Chapter Sixteen
The kitchen turns into a war room. Screens glowing.
Coffee, going untouched and cold. Cam’s fingers move like muscle memory, like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Kiera sits across from him, laptop open, posture loose but eyes razor sharp.
Whoever slipped into our system woke something in her.
Not fear. Focus. I stay standing. Watching both of them.
Watching the windows. Watching the subtle way Kiera’s jaw tightens when Cam drags open a specific data path, like her body recognizes something her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
“We have to rebuild it,” Cam mutters, not looking away from the screen. “We can’t just patch it.”
Kiera nods. “Good. Patches fail.” She starts typing fast, not frantic, precise. Her code weaves into Cam’s like it always belonged there. They don’t explain what they’re doing. They don’t need to. I recognize competence when I see it. I also know danger, and this woman is a danger in her own right.
“This thing won’t just block access,” Cam says. “It’ll log behavior. Movement patterns. Every attempt to feel around the edges.”
“And it’ll learn,” Kiera adds. “If someone touches it twice, it’ll know how they think.”
I glance between them. “And if they get in anyway?”
Kiera doesn’t look up. “Then they wanted to be seen.”
That earns her a look from Cam, then a slow grin. “Okay. Yeah. That’ll do it.”
Hours pass. No music. No jokes. Just the low hum of the house and the soft clicks of keys.
At some point, the sky outside the kitchen windows shifts from black to bruised gray.
The door down the hall creaks open. Lila stumbles in, wrapped in a blanket like she lost a fight with sleep, hair feral, eyes barely open.
She squints at us, then at the window. “Why is it…light?” Her voice cracks.
“Please tell me that’s a hallucination.”
“Nope,” Cam says without looking up. “Dawn.”
Lila groans like it physically hurts. “Really, you all look unhinged every time I come in here. Like… cult-level unhinged.” She drags herself toward the counter and squints at the coffee pot like it personally betrayed her.
“And it’s morning. Which means I need caffeine immediately or I will commit a felony. ”
“Fair,” I huff.
She pours herself a mug, downs a swallow, and shudders. “This tastes like regret.” Lila points at the screens. “Whatever apocalypse you’re building, pause it. I need five minutes of not-dying.”
“Not an option,” Kiera says calmly.
Lila sighs. “Of course it’s not.” She shuffles toward a chair and collapses into it sideways. “I’m going back to sleep after this. If the house explodes, wake me.”
Eventually, Cam leans back, rolling his neck. “Alright. That’s as sealed as it’s going to get .”
Kiera exhales like she’s been holding it in for days. “It’ll ping us if anything even breathes wrong.”
“And it’ll isolate itself. Locking it down,” Cam adds.
I dip my head once. “Good.”
We shut everything down methodically. The house feels heavier when the screens go dark.
Cam dumps his coffee in the sink and disappears down the hall.
Lila follows shortly after, muttering something about hating mornings and everyone in them.
Kiera lingers, standing there for a second like she’s deciding something, then turns toward the bedroom. I follow without a word.
When we finally lie down, she curls toward the edge, leaving space between us, not moving to close it. A minute passes. Then another. “Sterling?” she says quietly. “If this goes bad…” I wait. “…you won’t let them turn me into something I can’t live with?”
I roll onto my side, just enough that my voice is close to her ear.
“Thorn,” I say softly. “Anyone who tries to own you answers to me first.” She exhales and inches closer, not asking, not apologizing.
I settle an arm around her without pulling.
She sinks into it, tension unspooling by degrees.
The house is still around us. Whatever’s watching can wait. Tonight, the doors are locked.
Kiera’s breathing evens out beside me, soft and steady, warmth seeping through the thin space that’s left.
I keep my arm around her, my hand splayed over her back like I can anchor her to this moment—as if I can anchor myself.
The house settles; pipes tick, and the fridge’s hum sinks into the background until it’s just another part of the dark.
My eyes burn, heavy, and eventually the black pulls me under, whether I want it to or not.
I don’t fall asleep. I'm dragged deep under.
The cold hits first. Concrete leaches through my skin, damp and unforgiving.
My breath fogs in front of me; the air smells wrong, like mildew, rust, and something old that never gets cleaned out.
I blink. I’m not in my basement anymore.
My wrists ache. My stomach twists in on itself, hunger sharp enough to make my hands shake.
I’m younger. Smaller. My limbs don’t feel like mine yet.
Overhead, a single bare bulb buzzes like it’s alive, swaying just enough to make shadows crawl across the walls.
I know this place. I hate that I know this place.
Someone shifts across from me, and I look up in the direction of the noise.
A girl is sitting a few feet away, knees pulled tight to her chest. She can’t be more than seven or eight—hair tangled, face smudged, eyes too big for the rest of her.
The kind of eyes that have already learned how to watch.
She’s looking at me like I might vanish if she blinks.
“Do you know where we are?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, careful, like she’s learned volume has consequences.
“No.” My throat burns as I swallow.
She nods slowly, like she expected that answer.
“Me neither.” We sit there. Time stretches, bends.
It doesn’t move right down here. “My dad said we have to stay,” she says after a while.
“He said if we’re good, we can go upstairs later.
” I don’t answer. I don’t believe him. I don’t believe anyone.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re older than me. ”
“Yeah.”
“You look scary,” she says, not unkindly. Then, softer, “but I don’t think you are.” Something tightens in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar. “I think scary people don’t look sad like that.”
The bulb starts to flicker again. Footsteps echo somewhere above us.
My body goes rigid before my brain catches up.
The girl flinches hard, like this isn’t the first time.
Her hand shoots out and grips my sleeve, fingers cold and desperate.
“Don’t tell,” she whispers. “They don’t like it when we talk. ”
My jaw clenches. “I won’t,” I say, and I mean it.
Light spills down the stairwell in a thin, blinding line as a door opens above us.
A shadow fills it. The girl presses closer, her grip tightening like she’s afraid she’ll be pulled apart if she lets go.
I shift without thinking, angling my body between her and the stairs.
My muscles lock in, ready. I know this move.
My body knows it even if my mind doesn’t want to.
The shadow doesn’t speak. The door closes.
Darkness rushes back in. The girl exhales a shaky breath and leans into my arm, her forehead resting there like she’s anchoring herself. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“For what?” I ask.
“For staying.” Something heavy settles in my chest. I don’t know her name. I don’t know why we’re here. I only know I’m not leaving her alone down here.
I jerk awake, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
My breath comes ragged and loud in the silence.
The cold bite of concrete still clings to my skin.
The bedroom slowly bleeds back into focus—dark, quiet, safe.
Kiera shifts beside me. Her brow furrowing in her sleep, and her hands curling into my shirt, fingers fisting the fabric with surprising strength.
She grips me like she’s terrified I’ll disappear. Exactly like the girl from my dream.
My breath catches. I slide my hand over hers, grounding us both, and drag her tighter against my chest. Her breathing eventually evens out, soft and trusting, completely unaware of the storm raging behind my eyes.
It was just a dream. Just another broken fragment.
But the feeling doesn’t fade. It sinks its claws deeper.
I stare at the ceiling, pulse finally slowing, while one dangerous thought circles like a blade pressed against my throat.
I don’t know who that girl is. I just know I stayed.
And somehow…that feels like the only thing that mattered.
I don’t move for a long time. Kiera remains curled into my side exactly where she belongs, her body fitting against mine like it was made for me.
Like my arms already know every curve without permission.
Dawn hasn’t fully broken yet. The room is bathed in that hazy half-light that blurs reality—edges softened, shadows long and hungry.
I watch her breathe. In. Out. Slow. Steady. Mine.
My chest tightens, a sharp, illogical squeeze.
It’s the way her fingers are still twisted in my shirt, even in sleep.
Not just clinging, but anchoring. Like she learned too fucking early that things disappear the second you let go.
I’ve seen that grip before. The thought slides in sideways, cold and unwelcome.
I shove it away. My brain has always been vicious when it comes to patterns.
It connects dots whether I want it or not.
That doesn’t mean every echo is a warning. But this one feels like it.