Mornings felt different now.
There was still the buzz of New York traffic outside, still the distant hum of buses and storefronts waking up. But inside Avalon, everything had changed. The coffee machine purred steadily. The fridges hummed in rhythm. Light poured through the spotless front windows and spilled across clean tile floors.
And John Cruz—bodega owner, builder, and quiet guardian—stood at the counter with a steaming cup in hand, breathing in the stillness.
The Super Bowl bet had changed everything. $130,000. Enough to buy time. To plan. To protect.
For the first time in months, he wasn't thinking about invoices.
He was thinking about Lorna.
She shuffled into the store just after nine, still yawning, her hair shimmering in low morning hues—soft pink, lavender, gold. She grabbed a chocolate croissant from the display and leaned against the counter, chewing slowly.
"You ever think about… fixing up your paperwork?" John asked casually, sipping his coffee.
Lorna blinked at him. "You mean like… school transcripts?"
He raised an eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes. "Okay, dumb question."
"I mean, ID. Legal name. Proof of anything."
Lorna shifted, defensive. "Why?"
John shrugged. "Because it doesn't hurt to have backup. Avalon's doing fine. You're living here. Might be good to have your name on something official. Something that lets you walk through a checkpoint without sweating."
She chewed slowly. "I never had papers. Not real ones. Foster homes gave me junk IDs. When I ran, I ran with nothing."
John leaned on the counter. "We could change that."
Lorna looked at him like he'd offered to move a mountain with a spoon. "You serious?"
"Why not?"
She scoffed. "Because people like me don't just 'get' identities. It's all background checks and parental signatures and 'please hold while we ignore your trauma.'"
John didn't flinch. "We'll figure it out."
She narrowed her eyes. "What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"…You always this annoyingly decent?"
He gave a faint smile. "Depends who you ask."
The process wasn't fast. Or easy.
But it started.
They found a local aid organization two subway stops away that worked with displaced teens. John walked in with Lorna, acting like her quiet, stone-faced brother. The volunteer—a tired woman in her forties named Carla—barely batted an eye.
They sat in folding chairs in a poorly lit room and filled out forms.
Full Name: Lorna Dorne
Date of Birth: Unknown (Estimate: May 11, 1986)
Social Security: None on record
Carla asked questions. John answered where Lorna froze. They scheduled a fingerprint session at a city satellite office. Waited in line. Paid a small fee with John's debit card.
He used Avalon's address as her residence. Showed a business license. Confirmed utilities in his name. The pieces clicked.
Lorna said nothing through most of it.
But when they handed her a temporary ID form and a list of next steps, she stared at the paper like it might vanish.
Outside the office, she stopped on the sidewalk.
"You know what this means?"
John shrugged. "Paperwork."
She shook her head.
"It means I exist again."
That night, with Avalon closed and Lorna upstairs sketching sticker ideas, John descended into the basement.
The space was still bunker-like: cold concrete, reinforced walls, and the old terminal system dormant but intact in the far corner behind a metal panel.
But John had plans.
Not for another storefront.
For something private.
He began sketching out what he later called The Den.
A couch, a sound system, soft lighting. A private retreat where he could think, unwind, or train.
But he also remembered his father's warnings. The terminal's files. The serum. The reinforced casing. The lab equipment and logs.
If he was turning this space into something comfortable, it needed to be secure.
So, before anything else, John carved out a portion of the wall—a shallow recess behind a slatted panel near the rear left corner, beneath a false wiring box. The building's structure made it easy to route a mechanical hinge without drawing attention.
Inside, he stored:
His father's journal, sealed in a ziplock archive case.
The terminal's core drive, disconnected and wiped from easy access.
The serum vial and injector, placed in a steel lockbox with an analog code he memorized.
Several of the more sensitive files—blueprints, engineering notes, and a sealed envelope labeled, "In case it starts again."
He installed a magnetic catch and covered the panel with a row of salvaged utility boxes—harmless-looking. Invisible unless you knew what you were looking for.
It wasn't paranoia.
It was respect.
For the building. For the past. For the war that hadn't knocked yet, but would.
Once the hiding place was complete, he focused on comfort.
LED strips in warm gold. An old couch from an auction site. A lamp. A throw rug. A small Bluetooth speaker.
The space slowly shifted from bunker to sanctuary.
The next evening, Lorna paused near the basement stairs, eyeing the changes.
"You building a fortress?" she asked, voice teasing.
"Not exactly," John replied, setting down a small bookshelf.
She peered around the doorframe. "You should call it the Den. Kinda cave-y. In a cozy way."
He smirked. "I already do."
She blinked. "Weird."
Then added: "I like it."
And beneath the floorboards, behind slats and shadows, the truth of John's inheritance waited—quiet, sealed, and patient.
Because one day, the world might knock on Avalon's door.
And when it did, The Den would be ready.