Ordinary Isn’t Safe

Alex is on the run.

She has saved over 2,000 children, but in doing so, she has made herself a target. She is known across the world—to some, a hero… to others, a monster. She wears the name Lucifer, AKA Luci, like a crown, the mask of a devil, the title of a villain. If the world fears her, they will never hurt the innocent again.

But what she doesn’t know— What she hasn’t realized yet— Is that she is more than human now. Something inside her has begun to wake.

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The first thing I hear is Haku negotiating with the universe like it’s a customer service line. “Mommy. I need cereal. The circle cereal. Not the square one.”

“The circle cereal,” I repeat, half-awake, forehead pressed to the cool edge of the kitchen counter. My hair is a mess—red waves shoved into a claw clip that’s barely holding. One of my tattoos peeks out from under my sweatshirt sleeve like it’s also tired of being alive.

Haku is five, but he talks like he’s been here before. Full sentences—just with five-year-old vocabulary. He looks like his father: warm brown skin, dark eyes, thick lashes that should be illegal, and a little mouth that stays brave even when his feelings are too big.

“You mean the O’s,” I correct automatically, because if I don’t keep him learning, he’ll start telling strangers facts with supreme confidence that are completely wrong. Like the time he informed a barista that coffee is bean soup.

He blinks up at me, serious as a judge. “Yes. The O’s. I need two bowls because I’m a growing boy.”

“You are absolutely a growing boy,” I say, grabbing the cereal, “but you are also absolutely not getting two bowls before school.”

He pouts, then tries a different strategy. He leans his forehead into my stomach like a tiny battering ram and whispers, “Please Mommy I will be good forever.”

It’s so dramatic I almost laugh.

Behind him, Caelan drifts into the kitchen like a ghost with a backpack. Sixteen. Lanky. Long limbs. That special teenager posture like the whole world has personally disappointed him. He has my hair—my exact shade of red—and my expression when I’m concentrating.

“Mom,” he says, voice flat. “If I die of secondhand embarrassment today, it’s your fault.”

“Good morning to you too,” I reply, sliding his breakfast plate toward him. “Did you finish your history outline?”

Caelan’s eyes cut toward mine—sharp, tired, too old for his face. “Half. Then Haku attacked me with a dinosaur.”

Haku lifts his chin proudly. “It was a T-Rex.”

“It was a plastic lizard,” Caelan mutters.

“It was a T-Rex,” Haku repeats, like that settles it.

I scoop cereal into one bowl—one—and add fruit because I’m a responsible adult who sometimes remembers vitamins. The kitchen smells like toasted rice and coffee, and for one tiny moment, it almost feels like we’re normal.

Almost.

The sliding door opens, and Ma pads in, wrapped in her robe, hair tied back. She looks small until you remember what she’s survived. Her face is lined from time and laughter and war, and her eyes are still bright in a way that makes you forget she ever suffered—until you see how she watches doors.

She glances at me. “You sleep?” she asks in broken English.

“Not really,” I admit.

She clicks her tongue with quiet disapproval and reaches for Haku’s face, squishing his cheeks gently. Haku immediately goes soft—because Ma can turn any child into melted sugar.

“Yey,” he says with perfect devotion. “I get two bowl.”

Ma smiles like he just offered her a diamond. “Ohhh. Two bowl. Big strong boy.”

“No,” I say instantly, because I have learned the hard way that Ma will overthrow my entire household structure for a single adorable face.

She looks at me like I’m unreasonable. “He hungry.”

“He is always hungry,” I reply.

Caelan smirks and takes his plate.

Then the front door opens, and the temperature in the room shifts—like the air makes space for him.

Hour walks in.

He’s already dressed for the day: dark tee, jeans, boots. Beautiful in a way that used to make people stare in public. Excellent shape—buff without trying, shoulders broad, forearms corded like he carries the world and never complains about it. He smells like clean soap and outside air, like he stepped through morning itself.

His hair is still damp.

He’s holding a gym bag in one hand and a folded letter in the other.

And his expression isn’t neutral.

It’s controlled.

Which is worse.

“Hey,” I say, searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

Hour’s eyes flick to Caelan, then to Haku. He masks it fast—so fast a normal person wouldn’t notice—but I do. I notice everything. I’ve learned to.

“Nothing,” he says automatically, and his voice is steady, but his jaw tightens as he speaks.

Ma and Ba don’t believe him either. Ba appears behind Hour, moving slower, heavier—still strong, but his body carries old injuries like hidden metal. He’s holding his prayer beads. His mouth is a hard line. Ba looks at me and says something in Khmer—fast, clipped.

I don’t understand it. I never have. I can recognize my name, and I know when they’re arguing, and I know when they’re praying, but the language still slides past me like water I can’t catch.

Hour answers Ba in Khmer, the words sharp, the rhythm urgent. Then he switches back to English for me, like he has to force it. “Mail,” he says.

That’s all. Just one word. And my stomach drops like it recognizes danger before my brain can label it.

“What kind of mail?” I ask.

Hour holds up the letter. The paper looks normal. Plain. Too plain. No bright logos. No cute little return address. Nothing that says this is harmless. I reach for it, but Hour doesn’t hand it over right away. His eyes hold mine, and there’s something in them that makes my throat tighten. Protective. Tense. A warning he doesn’t want to speak in front of the kids.

“Mom?” Caelan says quietly. His voice has lost its sarcasm. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” I say too quickly, and my voice betrays me by cracking at the end.

Haku looks between us, suspicious. “Mommy… is it bad mail?”

“It’s adult mail,” I tell him, forcing brightness. “The boring kind.”

Haku narrows his eyes like he doesn’t buy it. He absolutely doesn’t. Ma moves to the window without thinking—just a small shift in her body, but it’s instinct. She checks the street like she’s still a young woman in a world that hunted her.

“Don’t,” Hour murmurs in Khmer, and Ma stiffens.

My pulse begins to drum behind my ears. I take the letter from Hour. My fingers feel numb. I turn it over, once. Twice. There’s a return address. "Government" mail, we all know it's not the real government. My vision sharpens in the way it does when adrenaline hits. Like the world becomes too detailed. Like even the hum of the refrigerator is loud enough to be a threat. I open it. Paper slides out. Official language. Black and white. So much text it’s almost insulting, like they need this many words to justify destroying a family. My mouth goes dry. Hour’s hand closes around my wrist—not tight, not controlling, just… grounding. Like he’s anchoring me to the room.

“Alex,” he says softly. “Breathe.”

I swallow. Once. Twice. My eyes catch on the header. And then the words that make my blood go cold.

NOTICE.

FAILURE TO COMPLY.

ENFORCEMENT ACTION.

A sound comes out of me—small, involuntary. Like my body is trying to warn itself.

Hour says something in Khmer to Ba—low and fast. Ba responds, sharper. The word “1984” slips in there, and I only recognize it because it’s a year, and because Ma flinches like she’s been struck.

I look up. “Hour,” I whisper. “What is this?”

Hour’s face doesn’t change. But his eyes do. There’s fear there. Not for himself. For us. For what’s coming. He leans down close enough that only I can hear and says, very carefully, like every word is a blade he’s choosing to place in my hands: “They are coming.”

The room tilts.

Caelan’s chair scrapes the floor. “Who is coming?”

Haku grabs my sweatshirt and clings. “Mommy?”

I clutch the letter like it’s proof I’m not imagining this. Like maybe if I hold it tight enough, reality will change its mind. My mind races—school, passports, bags, hiding places, what do we tell the kids, what do we—

A knock hits the front door. Not a polite knock. Not a neighbor knock. A knock that says: We already own this moment. Ba’s prayer beads click faster in his hand. Ma makes a sound under her breath—Khmer—too quick for me to catch, but I recognize the emotion in it: Dread.

Hour steps forward. He moves between the door and the kitchen like his body knows what to do even if his heart is panicking. I reach for Caelan without thinking. He grabs my hand, squeezing hard. Haku presses his face into my stomach. And the knock comes again—harder.

A voice follows through the door, official and cold. “Open up.”

My fingers tighten around the letter until the paper crumples. And something deep inside me—something I don’t have a name for yet—stirs like it’s waking up.

A warning. A promise. A beginning.