sting operation more convincing. A rookie superhero with an unremarkable track record wouldn't raise eyebrows. Especially not one with a custom suit and a backstory that wouldn't lead back to him.

---

Knowing the Sisters

Inside, the mansion was even more overwhelming. Chandeliers dripped crystal light over polished floors, the walls adorned with paintings that probably cost more than his entire apartment building. He caught sight of a grand staircase, its railings gilded, leading to corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly.

"How do you not get lost in here?" he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Rebecca smirked. "Comes with practice."

Alina chuckled. "We'll give you a map if you need one."

He snorted, but the teasing helped—chipped away at the edge of unease settling in his gut. They led him through a corridor and into a spacious living room, the fire crackling in the hearth casting warm shadows. As he looked around, his eyes snagged on framed photos lining a shelf—Rebecca and Alina in different ages, always side-by-side, smiling. One had them on a beach, wind-swept and laughing; another in graduation gowns, caps crooked and eyes bright.

Yet something nagged at him. There was something off about the resemblance—or lack thereof.

"So," he ventured, feigning nonchalance, "you two are…?"

Rebecca arched a brow. "Step-sisters," she clarified, flopping onto a velvet couch and kicking her boots off. "Dad remarried when we were kids. Alina's mom was—well, still is—awesome. So here we are."

Alina shot her a look, half warning, half fond. "And we're fine with it," she added quickly. "If you were curious."

Remond shrugged. "Didn't wanna assume."

He settled into an armchair, hands still in his pockets. It was odd—seeing them so at ease, bantering like this. For a second, it reminded him of simpler days, of laughter echoing in a different home. But he shook the thought away, jaw tightening. That was a door he couldn't afford to open.

---

Meeting the Family

The conversation drifted—small talk at first, questions about his job, about the sting operation they were planning. Then footsteps echoed softly from the hallway, and Remond glanced up as a middle-aged man and woman entered.

"Ah," Rebecca said, waving lazily. "Mom, Dad—this is Remond. He's, uh…"

"A friend," Alina interjected smoothly. "And a colleague. He's working with us on a project."

The man—tall, broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his hair—extended a hand. "A pleasure," he said, grip firm. "Richard Blake. Welcome to our home."

The woman beside him smiled warmly. "And I'm Elena. It's lovely to meet you."

"You too," Remond replied, forcing a smile and shaking their hands. But the questions came fast, probing yet polite—what he did for work, how he knew their daughters, if he needed anything to drink. It was disarming, this practiced hospitality, and he found himself lowering his guard bit by bit.

Until, inevitably, the topic shifted.

"So," Richard said, a brow raised, "if you're looking to become a superhero, why not register on your own? Why go through all this trouble with the costume and the backstory?"

Remond hesitated, fingers brushing the seam of his jacket. "Let's just say I'm not a fan of attention."

Richard chuckled. "Understandable. Fame can be… troublesome."

His wife's eyes softened. "But it's admirable—wanting to help without wanting anything in return. Most of these new heroes seem more interested in headlines."

"Headlines get people watching," Rebecca quipped. "And watching means funding."

"Still," Elena murmured, gaze lingering on Remond a moment longer. "You remind me of someone."

Remond's heart skipped. "Do I?"

She hummed thoughtfully. "An old friend, I think. Must be imagining things."

---

The Suit

Alina led him to a workshop on the second floor, the walls lined with blueprints, fabric samples, and shelves overflowing with tools. A mannequin stood in the center, draped with a half-finished bodysuit—black with slashes of orange, the design sleek but understated.

"It's not done yet," Alina said, biting her lip. "But I figured you'd want to see."

Remond stepped closer, fingertips brushing the fabric. It was lighter than expected, smooth but durable. His eyes drifted to the mask—a simple piece, covering the lower face, leaving only his eyes exposed. Practical.

"Troy's idea?" he asked, smirking.

"The colors were," Alina admitted, rolling her eyes. "But the design's mine."

"It's… good," Remond mumbled, awkward. "Thanks."

She grinned. "I'll pretend that sounded grateful."

---

The Registration

The registration process was almost laughably easy. A few clicks, a quick interview with a disinterested official, and a stamped approval—just like that, he was in. Second Dawn had streamlined the process, eager to fill its ranks and flood the streets with heroes.

He kept his profile low, his missions simpler—patrols, minor robberies, never drawing too much attention. A rookie hero, inexperienced and forgettable. Just as planned.

Weeks slipped by. Crime rates plummeted, superhumans patrolled every corner. The city fell into a wary calm, whispers of dissent muffled by headlines of justice served.

Remond worked with others—mostly rookies like him, some overconfident, some terrified. They called him "Ember"—a name chosen in haste, playing off the orange of his suit. He played the part well—reserved, obedient, never straying from orders. But all the while, he watched, he listened. Searching for cracks.

---

A Fractured Peace

Two months passed. His apartment remained unchanged, a quiet refuge from the chaos outside. He leaned back in his chair, mask discarded on the table, fingers drumming restless patterns. The news played in the background—another superhuman arrest, another press conference. His mother's voice, smooth and composed, echoing through the room.

Remond exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. The mask stared back, expressionless and accusing.

"Guess we're both stuck with this," he muttered, reaching to turn off the TV. The screen flickered to black, the apartment falling into silence. But the unease coiled tight in his chest, refusing to fade.