The mercado central buzzed with Sunday morning chaos—vendors bellowing prices over screaming children, the sharp scent of cilantro cutting through diesel fumes and salt air from the harbor. Carmen navigated it all like she'd been born to it, rejecting overripe tomatoes and haggling over plantain prices with twenty years of practice.
Kasper stayed three steps behind, close enough to intercept threats, far enough to scan the crowd. His enhanced vision automatically catalogued exit routes—two main aisles, emergency gap between the fish stalls, clear line to the parking lot. Enhancement ports hummed beneath his skin as his nervous system processed threat data faster than conscious thought.
Thirty-seven people in immediate vicinity. Eighteen adult males. Four with hands in pockets. Two moving against crowd flow.
Just families doing Sunday shopping. Just his mother buying ingredients for lunch.
So why did his body keep preparing for combat?
"¿Mijo, qué te parece?" Carmen held up a bunch of cilantro, her trained nurse's eyes catching how his gaze tracked the teenager who'd circled their position twice now.
The kid was probably just bored, trailing his own mother through endless produce stalls. Probably not reconnaissance. Probably not mapping their movements for—
"Looks fresh, mami." Kasper forced his voice level, but his hand drifted toward his hip where muscle memory expected to find a sidearm.
Old habits from a place where groceries and death came wrapped in the same package.
"¡Pargo fresco! ¡Recién llegado del puerto!"
The fish vendor's boom crashed through the market noise like a gunshot. Kasper's tracery blazed silver-white as combat protocols engaged, his enhanced reflexes reading the man's posture, calculating response times, identifying the gutting knife as a potential weapon.
Three seconds to close distance. Disarm and neutralize before—
Just enthusiasm. Just a merchant hawking his catch to Sunday shoppers.
Carmen watched her son's shoulders lock, the way his breathing shifted from normal to tactical. Twenty-three years of loving this boy, and now she had to learn a new language—the signs that meant her child was deciding whether to kill someone over fresh fish.
"Lorenzo always gets the best snapper," she said carefully, giving him space to remember where he was. "Tío Miguel swears it's because he pays the fishermen double."
A week home and still jumping at raised voices. How long before he stopped calculating murder while buying groceries with his mother?
They finished shopping in careful quiet, Carmen anchoring him with neighborhood gossip whenever his silence stretched too thin. By the time they loaded bags into Aldair's modified truck, Kasper's enhancement lines had faded to their dormant silver gleam.
"Almuerzo's at two," Carmen said as they pulled away from the mercado. "Miguel and Rosa are coming, plus the Hernández family. Sofia finished her engineering degree—she's working at the port authority now."
The prospect of a house full of people made something cold settle in Kasper's chest. In Costa del Sol, crowds meant variables spiraling beyond control, conversations masking approaching threats, too many angles to monitor simultaneously.
Here, it just meant family dinner.
If he could remember the difference.
By two o'clock, their small house overflowed with voices and laughter. Children ricocheted between adult legs while women debated politics in the kitchen and men clustered around Aldair's workshop, marveling at his latest exoskeleton improvements. The warm chaos of extended family—the exact normalcy Kasper had bled to preserve.
So why did it feel like standing in a kill zone?
He positioned himself where he could observe all doorways, nursing a beer that had grown warm in hands that refused to stop calculating threat assessments. Isabella caught his eye from across the room, raised an eyebrow that said you look ready to murder someone. He managed a smile that fooled no one.
This was supposed to be peace. This was what victory looked like.
"¡Kasper!" Tío Miguel's voice boomed as he approached with Rosa trailing behind. "Look at you, muchacho. Carmen's been feeding you well, ¿verdad?"
"She's trying her best." Kasper accepted his uncle's enthusiastic embrace, breathing in familiar aftershave that used to mean safety when he was small.
"And this work in Costa del Sol?" Miguel settled across from him, Rosa perching on the chair arm with practiced ease. "Must have paid incredibly well to keep you away from family for so long."
There it was. The question that had been building since he walked through the door a week ago.
Kasper could lie. Spin some story about private security consulting, make up harmless details about beaches and tourist protection. Keep the comfortable illusion alive that their boy had just been working construction somewhere tropical.
Or he could tell them what Costa del Sol had actually cost.
"The money wasn't the point."
"¿No?" Rosa leaned forward with genuine curiosity. "Then what was? Adventure?"
Before Kasper could navigate that minefield, more family joined them. Carlos with his beer and reporter's hunger for details. Señor Hernández with his characteristic broad grin and louder voice.
"Our hero returns!" Hernández clapped Kasper's shoulder hard enough to trigger defensive reflexes. "The whole neighborhood's been talking about our local celebrity."
Hero. The word landed like a blade between ribs.
"I wasn't a hero." His voice came out flatter than intended.
"¡Por favor!" Hernández waved dismissively. "The newspapers called it the liberation of Costa del Sol. Said you helped dismantle terrorist cells, broke up drug operations—brought peace to an entire region."
Liberation. Like it had been clean. Like there hadn't been screaming in those enhancement chambers. Like every cartel lieutenant he'd eliminated hadn't had children who would grow up remembering his face.
"Newspapers exaggerate."
"But the terrorists were real, ¿verdad?" Carlos pressed, leaning forward with the hunger people got for war stories. "The ATA—we saw them on television. ¿Did you encounter them directly?"
A flash of memory: Elena's brother convulsing as experimental enhancements tore through his nervous system, dying in Kasper's arms because three seconds of hesitation had been three seconds too many.
"Some."
"¿And the local authorities?" Miguel's enthusiasm was building. "I imagine coordinating with foreign police must have been incredibly complex."
Complex. Like that was the word for discovering half the Costa del Sol police force sold information that got safe houses raided and civilians murdered.
"The local police were part of the problem."
The conversation around them began to quiet, people sensing shift in atmospheric pressure that preceded storms.
"Part of the problem how?" Miguel asked.
"Tío," Camila interjected gently, "maybe we should—"
"No, it's fine," Miguel waved her off, his storyteller instincts fully engaged. "I want to understand what our hero accomplished down there."
That word again. Hero.
Heroes saved people. Heroes found ways to win without losing pieces of their souls. Heroes came home clean instead of carrying 237 confirmed kills like stones in their chest.
"They worked for the cartels," Kasper said, his voice taking on the mechanical tone he'd perfected for debriefings. "Sold intelligence to drug runners. Murdered anyone who threatened their operations."
"But how could you know that with certainty?" Carlos pressed. "I mean, did you witness these things personally?"
The living room was going silent now, even the children sensing electricity in the air.
"I killed them for it."
Complete stillness. Twenty people suspended by words that couldn't be retracted.
Miguel's enthusiastic smile began to crumble. "Well, I suppose in wartime, justice requires—"
"There was no justice." Kasper cut him off, setting down his beer with the controlled precision of hands that could crush skulls without thinking. "There was necessity. Survival. Eliminating threats before they eliminated more innocent people."
He stood, and the movement made everyone tense slightly—instincts recognizing predatory grace even when minds didn't understand why.
"You want to know what Costa del Sol was really like?" His voice carried easily across the frozen room. "It was choosing which family lived and which one died. It was deciding whether torturing information out of someone was worth the lives you might save with what they told you."
Carmen appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face pale with dawning understanding.
"It was putting three bullets in a police captain's chest because he sold safe house locations to assassins," Kasper continued, his gaze fixed on Miguel's increasingly uncomfortable expression. "It was watching good people die because I was too slow, too soft, too human to do what needed doing fast enough."
The silence stretched until breathing became audible.
"So no," Kasper said quietly, "I wasn't a hero. Heroes don't come home with enhancement ports and two hundred thirty-seven confirmed kills. Heroes don't lie awake calculating how to murder everyone at Sunday dinner if they turn out to be threats."
He walked toward the door, leaving devastation in his wake.
"Enjoy your lunch," he said without looking back. "Enjoy never having to make those choices."
Isabella's workshop wrapped around him like sanctuary—motor oil and metal shavings, the clean scent of possibility instead of the copper taste of spilled blood. She glanced up when he entered but kept working, understanding instinctively that he needed space to remember how to breathe.
The converted garage held Aldair's contribution to Isabella's mechanical genius. Tools hung in precise military arrangements while project motorcycles occupied corners in various states of creative destruction. A modified wheelchair dominated the center workspace—one of her accessibility improvement projects.
Kasper settled on an overturned crate, watching his sister's hands move with surgeon precision as she threaded hair-thin wiring through control systems. Something about the methodical work helped quiet the combat protocols still humming beneath his skin.
"How bad was it really?" Isabella asked without looking up from her soldering iron.
"Bad enough that I just destroyed our family's Sunday dinner."
"They needed to understand anyway. Better now than when it matters." She set down her tools and looked at him directly. "I've been watching you catalog every screwdriver in here as a potential weapon. You jumped yesterday when I fired up the welding torch. When's the last time you slept more than two hours straight?"
"Isabella—"
"You know what I like about machines?" She picked up a delicate component, holding it to the light. "They don't pretend to be something they're not. When something's broken, you can see exactly what needs fixing. And when you repair it properly, it works better than it did before."
"People aren't machines."
"No," she agreed. "But sometimes they need time to remember their original programming. And sometimes they need someone else to hold the pieces steady while they figure out how to reassemble themselves."
She extended the component toward him. "Help me with this? Your hands are steadier than mine for this kind of work."
It wasn't true—Isabella's hands were rock-steady from years of precision engineering. But Kasper recognized the offer for what it was: a chance to build instead of destroy.
For the next hour, they worked in comfortable silence. Isabella guiding him through technical requirements while his enhanced dexterity handled connections too delicate for normal human fingers. The first time since coming home that his modifications felt like tools rather than weapons.
They were installing the completed assembly when footsteps approached the workshop entrance.
"¿Disculpen? Is Camila around?"
Kasper looked up to see a young man framed in the doorway—expensive clothes worn with casual confidence, the kind of easy elegance that came from money and education. Mid-twenties, athletic build, shoes that cost more than most people earned in a month.
But it was the way he carried himself that triggered Kasper's assessment protocols. Not soft despite the privilege. Comfortable in his own skin but aware of his surroundings. Someone used to being welcomed but smart enough to read a room.
"She's in the house," Isabella said without pausing in her work. "Who's asking?"
"Marco Moretti. We're... friends."
The surname hit Kasper like ice water down his spine. Moretti. Port family. The kind of influence that touched everything from shipping manifests to police patrol routes.
His enhancement ports flickered silver beneath his skin.
"¿Moretti?" Kasper's voice carried the careful neutrality that preceded violence.
"Sí." Marco stepped into the workshop, extending his hand with practiced confidence. "And you must be—"
Kasper didn't take the offered hand. Instead, he set down the component he'd been holding with deliberate care and rose to his full height. Let Marco get a good look at the scars crisscrossing his arms, the faint silver tracery beneath his skin, the absolute stillness that enhanced individuals carried before they decided to kill someone.
"Depends on what kind of friend you are to my sister."
Marco's confident smile faltered as Kasper's full attention settled on him—the way he moved like controlled violence, the soft glow beneath his skin, how he'd positioned himself between the stranger and Isabella without seeming to move at all.
"The kind who respects her," Marco said after a moment, lowering his unshaken hand.
"Good answer."
"Camila talks about you often," Marco tried again, his recovery smooth but cautious. "Says her brother is... protective."
"Among other things."
They studied each other across the cluttered workspace. Marco taking in the obvious military bearing, the enhancement scars, how Kasper held himself like violence was always an available option. Kasper reading posture and breathing patterns, expensive clothing that prioritized function over flash, the way Marco carried himself—educated and confident, but not stupid enough to miss danger when it was evaluating him.
Isabella watched the testosterone assessment with barely concealed amusement.
"How long have you been 'friends'?" Kasper asked.
"Kasper..." Camila's voice carried warning from the workshop entrance, where she'd appeared with the expression of someone who'd been expecting this confrontation.
"A few weeks," Marco answered, meeting Kasper's stare directly. "Your sister is remarkably intelligent. And beautiful."
"Yes, she is. She's also excellent at judging character."
The statement hung between them like a challenge.
"Are you questioning mine?" Marco's jaw tightened slightly.
"I'm saying she'll decide for herself what kind of man you are." Kasper paused, letting the weight settle. "I just make sure she stays safe while making that decision."
And the way he said it made crystal clear that 'safe' was non-negotiable, and anyone who threatened that safety would discover exactly what two hundred thirty-seven confirmed kills looked like in practice.
Marco held his gaze for another moment, then nodded slowly. "I can respect that."
"I hope so."
The silence stretched until Camila stepped fully into the workshop. Kasper felt the familiar urge to interrogate Marco further, to demand detailed information about his family's business operations, to establish clear parameters for any relationship with his sister.
Instead, he forced himself to step back.
"Marco, this is my brother Kasper," Camila said with careful diplomacy. "Kasper, Marco came by to meet the family."
"How thoughtful," Kasper replied, though his tone suggested thoughtfulness might not be the word he'd choose.
"I should probably go," Marco said after reading the atmospheric pressure correctly. "Let you get back to your family time."
"That might be best," Kasper agreed.
"I'll walk you out," Camila offered, shooting her brother a look that promised they'd be having words later.
Kasper watched them leave together, his enhanced hearing tracking their footsteps to the front door, catching fragments of Camila's apologetic explanation. Every instinct screamed to follow, to monitor their conversation, to ensure Marco understood the consequences of disappointing or hurting his sister.
He stayed in the workshop.
The choice felt harder than any decision he'd made in Costa del Sol.
After they left, Isabella resumed her work as if nothing had happened.
"Well?" she asked without looking up.
"Well what?"
"Your professional assessment of our sister's boyfriend."
Kasper considered the question seriously. "He's not stupid. Backed down when he recognized real danger instead of escalating. Shows respect for Camila, not just attraction."
"But?"
"But the name carries weight. And weight means complications we might not be able to control."
"The Morettis run significant port operations," Isabella said matter-of-factly. "Papá Aldair worked security contracts with them before his accident."
"What kind of security?"
"Cargo protection. Import oversight. Nothing explicitly illegal, but..." She shrugged. "The kind of work that pays extremely well and doesn't require detailed questions."
Port control meant customs influence. Customs influence meant smuggling capabilities. Smuggling capabilities near his family meant variables he couldn't predict or neutralize.
But Camila was right—he couldn't judge Marco by his family's business dealings. Could he?
In Costa del Sol, family connections had been survival intelligence. Here, he was still learning what they meant in a world where not everyone was actively trying to kill him.
The uncertainty felt more dangerous than explicit threats. If he lost control—if he let his fear drive him to treat everyone like potential enemies—he'd become the very thing that destroyed families instead of protecting them.
Aldair's truck pulled into the driveway, interrupting his analysis. Moments later, his stepfather appeared in the workshop entrance, moving carefully on exoskeleton-assisted legs that had been shattered by an IED three years before Kasper was born.
"Was that the Moretti boy?" Aldair asked.
"You know him?" Kasper's attention sharpened.
"I know the family reputation. They have considerable... influence in certain sectors."
"What kind of influence?"
"The kind that keeps ports running smoothly and workers employed consistently," Aldair said with veteran's caution. "But also the kind that occasionally requires uncomfortable accommodations when situations become complicated."
"Should I be concerned?"
Aldair studied his stepson's face with a veteran's understanding of threat assessment and a father's knowledge of the young man he'd helped raise.
"The boy seems decent enough from what I've observed," he said finally. "But in my experience, good families sometimes produce problematic children. And families with complicated business interests sometimes find themselves making decisions they'd prefer not to make."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning stay alert. But try not to turn every shadow into an enemy until you know what you're actually fighting."
That evening, Kasper lay in his childhood bedroom listening to the house settle around him like old bones. Through thin walls, he could hear Isabella still tinkering in her workshop, the occasional creative profanity when components refused to cooperate.
His go-bag sat in the corner, still containing coordinates for safe houses he'd never used, emergency contacts for extraction teams that might or might not still exist. Costa del Sol felt simultaneously like yesterday and like someone else's life entirely.
The phone rang downstairs. Carmen's voice answering, then calling for Camila. A brief conversation in tones too low for normal hearing, but Kasper's enhanced auditory processing caught the warmth in his sister's voice, the way she laughed at something Marco said.
His combat protocols wanted to catalog this as intelligence gathering. Monitor family communications, track their contacts, identify potential threats before they materialized. In Costa del Sol, that kind of vigilance had kept his team breathing when every friendly conversation might conceal an assassination plot.
But this wasn't Costa del Sol. This was supposed to be home.
The distinction was proving harder to maintain than he'd expected.
Through his window, headlights swept slowly down Calle Esperanza—a car moving too deliberately for someone who knew where they were going. Probably just visitors looking for an address in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
Kasper memorized the license plate automatically.
Old habits. Useful habits. Habits that had meant survival when every shadow might conceal a sniper and every stranger might be the last face you ever saw.
But habits that made it impossible to exist without constantly calculating threat levels, escape routes, the weapon potential in household objects.
How do you protect someone from dangers that might not exist? How do you love someone without suffocating them with your own fear? And how do you tell the difference between legitimate caution and the kind of paranoid control that destroys what you're trying to protect?
The questions followed him toward sleep, where dreams were full of silver tracery and the crushing weight of choices that could never be unmade.
Home, he was learning, was infinitely more complicated than war. At least in war, you knew who was trying to kill you.
Here, the enemy might be himself.