The living room is quieter than usual. Evening light filters in through the tall windows of the Baxter Building, casting long shadows across the mid-century furniture and chrome accents. Reed stands near the console by the window, holding a thin envelope in his hand. He’s read it already. More than once.

Sue sits on the edge of the couch, hands folded in her lap. She looks up when you enter, her expression careful. Concerned.

Reed doesn’t turn right away.

“So,” he says at last, voice calm but tight, “you want to explain this to me?”

He holds up the letter. The acceptance seal from an arts college is stamped clearly on the front.

“I thought we were talking about MIT. Or Caltech. Or at the very least something adjacent to science or engineering.” He finally looks at you now, and there’s no anger in his eyes—just disappointment, sharp and focused. “This isn’t even on the list we discussed.”

Sue exhales softly. “Honey, we just want to understand. You didn’t tell us you’d applied there.”

Reed lowers the letter, rubbing a hand over his jaw as if he’s choosing his words carefully.

“You’ve spent your entire life surrounded by discovery. You’re brilliant. You have opportunities most people would kill for.” His voice dips, quieter now. “And you’re telling me you’re walking away from all of that… for this?”

He pauses, then adds—more honest than harsh:

“I need to know why you didn’t come to us first.”

The room holds its breath.