The air outside the embassy felt strangely still. Alex blinked, looking at the building, then at the small, mismatched group beside him.
"Alright, I get why I’m following you," Alex said, keeping his voice low. "Sort of. But why drag my kid and her buddy into this? Couldn’t we have just... talked first?"
Adam glanced at him, then at Annabeth and David, who were staring wide-eyed at their new surroundings. "Think ahead, Alex. You and me, we’re checking out soon. Off this rock. Maybe way off. Someone’s got to keep the lights on down here, make sure everything doesn’t fall apart. That’s them."
"Babysitting the planet?" Alex muttered, running a hand through his hair.
"More like... management. Making sure Michael does a better job than the last guy. And every good leader," Adam said, nodding towards Annabeth, "needs someone to tell them when they’re being an idiot. A conscience. That’s Fatimah."
Annabeth crossed her arms. "Hold on. Why do I need a... a babysitter? No offense," she added quickly, glancing at Fatimah.
Fatimah wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes were locked on Adam, a glare of pure, undiluted hatred. "None taken," Fatimah said, her voice like chipped stone. "I didn’t watch you kill my father and then get dragged here to be a nanny. I won’t do it. I’ll rebel first. You can kill me for it. I don’t care."
Adam actually chuckled. It was a soft, dry sound. "You want to rebel. That’s cute. I’m not asking you to be a servant. I’m asking you to be a guide. She’s got power now. A lot of it. And power... it twists people. She was just a regular person yesterday. Those human feelings—the anger, the fear, the pride—they’re messy. They’ll trip her up. Her dad and I won’t always be around to point it out."
He turned fully to Fatimah, his tone shifting, becoming disarmingly direct. "You were Heaven’s best judge. You saw through every lie, every excuse. You know the difference between justice and vengeance, between duty and desire. She needs to learn that. Plus, she’s gonna be visiting her mom in Hell. You know the territory. I can’t think of anyone better for the job."
For a split second, Fatimah’s fierce expression faltered. A hint of something else—recognition, maybe even a faint flush—flickered across her face before the hard mask slammed back down.
Alex watched the whole exchange and shook his head inwardly. He’s not hung up on Rebecca anymore. Now he’s just... collecting. Elizabeth, now Fatimah... any strong woman who looks at him gets pulled into his orbit. They’ll all end up fighting for a piece of a heart that’s turning to ice. Maybe I can... nah. He’d kill me if I tried to meddle.
Adam clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Right. Enough standing around. Let’s go hear what they have to say."
He didn’t wait. He just walked toward the main doors. After a beat, the others followed.
They stepped into a large room. It was full of people sitting around a big table, all of them stiff and quiet. Every head turned as the door closed behind them. The silence was so heavy you could feel it pressing down.
Adam scanned the room, a faint, easy smirk touching his lips. He broke the silence, his voice perfectly calm.
"Well. You all look cozy. Let’s get this started."
The silence in the room was absolute. The man from the video, from the nightmare briefings, was just... standing there. He looked ordinary. That was the most terrifying part.
The steady-eyed man from the planning session, whose name was General Corrigan, was the first to find his voice. He did not stand. He remained seated, trying to project a calm he did not feel.
"Adam," Corrigan said, the single word echoing in the quiet. "Thank you for coming."
Adam just looked at him, waiting. The smirk was gone, replaced by a flat, patient expression.
A diplomat, a woman named Elise, cleared her throat. "We... we appreciate you agreeing to speak with us. After... after Nigeria, there were a great many questions."
"I bet there were," Adam said. His voice was neutral, neither friendly nor hostile.
"The intent," Corrigan said, choosing his words like he was crossing a minefield, "was never hostility. It was a... a catastrophic misjudgment. Of the situation. And of you."
"You sent the best weapons you had to stop me," Adam stated. It wasn’t a question. "Tanks, planes, special forces. You thought it was enough."
Another man, an intelligence chief named Vance, shifted in his seat. "We didn’t know what we were dealing with. We operate on known threats. You were... unknown."
"And now you know?" Adam asked, his gaze sweeping the room. It lingered on no one, but everyone felt seen.
"We know we can’t fight you," Corrigan said bluntly. It was the first truly honest thing said. "We know that any attempt would be... pointless. We are not here to make threats. We are not here to posture."
From the far end of the table, a different energy stirred. Donald Trump Jr. had been watching, his eyes sharp. He leaned forward. "What my colleague is trying to say, in a very roundabout way, is that we recognize a new reality. A shift. Nigeria proved that. The old rules... they don’t seem to apply to you."
Adam’s eyes flicked to him. "Go on."
Trump Jr. took it as an invitation. "We’re practical people. Or we try to be. You have capabilities that... rewrite the game. What we want to understand is, what does that mean for the game? What are your intentions? Towards the countries that... misjudged you? Towards the world?"
Adam was quiet for a moment. He glanced back at his own group—Alex, who looked deeply uncomfortable, the two teenagers who were trying to be invisible, and the fierce-looking woman, Fatimah, who was staring at the assembled leaders with undisguised contempt.
"My intentions," Adam said slowly, turning back, "aren’t about you."
The room seemed to grow colder.
"You wiped out a multi-national force in seconds," Vance said, a trace of the old fear and anger in his voice. "It’s a little hard to believe it wasn’t about us."
"It was a response," Adam corrected, his tone still calm. "You pointed a gun. I showed you the gun was useless. It was a lesson. Not a war. If it was a war, we wouldn’t be talking. You wouldn’t be here."
"So it was a demonstration," Elise said, trying to steer it back.
"A costly one," someone muttered.
Adam’s gaze found the mutterer. "It would have been more costly if I’d let it continue. For everyone."
Corrigan held up a hand, a plea for calm. "We accept that. We do. The question, now, is what comes next. You have... power. More than we can comprehend. How do we... coexist with that? What do you need from us? To be left entirely alone? Some form of... recognition?"
This was it. The question they’d debated. Trump Jr. sat straighter, ready for the negotiation he was sure would follow.
Adam almost smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I don’t need anything from you. Your recognition means nothing. Your laws mean nothing. You can leave me alone or you can bother me. It won’t change what I do."
The brutal simplicity of it was a punch to the gut. All their plans—neutral tone, quiet diplomacy, mutual interest—crumbled.
"Then... why are you here?" Elise asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Adam gestured vaguely behind him to Annabeth and David. "They’re why I’m here. The next part involves them."
All eyes moved to the teenagers, who shrank back. Alex stepped slightly in front of them.
"You’re... delegating?" Corrigan asked, completely lost.
"You could call it that," Adam said. "I’m leaving. So is he," he nodded at Alex. "We have... other things to see to. These two will be staying. They’ll be your point of contact. For anything."
A stunned silence.
"You’re putting children in charge of... of global relations?" Vance sputtered, his professional composure cracking.
"They’re not in charge of you," Adam said, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "They’re in charge of making sure you don’t do anything stupid enough that I have to come back and give another lesson."
He looked at Annabeth. "Tell them."
Annabeth looked like she wanted to vomit. She swallowed hard, took a small step forward, and looked at the sea of powerful, confused, frightened faces. "My name is Annabeth. This is David. We... we just want things to be stable. To be calm. No more big fights. No more trying to... test things." Her voice was young, but it didn’t shake.
Trump Jr. found his voice again, a hard edge of skepticism in it. "And what qualifies you for this? No offense, kid, but this is a little above your pay grade."
It was Fatimah who spoke, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "They are qualified because he says they are. Your opinions on the matter are irrelevant. You will deal with them, or you will deal with the consequences. It is not a complicated arrangement."
Her sheer, icy authority shut him down more effectively than any argument.
Adam nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Fatimah will be with them. She’s experienced. She understands rules, order, and consequences. Listen to them. It’s not a request."
He looked at Corrigan, then at each of them in turn. The casual power in the room was stifling. "This is the new rule. You don’t bother me. You deal with them. You keep your world in order. In return, you get to keep your world."
He turned to leave, as if the meeting was over.
"Wait!" Corrigan stood up, a sudden, desperate move. "That’s it? That’s all? Just... a message delivered by teenagers and an... advisor? What about borders? Conflicts? The economy? The millions of people who saw what happened and are terrified?"
Adam paused at the door. He looked back over his shoulder, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something in his eyes that wasn’t patience or amusement. It was something older, and infinitely weary.
"That," he said, his voice final, "sounds like a ’you’ problem. Figure it out. You wanted to know my intentions. That’s them. Don’t make me have to clarify again."
He walked out. Alex gave the room one last, almost apologetic look, and followed.
The door clicked shut.
Leaving the most powerful people on the planet sitting in a silence more complete than before, staring at two teenagers and a grim-faced woman who judged them with heaven’s own contempt.