She was only four when it first happened.
You and Ada were living in the mountains still, in a new safehouse—higher, colder, closer to the stars. The kind of place no one would think to look. Lia had a small room with a window that overlooked a frozen lake, and a drawer full of colored pencils she always broke in half out of frustration.
"She gets that from you," Ada would tease, sipping her tea, watching as you tried to calm Lia mid-tantrum.
Today, though, something was different.
It started with a nightmare.
You were asleep on the couch when you heard it—Lia screaming. Not a normal cry. Sharp. High. The kind that cut through your spine.
You ran into her room.
Ada was already there, holding her, whispering soothing words. But Lia's eyes were glowing. Dim at first, like embers behind glass.
And then—the air shimmered.
The lights flickered.
A toy on the shelf—her favorite stuffed fox—levitated for a split second and then burst into sparks.
Lia gasped, blinking as the violet in her eyes faded.
The sparks died out.
The room went still.
She looked at her hands, then at you, terrified. "Did I… break something?"
You knelt in front of her, gently taking her hands in yours.
"No, sweetheart," you said softly. "You lit something."
Ada didn't say anything, but her eyes met yours—and you could tell, in that instant, she knew. The Genesis gene had awakened early.
Later that night, after Lia had fallen asleep between you both, Ada whispered, "They'll come for her one day."
"Then let them," you said, brushing a strand of hair from Lia's face. "They'll have to get through both of us first."
Ada turned to you, her voice barely a breath. "She didn't cry because she was scared of the power. She cried because she thought she hurt us."
You looked down at your daughter, sleeping peacefully now.
"She's got your heart," Ada said.
"No," you replied, smiling softly. "She's got yours."