The Deceiver disliked the word.
Anchor.
It sounded stable.
Comforting.
Permanent.
Nothing truly important was ever permanent.
Which was precisely why they were studying them.
---
Dozens of screens floated through the darkness.
Photographs.
Relationships.
Communication records.
Public interactions.
Old reports.
New reports.
A city reduced to connections.
Most intelligence agencies mapped power.
The Deceiver mapped attachment.
Because attachment explained behavior far better than power ever had.
Power was simple.
People were not.
A screen shifted.
Elara.
Another.
Nyxara and Solin.
Another.
Captain Vale.
Another.
District Nine.
Another.
The bakery.
Another.
Malachai.
The Deceiver studied the web quietly.
Not looking for weaknesses.
Not yet.
Looking for weight.
Some anchors mattered more than others.
The challenge was determining which ones.
---
Meanwhile, District Nine had developed a new problem.
The Void Princess rumor economy.
It was thriving.
Elara regretted everything.
A hand-drawn poster had appeared overnight near the bakery.
It showed a dramatically exaggerated version of herself standing atop a mountain of defeated criminals while holding what appeared to be a blueberry muffin.
Hex had been laughing for six minutes.
"I hate this district."
"You love this district."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
The bakery owner emerged carrying fresh trays.
"Oh good. You're here."
Elara immediately became suspicious.
That feeling was justified.
The woman handed her a small paper bag.
"What is this?"
"A thank you."
"For what?"
The owner blinked.
"For helping people."
Elara stared at the bag.
"...This is how kidnappings begin."
The woman laughed.
Hex nearly fell off a nearby bench.
---
Across the city, Captain Vale sat inside a small café reviewing old records.
Again.
She was beginning to suspect this had become a problem.
Across from her sat Solin.
The hero looked far too relaxed for someone dating Nyxara.
Vale still hadn't figured out how he managed that.
"I saw another photograph."
Solin nodded.
"Before?"
"Before."
The simple word carried enough meaning.
Neither needed clarification.
Vale stirred her coffee quietly.
"Why wasn't any of this public?"
Solin was silent for a while.
Eventually:
"Because history isn't neat."
"No."
"It never is."
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
The city moved outside.
Normal.
Alive.
Messy.
Vale looked down at another recovered image.
Malachai helping civilians evacuate a disaster zone.
No armor.
No wings.
Just exhaustion.
"Did you know him?"
"A little."
The answer surprised her.
Solin smiled faintly.
"Everyone did."
That wasn't reassuring.
---
Elsewhere, several retired heroes and villains occupied their usual card table.
Nobody was paying attention to the cards anymore.
A rare event.
The conversation had become considerably more serious.
Another survivor had disappeared.
Not killed.
Missing.
The distinction mattered.
A retired villain lowered his cards.
"They contacted me yesterday."
Silence followed.
The Celestial Knight sat quietly near the end of the table.
Listening.
Thinking.
The retired hero beside him looked exhausted.
"What did they ask?"
The answer came immediately.
"The same thing."
Nobody needed clarification.
Everyone already knew.
The room had reached the point where certain questions no longer required repeating.
The retired villain stared into his coffee.
"They wanted to know what kept him going."
Nobody spoke.
The Celestial Knight finally did.
His voice remained calm.
Measured.
Heavy.
"That's the wrong question."
The retired villain nodded.
"Exactly."
A younger hero sitting nearby looked confused.
"Why?"
The room became quiet.
Several older figures exchanged glances.
Finally, the Celestial Knight answered.
"Because they're assuming there was only one answer."
The younger hero frowned.
"I don't understand."
A retired villain laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because memory was cruel.
"Neither did we."
---
Much later that evening, Elara sat atop one of District Nine's rooftops overlooking the city.
The paper bag rested beside her.
The bakery owner's gift.
Still unopened.
She wasn't entirely certain what to do with it.
The little girl found her anyway.
Again.
Somehow.
Elara was beginning to suspect the child possessed supernatural tracking abilities.
"You're here."
"Yes."
The child sat beside her.
Comfortably.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
The city lights stretched endlessly beneath them.
After a few minutes, the little girl pointed at the paper bag.
"Aren't you going to eat it?"
"...Eventually."
The child looked disappointed.
"You say that every time."
Elara opened the bag.
Inside sat several blueberry muffins.
Hex had absolutely planned this.
The little girl grinned triumphantly.
"I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"You really do like blueberry muffins."
Elara stared silently into the distance.
The rumors had escaped containment.
---
Far away, the Deceiver watched another screen.
Then another.
Then another.
Elara.
The child.
The bakery owner.
Nyxara.
Solin.
Vale.
The Old Guard.
The Celestial Knight.
One by one.
Connection after connection.
Attachment after attachment.
A web.
Not fragile.
Not weak.
Complex.
Alive.
The Deceiver studied it carefully.
And for the first time since beginning their investigation—
something unexpected happened.
A small note appeared within their observations.
Not a weakness.
Not a vulnerability.
An inconsistency.
People did not remain connected because of logic.
They remained connected because they chose to.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Despite pain.
Despite grief.
Despite loss.
The Deceiver stared at that conclusion longer than expected.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Slowly, they reached forward and removed a single name from the board.
Not because that individual lacked importance.
Because they possessed too much.
The board rearranged itself.
The web shifted.
A new experiment began taking shape.
Not an attack.
Not yet.
Just a question.
One designed to test whether connections truly were as strong as everyone believed.
The Deceiver smiled softly.
Outside, rain continued falling across the city.
And somewhere beneath that rain, fault lines began feeling the first subtle pressure.