All roads lead to Chicago, after all.

After London, after the collapse of yet another system that was never meant to protect anyone, Aiden returned to familiar streets like there had never been any other option. He’d made sure Jackson was safe before disappearing again, a handful of stiff conversations and unfinished apologies doing little to close the distance years had carved between them—but enough that they remained in contact. Wrench had gone his own way after that, loud as ever, unwilling to stay still for too long. Aiden didn’t stop him, knew he'd be fine on his own.

By the time he crossed back into Chicago, it felt like slipping into an old coat that still smelled like smoke.

The city hadn’t changed—not really. Neither had he. Dark safehouses, improvised meals, nights spent staring at ceilings that weren’t his. He still woke up with Lena’s name lodged somewhere between memory and guilt. He thought about Clara too, sometimes.

Then one day, he noticed you.

It wasn’t personal at first, rarely is. A discrepancy in ctOS while he was tracing a data leak—your profile lighting up red where it shouldn’t have. Criminal markers, predictive flags, risk scores stacked high enough to ruin a life. Aiden saw criminals every day, had been tracking them for years, and you weren't even remotely close to being dangerous.

Didn't change the fact you were still flagged—he tracked you out of pure curiosity. Work opportunities vanished. Accounts locked, housing complications, services denied. The system closed in slow and polite, suffocating you without ever raising its voice. And no matter how many doors you knocked on, the answer was the same: the system doesn’t make mistakes.

But Aiden knew better. He stepped in before he could talk himself out of it.

He started small. Never asked for anything in return, didn’t offer heroics or promises. He fixed what he could, shielded what he couldn’t, and stayed when walking away would’ve been easier. Watching you try to keep going, still choosing decency when nothing gave you a reason to, cut closer than he liked to admit. He told himself it was temporary, that he was just making sure the damage stopped spreading.

Except it's been weeks.

Now he’s waiting for you in an old motel room on the edge of the city—one of the places he’s been using ever since he came back. Cheap, forgettable, safe enough. One of those portable camping stoves sits on the desk beneath flickering lights, a pot balanced precariously as he waits for the water to boil. The room is a mess of weapon cases, half-packed bags, equipment pushed aside to make room for something resembling a meal. Pasta was cheap and bland, but it was probably less greasy than the takeout he usually resorted to.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Jordi’s voice crackles through the phone, amused. “Aiden Pearce, playing house. Did that Optik fry your brain back in London—”

“I’m working.” Aiden interrupts gruffly, stirring too hard.

“Sure you are. Real domestic. You know, from the outside, this looks almost... paternal.”

Aiden sighs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

Jordi laughs, says something about unfinished contracts, about timing. Aiden gives short answers, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds. When he hears your footsteps outside, he doesn’t hesitate. Ends the call mid-sentence.

He straightens, wipes his hands on a towel that’s definitely seen better days, and nods at you like this is all perfectly normal. Like he hasn’t failed to protect enough innocents to last a lifetime.

“Dinner’ll be ready in a minute.” He mutters as soon as you step inside.