(TAYLOR HEBERT) CHAPTER NINETEEN

Taylor did not sleep as well as she had hoped.

It was not because of nightmares, at least not in the way she might have expected, or anything as dramatic as vividly reliving the events of the previous day or hearing the Simurgh’s song repeatedly in her mind. Instead, it was a restless, shallow kind of sleep, the sort where she drifted in and out of awareness, her thoughts circling endlessly without ever stopping long enough to find peace.

The watch was still there when she woke up.

That was the first thing she checked, groggy and disoriented as she sat up in bed. Her wrist felt heavier than it should have, the familiar weight snapping her back to her new reality. No dream, then, and no stress-induced hallucination either. Everything that had happened yesterday was still real, and so was the device that had dragged her into the center of it all.

She lay back against her pillow and stared up at the ceiling for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the house: the low-level hum of the refrigerator, the faint groan of pipes within the walls, and her dad moving around in the kitchen.

Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds.

It felt wrong, somehow, that the world could just keep going after something like an Endbringer attack. That Brockton Bay could wake up on a Monday morning and slide back into routine as if the city had not narrowly escaped destruction the day before.

Eventually, she forced herself out of bed.

The morning routine felt surreal: brushing her teeth, washing up, and pulling on clothes that smelled clean. The same old motions she had performed a thousand times before, now layered over the knowledge that she had fought one of the most dangerous beings on the planet and lived.

Downstairs, her dad stood at the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He still looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, and a sudden pang of guilt twisted in Taylor’s chest. She had caused that, after all.

“Morning,” he said gently when he saw her.

“Morning,” she replied, just as softly.

They ate breakfast together in a kind of tentative silence, both of them still adjusting to the fact that yesterday had changed everything about their lives. Her dad kept glancing at her wrist when he thought she wasn’t looking, his eyes lingering on the watch with a mixture of unease and curiosity that she did not know how to respond to.

She did not blame him for it.

It was halfway through her cereal when the knock came at the door.

They both froze.

It was not loud or urgent, just firm and polite, the kind of knock that carried the unspoken assumption that the person on the other side expected to be answered.

They were not expecting any visitors.

Her dad was the one who stood up first. “Stay here,” he said automatically, then hesitated and shook his head. “Actually… no. Come with me.”

They walked to the door together.

The man on the other side was not in uniform, but the way he carried himself, straight-backed and tensed, made his affiliation obvious anyway. He wore a dark suit, neatly pressed, with a small PRT pin on his lapel, and his expression was neutral in that carefully professional way people in authority tended to adopt.

“Daniel Hebert?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m here on behalf of the PRT. This is regarding your daughter.”

Something inside Taylor sank.

The officer’s gaze shifted to her, briefly assessing without being openly hostile. It made her feel uneasy, as if she were a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. “We would like to request that Miss Hebert visit PRT Headquarters at her earliest convenience. There are a few matters that need to be discussed.”

Her dad frowned slightly. “Is she in trouble?”

“No, sir,” the man replied smoothly. “This is not an arrest or a disciplinary matter. It’s merely procedural.”

Procedural.

The word did absolutely nothing to reassure Taylor.

“How soon?” her dad asked.

“As soon as possible, Mr. Hebert. Today, ideally.”

He handed over a small card with only an address and a contact number, then gave Taylor a brief nod before turning and leaving.

The door closed.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Well,” her dad said eventually, exhaling. “I guess that answers that.”

Taylor nodded slowly.

That, more than anything else, felt like the final confirmation. There was no pretending anymore. No illusion that she could somehow keep a low profile or return to being just another invisible girl in Brockton Bay.

The PRT knew who she was.

The world knew who she was.

Her secret identity was gone, and with it any real control over how her life was going to unfold from now on.

The realization was crushing, but it did not even have the decency to feel dramatic. It did not come with panic or tears. It was numbing, the kind of understanding that refused to leave once it took root.

Still, there was no point in spiraling yet.

What mattered more was the question she had been avoiding since the officer left.

Why?

Did the PRT want her to join the Wards? That seemed like the most likely answer. A newly discovered teenage cape with unknown limits and demonstrated Endbringer-level capabilities was exactly the sort of asset they would want under direct supervision.

Or maybe they just wanted to thank her, officially recognize what she had done, and offer her some kind of medal or carefully scripted speech about heroism and sacrifice.

A few hours ago, she might have been excited at the idea. Before meeting the Triumvirate, that was. Before learning, very quickly, that legends were just people, and people disappointed you.

Alexandria, especially, had been nothing like she imagined. Cold, clinical, and distant in a way that made Taylor feel less like a person and more like a potential problem waiting to be categorized.

Director Piggot was rumored to be even worse.

Now, the idea of being summoned by the PRT did not feel flattering. It felt like being called into a principal’s office when you already knew you were about to be handed detention or even worse.

Still, Armsmaster had been better than she expected.

Blunt, yes. Overbearing and intense, definitely. But he had tried to help her. He had trusted her, even when he had no real reason to, and she could not stop thinking about the way he had been when she handed him off to Dragon, battered and unconscious.

She wanted to know if he was okay.

And if it meant dealing with the PRT to get some answers, then she could handle it.

So, rather than go to school and face the soul-crushing mundanity that was Winslow, she and her dad got into the car and drove toward PRT Headquarters. With Brockton Bay officially confirmed as not being the Simurgh’s target and therefore spared the scream and its long-term psychological fallout, there was no real reason for life not to resume with unsettling speed.

Part of her was relieved to have an excuse to skip.

The other part of her suspected that even if she had gone, nothing would ever be normal there again anyway. The watch on her wrist was not exactly subtle, and she doubted her classmates would miss the fact that the girl who had sent an Endbringer running wore something similar.

The drive was quiet.

Brockton Bay looked the same as ever, with the same streets, the same shops, and the same salty tang in the air. There were no visible signs that anything catastrophic had happened the day before, which somehow made it worse.

When the PRT building finally came into view, looming concrete and steel against the gray sky, Taylor felt her stomach tighten.

Her dad parked the car.

Neither of them moved right away.

“Well,” he said, forcing a small smile. “Here we are.”

Taylor nodded, staring up at the building for a moment. Then, she sighed, and they stepped out of the car, walking toward the entrance of the PRT Headquarters.