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Vivian noticed the watcher three days before anyone else did.

It started small — a prickling awareness at the edge of her hearing, a set of footsteps that circled the Hegeville house a little too methodically to be coincidence, a particular rhythm of breathing that lingered just beyond the property line for longer than any casual passerby ever would. She said nothing at first, cataloguing the pattern with the same patient precision that had once made her one of the deadliest operatives in Wolvesberg’s assassination division.

By the fourth day, she was certain.

"We’re being watched," she announced flatly during breakfast, setting down her fork with quiet finality. "Someone’s been circling the property for at least three days. Careful about it, too. Whoever it is knows how to move without triggering obvious attention."

Allen’s grip tightened slightly around his own cup. "Any idea who?"

"Not yet. But the gait is older, deliberate, careful in a way that suggests formal training rather than natural stealth." Vivian’s expression sharpened. "I’d like permission to find out properly."

Myria glanced up from her tablet, sharp eyes narrowing with immediate calculation. "Given the timing, I’d wager this connects directly to your father’s reaction to your recent evaluation. Someone’s investigating the source of your growth."

"Then let’s not disappoint them," Allen said grimly. "Vivian, you’re cleared. Just don’t kill whoever it is. We need answers, not a body."

Vivian’s answering smile was sharp enough to be genuinely unsettling. "No promises, but I’ll try to restrain myself."

---

She caught him that night, crouched in the shadow of the leaning fence at the edge of the backyard, entirely unaware that the woman he’d been quietly observing for the better part of an hour had already circled behind him with silent, practiced precision.

Reginald let out an undignified yelp the moment Vivian’s blade pressed lightly against the side of his throat, freezing entirely mid-crouch.

"Move, and I’ll assume you’re hostile," Vivian said, voice calm and utterly without mercy. "Given your employer’s recent behavior toward this household, I wouldn’t recommend testing that assumption."

"I— this is a misunderstanding," Reginald stammered, all his usual smug composure entirely absent, replaced by genuine, undignified fear.

"Explain quickly, then," Allen said, stepping into view with Irene and Myria close behind, the porch light catching the grim set of his expression. "You’ve been circling this property for four days, Reginald. That’s not a misunderstanding. That’s surveillance."

Reginald’s eyes darted between all of them, calculating and finding no viable exit, before his shoulders slumped in something approaching genuine defeat. "Your father," he admitted, voice tight with barely restrained resentment, "ordered me to identify the source of your recent... anomalous growth. He’s convinced you’ve stumbled onto something valuable, and he intends to have it identified and neutralized before it becomes an actual threat to the family’s standing."

"Neutralized," Allen repeated coldly. "Meaning taken from me, one way or another."

"I merely follow orders," Reginald said, some of his old, slippery composure returning now that immediate danger had passed. "Though I confess, I’ve found this particular assignment considerably more difficult than anticipated. Four former legends and a rapidly growing anomaly make for rather effective deterrence against casual observation."

"You’ll return to my father," Myria said, voice cold enough to match the ice already gathering faintly at her fingertips, "and inform him that whatever he’s hoping to find here isn’t available for theft or negotiation. Allen’s growth is his own. It doesn’t belong to the Veton family, and it never will."

Reginald’s gaze flicked toward her, something briefly, genuinely uncertain flickering behind his usual mask. "You’ve all changed considerably since that first day in Hegeville," he observed quietly, almost involuntarily. "I confess, I didn’t expect that."

"None of us did," Allen said. "That’s rather the point."

Vivian’s blade remained steady against Reginald’s throat for a long, tense moment before she finally withdrew it, stepping back with deliberate, unhurried precision. "Leave," she said simply. "And relay a message alongside your report, if you would. Tell Allen’s father that further surveillance attempts will be considerably less pleasant to discover than this one."

Reginald straightened his rumpled uniform with as much dignity as he could muster, casting one final, calculating glance across all five of them before retreating swiftly into the darkness beyond the fence line, footsteps considerably less careful now in his haste to leave.

---

"Well," Irene said once he’d fully disappeared, breaking the tense silence with characteristic bluntness, "that confirms it. Daddy Veton’s officially scared."

"Scared enough to send his own butler to spy on us personally, rather than trusting a hired investigator," Myria added thoughtfully. "That suggests he doesn’t want this getting out to wider Association channels yet. Which means, for now, this stays a quiet, contained threat rather than an open one."

"Small mercies," Allen muttered, exhaustion from the confrontation settling heavily over him.

Vivian moved close, resting a steady hand against his arm, her earlier fierce composure softening into quiet concern. "You’re worried," she observed. "About more than just Reginald."

"My father doesn’t send warnings," Allen admitted quietly. "He sends solutions. If Reginald’s surveillance failed, that just means the next attempt will be less subtle, and considerably less friendly."

"Then we’ll be ready for it," Vivian said simply, fingers tightening reassuringly around his arm. "Whatever comes next, Allen, you’re not facing it alone. None of us are facing anything alone anymore."

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Allen let the notification fade quietly, gaze drifting toward the dark tree line beyond the fence where Reginald had disappeared, a heavy, unshakeable certainty settling into his chest.

’This isn’t over,’ he thought grimly. ’Not even close.’