1:30 p.m. — Bruce Household, Living Room
The house smelled like cupcakes, glitter, and faint panic.
Ryan collapsed onto the couch, his body begging for a tactical nap, but his mind racing about the note.
Vault.
Larsen was after something big.
Something hidden.
Something that could tear everything apart if Ryan didn't move fast.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Spy problems could wait a few minutes.
Right now, family problems were on deck.
Specifically: Emily.
She was cleaning up the kitchen, hair tied up in a messy bun, humming distractedly as she wiped down counters, still dressed in her "Proud Pirate Mom" T-shirt.
Ryan watched her, heart squeezing.
He had nearly fought two armed operatives under a rain of glitter and juice just to keep this life safe.
This woman. Their daughters. Their chaotic, beautiful, suburban life.
And lately, Emily had been... noticing.
His late nights. His bruises. His half-excuses.
If he didn't do something, she'd start connecting dots he couldn't un-connect.
He pushed himself off the couch.
Time for a different kind of mission.
Operation: Wife First.
2:00 p.m. — Bruce Household, Kitchen
Ryan snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Emily jumped, laughing. "Ryan! You almost made me spill the Windex!"
"Sorry," he murmured against her shoulder. "Needed to check if you were real."
She relaxed into him a little. "I am real. And sticky. And slightly glittery."
"Perfect," he said, spinning her gently to face him.
Emily raised an eyebrow. "What's gotten into you?"
He gave her a lazy, mischievous grin. "Gratitude. For surviving the Pirate Talent Show Massacre of 2025."
She laughed — the sound he lived for — and shook her head. "You were ridiculous today. At one point, you tackled the juice table."
"Strategic tackle," he said seriously. "The juice table was about to launch an uprising."
Emily's hands slid up his chest, and she gave him a skeptical smile. "You're lucky you're cute."
Ryan leaned in closer, nose brushing hers. "I'm lucky because I have you."
For a long beat, it was just them.
No glitter, no pirate hats, no secret codes.
Just Ryan and Emily.
And Ryan kissed her.
Slow, deep, grateful — the kind of kiss that said you are my whole world without needing any words at all.
Emily melted against him, arms winding around his neck.
When they finally pulled apart, she laughed breathlessly. "Okay. That was suspicious."
"Suspiciously overdue," Ryan corrected.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead, lingering there.
For one brief, golden moment, Ryan forgot about vaults, about Larsen, about secret wars nobody else knew were being fought right here between grocery store runs and talent shows.
He just held his wife and swore, silently, that nothing — nothing — would take this from him.
Not Larsen.
Not ONYX CORE.
Not even the entire stupid universe.
3:15 p.m. — Bruce Household, Ryan's Office (Secret Room)
Later, when Emily went to walk the girls to a neighbor's birthday party, Ryan slipped into his hidden office — the one behind the fake wall in the den closet.
He pulled out the scrap of paper again.
VAULT.
He typed the word into his encrypted ONYX CORE tablet.
A single result blinked onto the screen:
VAULT PROTOCOL: ACCESS RESTRICTED TO LEVEL OMEGA. LAST KNOWN LOCATION: 2ND STREET FEDERAL RESERVE BRANCH, NEW ORLEANS.
Ryan whistled low.
If Larsen was targeting a federal reserve vault... this wasn't just family stakes anymore.
It was national stakes.
And the clock was ticking.
Ryan closed the tablet, mind whirring.
He thought about Faith's little plastic sword.
About Holly's pirate salute.
About Emily's laugh as she kissed him back.
He smiled grimly.
No way Larsen was getting away with this.
Family first.
Country second.
Spy stuff third.
(But hopefully no more talent shows for a while.)
[TO BE CONTINUED…]