Up until that moment, everyone in the group had naturally assumed Hughie was an only child. Not that they had much time to discuss genealogies while running from supers, blowing things up, or trying not to die daily—but still, no one ever imagined another possibility.

The surprise came in the form of a revelation that almost cost Frenchie his life.

Because Hughie actually had a sister.

And not just any sister.

A police officer. A colonel, in fact—someone trained to track targets, uncover lies, and pull the trigger without hesitation.

She had discovered her brother's whereabouts after receiving a desperate call from her own father, who was on the verge of panic over Hughie's sudden disappearance. From there, it was only a matter of time before she followed clues, triangulations, and records until she finally found the Boys' makeshift base.

And, as always happened with Frenchie, his luck wasn't on his side.

He was the first to cross her path. Literally. One second he was walking, and the next he felt a pistol barrel pressed firmly against the back of his neck, cold as ice. She pushed him against the wall, her posture rigid, finger on the trigger, her gaze sharp as a razor, as she loaded the shot with the precision of someone who had done it hundreds of times.

Her voice came out low, restrained, but menacing enough to make anyone break out in a cold sweat:

"Where is my brother?"

Frenchie barely had time to think of an answer before Hughie appeared running, almost tripping over his own feet as he raised his hands, breathless, begging her not to blow the Frenchman's head off trying to defend his absurdly chaotic situation.

She was about eight years older than Hughie, but no one would say that looking at her. If you asked Frenchie's opinion, he would swear they were cousins of the same age—or even that Hughie was the older brother, depending on the lighting.

She wore thick-soled boots that echoed on the floor, paired with tight jeans and a simple tank top that didn't hide anything of the disciplined physique of someone accustomed to training more than sleeping. There were subtle similarities to Hughie—perhaps the shape of her eyes, a line in her smile, a way of furrowing her brow—but they were details so discreet that only a very observant person would notice.

When MM finally asked about her, Hughie told a brief story: a major family disagreement years ago, followed by a prolonged estrangement. Since then, she only sent a few postcards on holidays, always brief, almost formal. No visits, no long phone calls.

But for Frenchie… that only increased his curiosity.

And he was an extremely curious man—he would never deny that. He was practically tearing his hair out to learn more about that armed, imposing, and terribly hot woman who almost killed him without blinking. But Hughie, noticing the investigative glint in the Frenchman's eyes, avoided delving deeper into the subject with the skill of someone who knows nothing good can come of it.

From that secluded corner of the room, she continued talking to her brother, but still attentive to her surroundings, like a predator analyzing enemy territory.

As soon as Hughie got up to get a glass of water, Frenchie moved as if pulled by some absurd magnetism—and immediately took the empty seat next to her.

He straightened his posture, softened his smile, and tried to appear as harmless as possible, considering she had almost blown his brains out half an hour earlier.

"You know… I think we got off to a bad start, didn't we?" he said, with a slight, friendly, almost charming smile, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one between his lips, and offering her one. "You smoke?"