Ezra stared at the half-empty whiskey gss in front of him, the ice melting into a slow, inevitable death.

  The past two years of his life had been nothing short of a fever dream, a chaotic whirlwind of graviton physics, shadow organizations, bizarre history fabrications, and exams so ridiculous they bordered on psychological warfare.

  And yet—None of it compared to the dream that still haunted him.

  The pulsing SOS signal from a star trapped in a city of false angels, the Silent Legion lurking in the background, the realization that his education had been less about learning and more about indoctrination.

  He took another sip, swirling the gss. His White Card twirled idly between his fingers, the sleek material smooth and weightless, yet it might as well have been a loaded gun for the kind of power it represented.

  "This stupid little card is my ‘get out of jail free’ pass," he muttered to himself. And he had no idea what to do with it. A voice broke his thoughts.

  "You look like a man contempting whether the universe is real or if it’s just one big joke."

  Ezra blinked, looking up—Mr. Key. Dressed in his usual high-end tailored suit, the man radiated authority even in a dingy airport bar.

  Ezra exhaled. "I’d take either answer at this point."

  Mr. Key smirked, taking a seat beside him. "What are you doing at the bar?"

  Ezra gestured at the departure board, where his flight to Italy had been deyed indefinitely due to bad weather. "Pne’s not going anywhere."

  Mr. Key waved a hand dismissively. "No, I mean why are you waiting for a commercial flight when you have a White Card?"

  Ezra blinked. "Uh… because that’s how normal people travel?"

  Mr. Key ughed—a genuine, hearty ugh, like Ezra had just said the dumbest thing in the world.

  "You really haven’t figured it out yet, have you?"

  Ezra’s stomach sank. "Figured what out?"

  Mr. Key leaned in, voice ced with amusement. "You don’t wait for flights anymore, Ezra," he said. "You own them."

  Ezra blinked. "Come again?"

  Mr. Key pulled out his own sleek, bck White Card, tapping it against the counter. "We’re taking my private jet."

  Ezra stared at him, waiting for the punchline. It never came.

  Ezra had never been on a private jet before. Scratch that—he had never even been in the same tax bracket as someone who could afford a private jet before.

  But here he was. The moment he stepped aboard Mr. Key’s personal aircraft, he knew this wasn’t just luxury—this was something beyond his understanding. For starters, the interior looked more like a high-end penthouse than a pne.

  The leather seats were softer than his own damn mattress. There was a fully stocked bar, an entertainment system that put most theaters to shame, and—because of course there was—a small library filled with books Ezra could only assume contained the forbidden knowledge of the cosmos.

  But the real kicker? This pne didn’t just fly. It soared into the stratosphere.

  Ezra barely had time to process the absurd acceleration, the fact that they weren’t just skimming the clouds but practically touching space. Gravity felt different. "Augmentations," Mr. Key expined, seeing his bewildered expression. "Cuts the trip down significantly. We’ll be in Italy with time to spare."

  Ezra exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he muttered. "This is going to take some getting used to."

  Mr. Key chuckled. "You’ll manage." Ezra wasn’t so sure.

  Italy was exactly as he had left it—beautiful, warm, full of life. The moment he stepped off the pne and into the vil, his family was waiting for him. Nonna Francesca, Seth, Auntie Ciarra—all of them welcomed him with open arms, but Julie…

  Julie was different. Julie was home.

  Ezra practically dove into her arms, wrapping her in the tightest embrace he had ever given her, his face buried in her neck as all the tension, all the insanity, all the exhaustion of the past two years crashed into him at once.

  He sobbed. Openly, shamelessly. Julie ughed, running her fingers through his hair. "Oh my god, Ezra, what happened to you?"

  Ezra pulled back, staring at her, then down at their son—their tiny, perfect son, bundled in her arms, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes. He let out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against Julie’s. "You were right," he whispered.

  Julie smirked. "Of course I was. About what?"

  Ezra sniffed, wiping his face. "About everything. About the White-Coats, the insanity, the sheer nonsense of it all. You were so… SO right."

  Julie grinned. "Took you long enough to admit it."

  Ezra let out a weak, tired ugh, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm never questioning you again."

  Julie winked. "Good boy."

  And for the first time in two years, Ezra felt like he could finally breathe again.

  Ezra had spent two years trapped in absolute lunacy, a prisoner to the nonsense of White-Coat University, shadow organizations, and secrets buried beneath yers of meme-infused history.

  But now? Now, he was home. This Quarantinemas wasn’t just about family—it was about peace. A peace he didn’t know he needed so badly.

  The evening air was crisp, the snowfall gentle as it bnketed Nonna Francesca’s backyard in an undisturbed sheet of white. Ezra stood outside, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his new white coat, watching his breath curl in the cold air. It was surprisingly warm, far more insuted than he would have expected from what was supposed to be just an academic uniform.

  His mind wandered to the year ahead—his official start at Key Industries, the responsibilities that awaited him. But right now? Right now, he had something rarer than knowledge. He had normalcy.

  The door creaked open behind him. A familiar voice followed. "You know," Ciarra mused as she stepped outside, wrapping herself in a thick wool shawl, "that coat suits you. Especially with the mustache."

  Ezra chuckled, running a finger across his upper lip. "Took me years to grow this bad boy."

  Ciarra smirked. "Shame you didn’t have it back in school. Maybe they wouldn’t have called you ‘Cumstain.’"

  Ezra nearly choked on his own breath, letting out a wheeze of ughter. "Oh my God," he groaned, shaking his head. "I haven’t thought about that in years."

  Ciarra leaned against the wooden railing, clearly delighted. "What was that about, anyway?"

  Ezra sighed dramatically. "I thought the kids were just insane. I mean, who even thinks to use that as an insult? But now? After everything? I’ve seen true craziness—and I gotta say, those kids were amateurs."

  Ciarra ughed, the sound light and genuine, like she was truly enjoying herself.

  It was nice, Ezra realized. For a while, they stood in comfortable silence, watching the snow drift zily through the night air. Then, without pretense, Ciarra asked—softly, genuinely— "What was your life like, before all of this?"

  Ezra gnced at her. She wasn’t just making small talk. There was a sincerity in her voice, something real. She wasn’t just digging up his past out of curiosity. She wanted to know him. And so, he told her.

  He spoke about his childhood, about the struggles of growing up without his mom, about how he had once thought his life would be simple—construction, a house, a family, and nothing more.

  Then he talked about White-Coat University, the way it tested him, the way he had no choice but to py along, how nothing made sense but somehow made too much sense at the same time.

  The more he spoke, the more comfortable it became, and soon he found himself sharing things he hadn’t told anyone—not even Julie.

  And then, he noticed something. Ciarra was awfully quiet. Ezra turned to her, brow furrowing. She wasn’t just listening. She was waiting. So he asked, carefully, "What about you?"

  Ciarra’s expression flickered. For the first time, Ezra saw her hesitate. She sighed, folding her arms against the cold, staring out at the frozen ndscape as if searching for the right words.

  "I was responsible for something awful," she finally admitted.

  Ezra didn’t interrupt.

  She took a slow breath. "It cost the lives of good people. People I’ll never get back," she murmured. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I was convinced I was doing the right thing. But I was fooled—and by the time I realized it, it was too te."

  A pause. Ezra could feel the weight of her words.

  She swallowed. "I was exiled from my homend because of it," she said. "And honestly? I deserved it." Her voice was calm, but beneath it was something raw, something that told Ezra that this regret was not new—it was something she had carried for years, maybe decades.

  He stepped closer, reaching out without hesitation. He pulled her into a warm, firm hug. "You don’t have to carry that alone," he said softly.

  Ciarra stiffened at first, as if the idea was foreign to her. But then, slowly, she melted into his embrace, clinging to him as if he were the st source of warmth in her life.

  "The past is the past," Ezra murmured. "What happened, happened. You’re here now. You have a family now."

  Ciarra let out a shaky breath, her hands gripping the back of his coat.

  "We’ve got a bright future ahead of us," Ezra continued. "Finances are a thing of the past. And whatever happened before? It doesn’t have to weigh you down anymore."

  Ciarra let out a sound—half a sob, half a ugh, as if she didn’t know whether to cry or thank him. She buried her face into his shoulder, and for a long while, they just stood there, in the falling snow, in the quiet of the night.

  And then—A soft click.

  Ezra’s eyes snapped open. From the doorway, Julie stood with her phone out, having just taken a photo of them. Ezra sighed. "Julie…"

  Julie grinned. "It was too good of a moment not to capture."

  Ciarra let out a wet ugh, wiping her eyes.

  Julie didn’t interrupt further—she simply gave them one st knowing smile before slipping back inside, letting them have their moment.

  Ezra sighed, shaking his head.

  Ciarra chuckled, voice still thick with emotion. "She’s got a habit of sneaking up on people," she murmured.

  Ezra smirked. "Tell me about it."

  Ciarra exhaled, one st shuddering breath, before pulling away, wiping her eyes one st time. Then she smiled—a real one this time. "Thanks, Ezra."

  Ezra nudged her pyfully. "Anytime, Auntie."

  And for the first time since he had met her, Ciarra looked at him not as someone burdened by the past, but as someone who had finally found a pce where she belonged.