I don’t tell her this place was meant to be invisible. Once it was finished, it became my father’s refuge, the one space he trusted absolutely. He understood that security wasn’t just steel and concrete. It was psychology.
I’ve already told her more than I should have, so I leave it there.
She exhales, slow but uneven. “It looks like you could survive down here for a long time.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s the idea.”
Her attention shifts back to me, sharper now. The humor drains out of her posture. This isn’t fascination anymore. It’s recognition.
She’s stopped seeing a house with a bunker beneath it.
She’s seeing the kind of family that builds places like this and plans for worst-case scenarios.
I step aside, letting her see the rest of the space without comment. There’s nothing to conceal, and no reason to rush her through it.
“Get used to it,” I tell her. “This is where you’ll be staying.”
She keeps walking, head tilting as the lighting shifts subtly overhead. “The lights change,” she says. “They’re not static.”
“They follow the city’s day-night cycle,” I tell her.
“So you don’t lose track of time,” she says, like she’s cataloging the place more than questioning it.
“Right.”
She stops at the glass wall, pressing closer as she takes in the rows of plants. Her mouth parts despite herself.
“You’re growing food down here,” she says. “Actual food.”
“On rotation. Hydroponic.”
She laughs under her breath. “Of course you are. Let me guess. Fresh herbs. Vegetables. Probably better than whatever you’re eating upstairs.”
I don’t correct her.
She turns slowly, scanning. “So what else do you have?Let me guess. A dairy farm, a vineyard, and a woodworking studio.”
“Funny.”
She spots the theater next, eyebrows lifting. “Jesus. A wide-screen theater with recliners, too.”
“Nothing that connects to the internet,” I caution. “But my father built a catalog of hundreds of films to choose from.”
She snorts. “There’s naturally no internet. Can’t have your prisoner live-tweeting her captivity. But at least you aim to entertain.”
We move deeper into the space, past the seating area and along the far wall. I slow when we reach the pool, not stopping fully, just enough to draw her attention.
“That’s open to you,” I say. “Water’s filtered daily. Temperature stays consistent.”
She stops anyway, stepping closer to the edge, peering down into the blue like she’s measuring it.
“A pool,” she says. “Of course there is.”
“There’s a storage room off the hall,” I add. “Towels. Basics. There should be a swimsuit in your size. If not, I’ll have one brought in.”
She looks back at me then, something cautious flickering across her face. “You planned that?”
“I wanted to make sure you had what you need,” I reply. “Staying cooped up doesn’t do anyone favors.”
