CHAPTER 458: CHAPTER 458: DECISIONS, DECISIONS (PART 8)

Don didn’t rush.

After the over the top "training" session—Summer’s words, not his—he had just enough time to shower off the sweat and reassemble his face into something that passed for normal.

He strolled into the living room, towel still slung around his neck, the fabric damp and clinging faintly to the back of his shirt.

The others weren’t far. Voices drifted from the kitchen—Samantha, Amanda, and Summer, arguing over who got Winter’s help next like she was a limited-edition appliance.

He flopped onto the couch with zero ceremony, thumb already moving across his phone. One message to Donald—done. Another to the group chat. Then, finally, he fired a short update to Elle: Dropping by soon.

Almost as if summoned by name, Trixie blinked into existence via digital ping—adding both him and Elle to a fresh chat titled "Vision Board (Rated R?)".

The screen was immediately filled with AI-generated images. All Elle. None safe for life.

One had her in lace and string, another in chains that looked decorative but suspiciously practical. Every image looked like it had been generated by a horny art student with access to unethical algorithms.

At the bottom, Trixie had typed:

"Hey Don, don’t you think Elle should rock these? You see the vision right. Imagine..."

And then—nothing.

A full second passed.

The images vanished first. Then the chat itself followed like it had never existed.

Don blinked at the screen. "I guess Elle doesn’t agree," he muttered, lips twitching with a half-smile.

Their dynamic was weird. Messy, definitely. But somehow still... functional.

He leaned back, let his arm drape over the side of the couch, eyes drifting toward the kitchen just as movement caught his peripheral.

He heard them before he saw them. Amanda laughing lowly, Samantha tapping a wooden spoon against a bowl. And Winter—calm as ever.

But the footsteps were coming closer now. Behind him. He shifted, stood without hurry, and turned just as Summer rounded the back of the couch.

Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed. Frown dialed somewhere between irritated and performative.

She was still in her school skirt and knee-high socks, but she’d swapped her top for one of those cropped vests with some vintage-looking logo printed across the chest. The vest barely covered anything when her arms were folded like that, and the effect wasn’t subtle.

Don raised a brow.

"How come you all need Winter’s help?"

Summer’s frown deepened immediately.

"Mom wants her to help cook and clean," she said, irritation already in the tone. "Aunt Amanda, for some reason, needs help surfing the dark web, and I—"

She paused.

"Hmph. None of your business."

Don smirked. "Is it because I didn’t let you snap a photo of my stupid muscles?"

Her cheeks tinged pink before she could slap down the reaction. A blush half-born from embarrassment, half from memory of Don in the gym. She pressed her lips together, looked away sharply, and whipped her ponytail as she turned.

"Tsk. You’re just trying to piss me off. Anyway, I don’t care—I’m going to study. Unlike some people, I don’t need Winter to do everything."

She made sure that last part was said loud enough, too. Just enough to echo into the kitchen.

Then she stomped off. Loud footsteps across the floor, hips swaying a little too much to be entirely accidental.

Don watched her go, then turned his gaze toward the kitchen.

"Someone’s angry again," he said, not bothering to raise his voice much.

Amanda, seated on the kitchen counter with her usual disregard for etiquette, snorted.

"Some things never change."

She stretched her arms up and yawned, and as she did, the edge of the vest she wore pulled up—side-boob on display without an ounce of concern.

She glanced toward Samantha, one leg swinging lazily.

"Anyway, Sam, you win. You had me at juicy ribs."

Samantha didn’t respond immediately—just rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the stovetop, muttering something about portion sizes.

Amanda pushed off the counter with a light hop, her bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thump~. She ambled toward the living room, voice trailing as she approached.

"Make some room over there Don, I’m putting on some bikini wrestling re-runs."

Don was already rising from the seat entirely, stretching just enough to make the yawn believable.

"I’ll join you later," he said, giving Amanda a lazy nod. "I want to take nap."

She pouted as expected, bottom lip jutting out in exaggerated offense. "Aww. Well, maybe after dinner then."

"Maybe," he said, already turning.

At this point, his naps were just part of the house routine. Everyone had their pattern. Summer with her aggressive study habits, Samantha with her dramas and snacks, Amanda with her... whatever Amanda was doing at any given hour.

Don just made sure to schedule in the one thing that kept him from going full cryptid.

As he left the living area, he tapped his phone screen again. The thought of Elle’s face when those pictures had probably loaded was still funny enough to warrant a grin.

Trixie was probably in timeout.

And if not... well. That was someone else’s problem.

———

Some time later...

A sedan’s cabin rode quiet.

Predator sat in the back, mask to the glass, highway lights sliding over him in thin bands. The driver kept his eyes forward. At the first mark, a second black car eased alongside; Predator faded out of one shell and reappeared in the other. No door. No warning. Shff— gone, then there again.

Two more exchanges. One on the frontage, one beside a refrigerated truck whose plates changed more than once. The truck hummed on.

Soon, forest rose around the road in ragged curtains as daylight folded into something bluer.

The drop cue was a barely-there bump under the wheels. He sank through the floor and reformed under the trees without leaving so much as a breath behind. The truck didn’t slow. It didn’t even know it had lost anything.

Paranoid? Maybe. But Gary liked "maybe" to look like a well-funded habit. Don could respect the craft.

He cut the perimeter in silence. Sensors recognized him and went kindly blind. A hatch opened in the underbrush and he slid down into concrete that didn’t echo his steps. Shffft~

By the time the parking bay opened out in front of him, he had already decided to dispel the suit. It peeled from his body like dark water retreating from stone, ran his forearm, and vanished into the tattoo.

Don exhaled into the soft absurdity of a plain black shirt, gray track pants, socks, and house slippers.

The bay was busy. Minions moved in small knots, tools in hand, heads turning just enough to keep from colliding. Military trucks loomed along the far wall. The rest were ordinary cars until the tricks showed.

A red Civic sat open-heart on a gantry. Two minions guided an engine down while a third worked the chain hoist. The block didn’t look legal. Tubes ran into a manifold that pulsed faintly; inside one curve, a pale glow traveled and receded like a tide. The foreman flattened his palms, eyes on the mounts. The chain creaked. The engine settled in. clnk~

Over by an SUV, another minion held a remote with both hands. He tapped. The front rim opened and shoved out a fat cylinder on a ball joint. It tested angles. Another tap and the barrel spun for half a moment. whrrrr~ Then stillness.

Loaded, that would turn most disagreements into mulch.

Don took three steps into the bay and Gary arrived, posture neat, suit cleaner than the air had any right to be.

"Welcome, sir." Hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth. "Apologies for the inconvenience. We’re still in the midst of installing the chroma-film for vehicles, as well as defensive measures."

"Chroma-film," Don said, more to mark the thought than to ask for a detailed report.

BOOM!~

Both heads turned. A red truck cab down the row burped flame from under its hood. Two minions sprinted with extinguishers, pins already gone.

"Suii! Suii!" Foam blasted in a white sheet . fffft-fffft~ Another minion yanked a cutoff lever. Smoke thinned. The flame sulked and went out.

Gary sighed through his nose. "As you can see, we truly do need a technological expert and an electronics engineer."

A pair of minions finally noticed Don. They straightened, saluted with small thumps to their chests. "Suiii!"

He returned a short nod and slipped a stray socket off the floor into a nearby tray. The minion who’d been hunting for it glanced up, froze, then gave a quick "suii" and a thumbs-up.

Gary set an easy pace toward the platform above the area; Don fell in beside him.

Gary angled his chin toward the far end. "That aside," he said, tone tightening by a degree, "in regards to the matter of the UPSDF..."