Chapter 21
Seph
I waited a long time before leaving the house. By the time I crawled out, dusk had settled in properly — the kind of half-light where everything feels uncertain.
The first thing I did was cross the room and pick up the wallet Andre had dropped.
When I opened it, the picture was right there.
Andre, Mia and their mother stood in front of a lake house, sunlight catching on the water behind them. Mia was grinning, missing one of her front teeth, Andre’s arm slung around her shoulders like he didn’t plan on letting go, their mother caught mid-laugh.
I ran my fingers over it before checking the cash.
A couple of hundred dollars sat folded inside.
I turned the notes over in my hand for a moment, then took a few and left the rest where it was.
I slid the wallet back beneath the wardrobe, but a moment before I stepped out, I paused.
I picked it back up and removed the picture.
Because someone should remember him.
I brushed my thumb across their faces, then placed it in my pocket for safekeeping.
I ran to the bedrooms and rifled through drawers.
In Andre’s mother’s room I found a heavy fleece jacket and a pair of jeans that hung loose on my hips. At the bottom of the wardrobe, I uncovered a pair of red mittens.
I stared at them.
I sighed. I couldn’t walk out of here bare-handed.
Desperate times.
I dressed quickly, ridiculous mittens included.
Then I searched the house for anything useful.
There was a truck on the driveway. I knew it worked. Andre had driven me here after all.
But it made no difference. I couldn’t drive.
There was also a bike.
Sable had tried to teach me to ride when I was fourteen. When father had caught us outside, I had been locked in my room for three days without food.
But for at least 30 minutes, I had been able to stay up on the bike.
I tried to recall what she’d taught me.
I climbed on carefully, the bike wobbling beneath me. I took a deep breath.
“Balance is a state of mind,” I muttered. “I can do this.”
I placed my feet on the pedals.
And crashed into the side of the shed.
I swore — loudly.
It took me about an hour before I could stay upright without falling. An hour of scraped palms, shaky legs, and muttered insults under my breath. But eventually, something clicked. The wobble steadied. My body remembered enough to cooperate.
Finally, I made it down the driveway.
The road loomed ahead, long and empty in both directions. I slowed, feet scraping awkwardly against the ground as I tried to stop without tipping over.
I wasn’t sure which way to go.
“Just pick a direction, Seph,” I muttered.
And I started to ride.
The road was flat and well maintained — smooth enough that the bike didn’t fight me. I supposed I had Andre’s family to thank for that.
As I pushed forward, the rhythm of pedalling settled in, steady and almost meditative.
My lungs burned. My legs ached. But the pain was grounding.
As I rode, signs of civilisation began to appear.
Mailboxes. A fence line.
A distant glow on the horizon that wasn’t starlight.
Telluride.
Relief flickered — brief and fragile — chased immediately by fear. Cities meant people.
People meant eyes.
And eyes, lately, meant the Council.
I hunched lower over the handlebars, instincts screaming at me to stay small. To move fast. To not draw attention.
The wind tugged at my hair, like it was pulling me forward.
I pulled the hood up as I reached what looked like the edge of town. My legs ached. My heart pounded. Sweat trickled down the back of the coat, sticky and cold against my skin.
When the streets grew busier, I dismounted and walked the bike beside me, head down, keeping my pace unremarkable. When the crowds thickened too much, I leaned it against a wall and slipped my hands into my pockets.
Around me, the city was a sea of white and pale fabric. Light colours everywhere. Families drifted along the footpaths past open restaurants, laughter floating through the mild evening air.
A blonde couple passed me — pristine, glowing — a cherubic toddler in each hand, both children skipping toward the lights of the city like nothing in the world could touch them.
There was very little darkness left in Telluride.
I could see the evidence of the raids like an omnipresent scar carved into the streets. Buildings aligned with the Light stood clean and untouched. Dark dwellings told a different story — bandaged windows, splintered doors, scorch marks still visible on the stone.
Giant white sun marks had been painted across their fronts. Declarations of claim.
And Soldiers of Light were everywhere.
I kept my head down and drifted toward a food stall, my stomach growling loudly. I hadn’t eaten properly in days. I’d gone without food before — plenty of times — but since having access to three meals a day, my body had adjusted a little too well. It noticed the absence now.
The smell of cooked sausage and onion curled through the air from a market cluster farther down the street. My mouth watered before I could stop it.
The vendor was a grumpy, dour-faced woman with deep lines carved into her cheeks, her hair pulled back tight under a net.
“How many?” she asked.
“One, please.”
I handed over the money. She took it without a word, her eyes flicking over my dark clothes before turning back to the grill.
She shoved the sausage into my hand.
“You want water?”
“What?” I asked, startled. I’d been watching the crowd too closely, every muscle wound tight.
She filled a paper cup and pushed it toward me. “Take some. On the house.”
I blinked. “Um… thanks.”
She leaned in just enough that her words were swallowed by the noise of the street. She jerked her chin toward the thoroughfare.
“APA monitors sweep through here every night,” she said quietly. “They don’t miss much.”
My grip tightened around the cup.
“Just… watch yourself, kid.”
She gestured subtly to the side.
I spotted them immediately.
Five soldiers moved through the market in a loose line, white armour gleaming under the lights. Each one carried a handheld APA scanner, raising it as they passed people — slow, methodical sweeps over bodies, pausing when the device chimed or flickered.
Market-goers were tested as they walked. Some barely broke stride. Others went rigid, breath held tight until the soldier waved them on. No one spoke.
The scanners hummed softly — an ugly, insect-like sound that crawled under my skin.
My fingers went numb around the paper napkin. I lowered my head, easing backward into the crowd.
A hand landed on my shoulder.
I spun. A soldier in white stood in front of me, an APA scanner raised loosely in his grip.
“You,” he said. “State your APA rating.”
I froze, my heart hammering.
My gaze flicked around the market — people already turning away. Children pulled tight against their parents’ sides.
Heads dipped when they passed. No one wanted to see this.
My body coiled, ready to move.
“32L,” I rasped.
He tilted his head, unconvinced. “I’m just gonna confirm that. Hold still for the test.”
The scanner looked harmless. They always did.
Just another piece of tech.
But I knew better. I stared at it like it could burn me.
He stepped closer. I stepped back.
His head tilted again. “Failure to comply will result in arrest.”
“Wait!”
His grip closed around my arm — iron, unyielding. He lifted the scanner to my forehead.
It beeped. Blank.
He stiffened.
He didn’t shake it. He checked the display. Something flashed on the screen.
ANOMALY
His eyes lifted to mine.
Something in them hardened.
I didn’t wait for the second attempt.
I shoved him hard and ran.
“Hey!”
I pushed through the crowds, ducking into gaps. People stumbled to the side as I shoved past.
Behind me, footsteps pounded the pavement.
Fuck.
I spotted an alley and darted into it, skidding to a stop behind a rusted dumpster. My breath came fast and shallow as boots thundered past the entrance — more of them now.
Commands snapped through the air.
“Find her!”
I looked around wildly. No exit. Just brick and shadow and the stink of rot. At the far end, a chain-link fence sagged between two walls. A hole gaped near the bottom — torn, half-forgotten.
I didn’t hesitate.
I shoved through, metal biting into my skin, wire snagging my hair as I forced myself out the other side. I hissed — pain sharp and hot — but I was through.
“There!” someone shouted.
I ran.
The city thinned abruptly, buildings giving way to concrete lots and dead factories. The air changed — oil and rust instead of food and smoke. A railway line cut across the gravel ahead, shipping containers scattered like forgotten bones.
I ducked behind one and pressed my back to the cold metal, chest heaving, ears ringing.
Footsteps echoed nearby. Voices. Searching.
There had to be a way out. Somewhere to disappear.
I saw it then — an old train car, parked crookedly off the rails. Once grand, with velvet seats and ornate metalwork. Now abandoned, gutted by time.
I sprinted for it and threw myself through the open door, dropping hard behind a chair. Dust puffed into the air. I curled in as small as I could make myself.
Footsteps pounded past. Around. Too close.
Don’t let them catch me.
A loud sound cracked somewhere in the distance.
“Over there!” someone yelled.
The footsteps veered away.
My breath hitched. Tears spilled before I could stop them — silent, shaking. I didn’t know how I was getting out of this.
I bit down on my fist to keep from making a sound.
Time stretched.
When I finally dared to move, I eased toward the door and peered out. The yard lay empty. No movement. No voices.
A hand clamped over my mouth.
I was yanked backward into darkness.