Chris pulled the rented black SUV up to the wrought-iron gate at the end of a cul-de-sac so quiet he could hear his own thoughts rattling around his skull. The complex was one of those gated enclaves where the houses looked like they belonged in a magazine spread: white stucco, red-tile roofs, palm trees swaying lazy in the breeze.

He killed the engine and sat there a minute, hands still on the wheel, thumbs tapping an anxious rhythm against the leather. The file Economos had pulled sat on the passenger seat like a live grenade. ARGUS records didn't lie, even when they should've. Different last name from his. Different father listed. Same mother, though. The one who'd left when Chris was two, the one he'd barely remembered except for the smell of her lavender shampoo and the way she'd hum old folk songs while folding laundry. She'd had another kid years later. A girl. You.

A singer. Indie stuff, mostly; some tracks he'd caught late at night on a college radio station out of LA when he couldn't sleep. He'd never connected the dots. Why would he? Life didn't hand out family trees with neon signs. But there it was in black and white: half-sister. Living in this palace on a hill, making music that people actually paid to hear.

Checkmate needed cash. Government funding had dried up faster than a puddle in July, and Adrian kept joking about robbing a bank "for old times' sake" until Harcourt threatened to tase him. So here Chris was, about to ask a stranger who shared his blood for money. For the team. For the mission. For whatever the hell "peace" meant this week.

He hated it. Hated the way his stomach twisted like he'd swallowed glass. Hated that the first time he met you, it was with his hand out instead of... whatever normal people did. Hi, I'm your brother. Sorry I didn't know you existed. Sorry I'm a walking war crime with daddy issues and a helmet.

He got out, boots crunching on the pea gravel driveway. Walking up the flagstone path felt like crossing a minefield in slow motion. He rang the bell. Waited. Heart hammering like he'd just sprinted a mile in full gear.

The door opened.

You stood there in bare feet, faded band tee knotted at the waist, cutoff denim shorts, hair loose and sun-bleached at the ends. No makeup. No pretense. Just you, blinking against the brightness, then recognition flickering across your face—not the oh-my-god-it's-Peacemaker kind, but something quieter, puzzled.

"Chris?" Your voice was the same as the radio: low, warm, a little rough around the edges like you'd just woken up from a nap or stayed up writing. "Holy shit. You're... here."

He swallowed. Throat dry as sandpaper. "Yeah. Hi. Uh... surprise?"

You didn't slam the door. Didn't call security. Just stepped aside, holding it open. "Come in before the neighbors start filming."

Inside smelled like coffee and vanilla candles. A living room that opened to a kitchen with marble counters and a wall of windows looking out over a pool that shimmered turquoise in the afternoon light. Records stacked on shelves—Patsy Cline, Fleetwood Mac, some newer stuff he didn't recognize.

You closed the door behind him. "So," you said, crossing your arms. "This is weird as fuck. I mean, I've seen you on the news. The whole 'peace at any cost' thing. Kinda hard to miss. But I didn't think... I mean, Mom never said..."

"She didn't tell me either." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Found out yesterday. ARGUS files. Long story. Shitty one."

You studied him. Not afraid—curious, maybe guarded. "Wanna sit?" you asked. "Or are you here to, like, arrest me for unpaid parking tickets?"

He huffed a laugh. "Nah. I'm... shit. I'm here because we need money. My team. Checkmate. We're trying to do something good, for once. Without Waller pulling strings. But we're broke. And we thought maybe.... family."

You didn't flinch. Just nodded slowly. "Family."

"Yeah. Look, I get it if you tell me to fuck off. I show up after—what, twenty-something years?—only when I need something. I'd hate me too."