The old man was halfway through his meal when the boy dropped to his knees in front of him

The clatter of the café faded into a dull background hum as Arthur processed Julian’s words, his eyes locked on the infant sleeping peacefully in the boy's arms.

“Who took her?” Arthur demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly whisper.

Julian set his piece of bread down, his hands shaking so violently he had to clasp them together in his lap. “Men in dark coats. They didn't look like police. They drove clean black vans with no license plates, and they searched our shelter for three days before we managed to slip out through the drainage tunnels.”

The younger girl, whose name Julian later gave as Maya, whimpered softly at the mention of the vans, burying her face in her brother’s dirty sleeve. Arthur reached out instinctively, his hand hovering over the girl’s matted hair before he caught himself and pulled back, unaccustomed to offering comfort.

“Why would men in black vans hunt a baby?” Arthur asked, scanning the surrounding street for any sign of suspicious vehicles.

“Because of what she can do,” Julian replied bitterly. “Word gets out when a dying woman walks out of a hospice ward after being touched by a newborn orphan. People talk. Doctors ask questions that can't be answered. And then the wrong people start listening.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, feeling the renewed strength in his thighs press against the fabric of his trousers. The implications were staggering, dangerous, and completely surreal. If what Julian was saying was true, Rose wasn't just a child; she was a walking biological anomaly, a target for every pharmaceutical corporation, government agency, and desperate billionaire on the planet.

“You shouldn't have come to a public café,” Arthur said, his mind shifting into tactical planning mode—the same cold calculation that had built his shipping empire decades ago. “If they are tracking you, thermal cameras and traffic cams would have picked you up entering this commercial district within minutes.”

“We didn't have anywhere else to go,” Julian snapped defensively, his youthful bravado flaring up despite his exhaustion. “We’ve been sleeping under the overpass near the rail yards for two nights. Maya has a fever, and little Toby hasn't stopped crying since yesterday morning. I didn't care about cameras; I just saw you sitting here looking like you needed a miracle as much as we did.”

Arthur stared at the boy, recognizing the fierce, protective instinct burning in Julian's eyes. It was the same look Arthur used to see in the mirror when he worked twenty-hour days to secure a future for his own family—before the crash took everything away in a single blinding flash of metal and glass.

“How old are you, Julian?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Sixteen,” the boy replied, lifting his chin slightly. “Old enough to take care of my sisters.”

“At sixteen, I was worrying about college applications and high school track meets,” Arthur muttered, reaching for his neglected glass of red wine. “Not dodging federal agents with a miraculous infant.”

Before Julian could respond, a sleek, dark sedan slowed to a crawl along the curb fifty feet down the block. Its headlights swept across the glass facade of the café, casting long, distorted shadows over their table.

Julian froze mid-sentence, his entire body going rigid. The color drained completely from his face, leaving his skin a sickly, ash-grey hue.

“That's them,” Julian whispered, his voice barely audible over the jazz music drifting from the cafe's speakers.

Arthur followed the boy's terrified gaze. The sedan wasn't marked, but the tinted windows and the precise, deliberate way it drifted toward the alley beside the café screamed professional surveillance.

“Get under the table,” Arthur ordered, his old corporate dominance surging back with absolute clarity.

“They'll see us,” Maya whimpered, tears spilling over her dirty cheeks.

“They won't see anything if you move fast,” Arthur said, sliding his chair back and testing his legs.

To his utter astonishment, when he pushed his weight downward, his knees held. They shook with strain, burning with lactic acid after years of complete atrophy, but they held. Arthur Vance stood up from the table for the first time in seven years.

Julian stared up at him in sheer disbelief, his jaw dropping as the old man towered over him, gripping the edge of the table for balance.