All the Chests thunk to the floor as I redirect my telekinesis, snatching the gun out of his hands. “Hey!” he screams, and if he says anything else, I’m not listening. I’m thinking about the friends I lost tonight. The dark future I had to suffer through. Killing this straggler Mogadorian won’t change any of that, but it’s a start.

I pitch a fireball in his direction, but he dives out of the way, hiding behind the torn-up husk of a couch. I lift it up with my telekinesis and fling it aside. He holds up his hands, surrendering. I’d probably think that was weird if I was thinking at all.

“Too late for that,” I growl.

Just as I’m about to hurl another fireball at him, the Mog stomps on the floor. The whole room shakes, furniture tipping over, the carpet rippling like there’s a wave passing underneath it. And then the seismic jolt knocks me backwards, stumbling, and I feel the cold fingers of open air clawing at my back. Stupid—I was standing right in front of a broken window. I swing my arms, desperately trying to regain my balance.

But I don’t fall. He’s got me. The Mogadorian has grabbed me by the front of the shirt.

“I don’t want to fight you!” he shouts in my face. “Stop attacking me!”

As soon as he’s reeled me back in, I shove him away. He doesn’t come at me, but he remains crouched, ready to dodge anything I might throw at him.

“You’re Four,” he says.

“How do you know that?”

“They know what you look like, John Smith. What all of you look like. And so do I—” He hesitates. “Except I also remember seeing you as a child. Running for a ship while my people murdered yours.”

“You’re the one Malcolm and Sam talked about.” My voice comes through gritted teeth. I can’t shake the feeling that I should run or fight when faced with his kind. It’s ingrained in me, but I try to keep it in check.

“Adamus Sutekh,” the Mog introduces himself. “I prefer Adam.”

“Your people killed a friend of mine tonight, Adam,” I spit, knowing my anger is unreasonable, not able to help myself. “And they kidnapped another.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I came as quickly as I could. Are Malcolm and Sam safe?”

“I—” Well, I just don’t know how to react to that. A Mog showing compassion. Even if Sam and Malcolm said it was true, I still never really imagined it. “Yeah, they’re fine.”

“Good,” Adam replies. His voice still has the harshness of a Mogadorian. “We need to get out of here.”

“We?”

“You’re hurt, angry,” Adam says, moving cautiously closer to me, like I might suddenly take a swing at him. “I get that. But if you want to hurt them back, I can help.”