CHAPTER 160: THE CARTERS: FAMILY OF SOCIOPATHS

That’s not a threat, that’s a Netflix true-crime episode waiting for a slow piano intro.

"The difference is," she continued, leaning forward like she was about to give me state secrets, "I’d have been smarter. No witnesses. No cameras. No evidence. Because unlike you, Peter, I’ve spent sixteen years planning exactly what I’d do to anyone who hurt my babies."

"Master," ARIA whispered in my ear, sounding like Siri after witnessing a drive-by, "your mother’s threat profile requires immediate recalibration. She’s presenting as significantly more dangerous than initial assessments indicated."

No shit, ARIA. File her under ’Secret Sociopath’ and flag her higher than Logan Paul’s crypto scam risk rating.

Mom’s expression softened—but the same way a knife feels "softer" after it’s already buried in your ribs. "But you’re sixteen. You’re supposed to be impulsive and stupid and solve problems with your fists. That’s what teenage boys do. Although most just can’t put a grown man in the ICU when they try."

"About that—" I started, but she raised her hand like I was an amateur at shutting up.

"Save it. I’ve heard every version already. Some kid says you went full Hulk. Madison says you were protecting Emma. Connor Hayes has a TikTok with seventy-five thousand views claiming you’re a government experiment gone wrong. And I know were a family of sociopaths so i would understand, so..." She shook her head. "I don’t need stories. I need truth."

Yeah, well, the truth involves supernatural sex powers and a system born from global female frustration. That’s gonna go over in court like Kanye at a Taylor Swift fan meet-up.

"The truth is simple," I said, meeting her eyes directly. "Trent Holloway is a predator who was blackmailing Emma. I stopped him. Permanently."

"And this evidence of predatory behavior?"

’Time for hypothetical lawyering, the OnlyFans of plausible deniability.’

"Hypothetically, if someone (me) had been documenting faculty misconduct, they might have recordings, witness statements, and a pattern of predation so obvious even Disney wouldn’t reboot it. They might be using that evidence as leverage to prevent retaliation."

Mom’s smile could’ve performed surgery. The kind of smile that says, "Don’t worry, I’m only here to remove your soul. "Hypothetically, that someone would be very smart. That evidence would be useful in both criminal and civil proceedings. The kind that bankrupts school districts."

She’s already five moves ahead. Jesus Christ. ’I’m playing checkers while she’s over here speedrunning 4D chess with cheat codes.’

"You know what I see when I look at you?" She leaned back, studying me like I was a particularly interesting medical specimen that might win her a Nobel. "I see Veronica." (my mom’s other name)

That hit harder than any punch I’d ever taken. Mom never talked about my birth mother. Ever. Like she was Voldemort with a better skincare routine.

"Not how you think," she continued. "Your mother was brilliant. Could’ve been anything—doctor, lawyer, whatever she wanted, that motherfucking smart girl. But life pushed her down a different path. She had this gift for seeing angles, planning ahead, turning shit situations into advantages."

Okay, cool I do not usually hear so much about my mom, but why does this sound like the backstory for a Batman villain?

"She also had a temper. When someone threatened her or her people, she didn’t just defend—she annihilated. I watched her destroy a pimp who tried to muscle her territory once. By the time she finished, he’d fled the state and changed his whole identity."

"Master," ARIA cut in, sounding like she was updating my character sheet, "this conversation suggests a genetic predisposition toward strategic violence. Your mother appears to be indicating this is hereditary."

Great. I’m the result of a one-night stand between John Wick and a chess grandmaster (my real mom).

Mom stood up, came around the table, and hugged me. Not gentle, not Hallmark-channel crap—this was a deployment hug. The kind that says: "If you die, I’m burning down the planet. Slowly."

"You’re mine," she whispered with scary intensity. "All three of you belong to me in every way that counts. And if these bastards think they can railroad my son for protecting his sister, they’re about to learn different."

Reminder: this woman once broke a drunk uncle’s hand with a salad fork. At Thanksgiving. Because he reached for the wrong pie I had tried to get too.

She pulled back, and now I saw it—this wasn’t "disappointed mom," this was "warrior mom." ICU nurse. Combat medic for the dying. The kind of woman who could perform CPR while roasting you about your life choices.

"Here’s what happens next." Her tone shifted into tactical ops mode like we were planning a raid on Bin Laden’s compound. "The Torres family lawyer is already here—Madison has one immediately. He’s one of the best. You’re going to shut up, let him work, and we’re going to turn this into Trent Holloway’s personal apocalypse."

"Mom—"

"No." Her voice could’ve cut through NASA-grade titanium. "You protected Emma. Now I protect you. That’s how this family works. We protect each other, whatever it costs."

Note to self: stop underestimating the women in my life. They’re all one inconvenience away from becoming John Wick.

"One thing though," she said, narrowing her eyes like she could see through my bones. "This change in you. It’s not just puberty or hitting the gym. Something happened. Something big."

Fuck. Mom’s observation skills make the FBI look like a TikTok conspiracy theorist. "I can’t explain it," I said carefully, even though I could literally cite case law for supernatural ability defenses. "Not in a way that makes sense. But I’m still me. Still your son. Just... upgraded."

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "We all have secrets, Peter. God knows I’ve got mine... real ones. Just remember—power comes with responsibility. Use it to protect, not just punish."

Did she just Spider-Man me? What’s next, Uncle Ben flashbacks?

A knock on the door saved me from having to answer. Logan poked his head in, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. "Time’s up. Lawyer’s here. Conference Room A."

Mom straightened her scrubs, sliding back into her nurse persona like she was clocking in for another shift. "Remember—shut up and let him work. And Peter?" She gave me that smile again, the one that could start wars. "When this is over, we’re having a long talk about strategic planning. You’ve got instincts, but your execution is amateur hour."

Cool. Can’t wait for my TED Talk on "How Not to Get Arrested After Committing Justice."

My mother is critiquing my assault technique. This timeline is wild.