Chapter 61
Seraphina The world didn’t stop after we burned ours down.
It just… kept going.
Hospitals weren’t an option. Not officially.
So we were stitched up in silence—somewhere off-grid, in a safehouse that smelled like salt and old books, tucked deep in the folds of a coastline that didn’t show up on any map.
No tech. No trackers. Just wind through cracked windows and the sound of Callum pacing the floor when he thought I was asleep.
My ribs were taped, purpled with deep bruising. Callum’s thigh was worse—jagged, raw, but healing. The bullet hadn’t taken the bone. Lucky. If we believed in luck anymore.
Emerson came three days after the blast.
He looked… wrong. Like something had cracked beneath the surface and never quite resealed. His eyes were harder now. Too still.
“There were others,” he said flatly. “We didn’t get to them all in time. Some of the biotech was too deep. They didn’t wake up… not whole, anyway.”
No one spoke after that.
We had a small fire going outside that night. Kieran poured a glass of something aged and expensive for the both of us, but barely drank it. He stood instead, watching the stars, then turned to Emerson.
“I’m done,” he said. No emotion. Just a statement. “No more shadows. No more blood.”
Emerson didn’t stop him. None of us did.
Kieran hugged me before he left, pressing something small into my hand—a necklace I’d thought I lost. My mother’s. His smile was sad, but grateful.
“You did it, Sera. You stopped it.”
I wasn’t sure it felt like victory. Just survival.
It was two days after Kieran left when the box arrived.
There was no return label. No markings. Just my name in tight, elegant script.
Inside was a single journal—leather-bound, weather-worn. My mother’s handwriting curled across the first page. Some entries were nonsense. Memories, recipes, bits of poetry. But near the end, she’d written a letter. Just one.
If you’re reading this, then you’ve found your own fight. I hope you don’t lose yourself in it like we did. I hope you remember who you are when the smoke clears. I hope you find someone who looks at you like your life is worth more than what you can do for them.
My hands shook. I closed the book, tears slipping soundlessly down my cheeks.
I didn’t read the rest. Not yet. But I would. When I was ready .
That evening, I sat on the back porch of the safehouse, legs tucked under me, blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The sea stretched out endlessly in front of us, the horizon bleeding gold and violet.
Callum dropped into the chair beside me, moving slower than usual. His stitches were tugging at his leg again.
“You should rest,” I murmured.
“Aye,” he said, leaning back. “But this view’s better than sleep.”
We sat in silence for a while. The kind of silence that doesn’t press, doesn’t pull. Just is .
Then I turned to him. “So what now?”