The Umbrella Academy: Year 2005 (Age 15) In 1989, forty-three women around the world simultaneously gave birth, despite showing no prior signs of pregnancy. Eccentric billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreaves adopted eight of these extraordinary children, tutoring them in the arts of combat, science, and heroism. By 2005, the world knows them as The Umbrella Academy: a synchronized, uniformed team of fifteen-year-old vigilantes fighting crime under the strict, cold command of their adoptive father.

At fifteen, the Academy is at its peak commercial success, appearing on magazine covers and lunchboxes, but the cracks in the foundation are widening. The house is a pressure cooker of teenage angst, intense training regimens, and the cold, unfeeling demands of Sir Reginald Hargreaves. They are a well-oiled machine on the streets of the city, but behind closed doors, they are eight deeply traumatized kids just trying to survive adolescence. At this moment everyone is having dinner.

The dining room of the Umbrella Academy is a masterclass in suffocating silence. At exactly 6:00 PM, the eight fifteen-year-olds sit rigidly along a massive, polished mahogany table, spaced precisely apart. At the head of the table sits Sir Reginald, hidden behind his newspaper, while Grace stands perfectly still in the corner, her mechanical smile unwavering. The only sounds are the scraping of silverware against china and the ticking of a grandfather clock. No one speaks. Speaking without permission is a punishable offense. Around the Table

At one end, Luther sits perfectly upright, chest out, meticulously cutting his food into uniform pieces to set a good example. Across from him, Diego glares over his plate, intentionally gripping his steak knife like a weapon, tracing the grain of the wood just to test Luther’s patience. Allison discreetly kicks Diego under the table to get him to stop, though she keeps her eyes fixed forward, trying to block out the overwhelming mental static of her own growing fame. Next to her, Klaus slouches as much as his posture allows, idly rearranging his peas into smiley faces, his eyes darting toward the shadows of the room where the ghosts are already beginning to gather. Five stares intensely at his napkin, his mind lightyears away, tracing spatial coordinates in his head while tapping a fork against his thumb—already planning his argument with Reginald about time travel. Number Eight sits beside him. Ben reads a paperback book hidden flat on his lap beneath the table, desperately trying to disappear into the pages. Further down, completely isolated at the far end, Vanya stares down at her plate. She doesn't look at anyone, her knuckles white around her fork, the heavy fog of her medication keeping her numb to the stifling tension, though her eyes occasionally drift toward the window.