“I won’t be,” I cut in, voice certain. “But if I am, you lose nothing. If I’m right, you gain control.” Control. That’s the word that hooks him like a blade sliding between the ribs.
“Fine,” Wade says at last, the word dragged out. “But I want updates. Consistently.”
“You’ll get them,” I say, voice flat and final. “When it’s safe.” I hang up before he can argue.
When I step back inside, Cam looks up from his screen. “You poked the bear.”
“Just enough to make him turn,” I answer. Kiera doesn’t ask what I said. She just watches me, eyes steady and unreadable, like she’s weighing secrets she hasn’t decided to share yet. “It’s done,” I say. “He’s looking where we want him to look.” She nods once. No relief. No triumph. Just quiet acceptance. This isn’t the end of anything. It’s the moment the board finally starts moving in our favor.
The weight in the room finally eases just enough for exhaustion to crash over us like a second wave. Cam leans back in his chair and drags both hands down his face, eyes bloodshot and hollow. “I swear, if I look at one more fucking line of code, I’m going to start seeing it in my dreams.”
Lila snorts, the sound dry and cutting. “Bold of you to assume you haven’t already.” She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours. You’re probably already dreaming in binary.”
Kiera finally breaks. She pushes her laptop away and stretches, arms lifting overhead until her hoodie rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin above the waistband of her shorts. “I vote we pretend to be functional adults later,” she says, voice edged with exhaustion. “Right now, I need a nap. A criminally long one.”
I glance at her, eyes lingering a second too long. “You just woke up.”
She shoots me a sharp look. “And I’ve slept less than I have been awake.”Fair.
Cam stands, rolling his shoulders with a low groan. “I’m done fighting my own brain. If I sleep through the apocalypse, that’s on future me.”
Kiera grins at me, that rare spark cutting through the heaviness. “See? Team nap. Democracy wins.” She brushes past me toward the hallway, her shoulder grazing mine, already committed. For a moment, the house feels almost normal. Quiet in a way that doesn’t itch under your skin. I follow her anyway, knowing the world will be waiting when we wake. And whatever comes next can wait.
Chapter Seventeen
Her voice comes first—soft, low, achingly familiar. The humming of our song settles deep in my chest. The one that used to wrap around me like safety. The air smells like fresh linen and rain drifting through open windows. My cheeks rest against warm fabric that carries the faint scent of another body. My mom’s hand moves through my hair in slow, careful strokes, like she’s terrified I’ll shatter if she rushes.
I tilt my head enough to look up at her. Mom’s face is hidden in the shadows. The edges are soft and blurred, like the dream doesn’t want me to see her too clearly. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a tightness in her expressions, something she’s trying to hold back from me. “Mom?” My voice comes out small and young. Unused. Fragile.
“Yes, Sunshine?” She answers immediately, almost as if she were waiting for a question, her voice warm and gentle.
“Why are you so sad?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Even in the dream, I can feel it—that heavy feeling hiding behind her smile. Mom’s eyes shut for just a second. Then the gentle smile returns, softer this time.
Her hand pauses just long enough for my stomach to twist into a tight little knot. “I’m not sad,” she says gently. The lie is wrapped so carefully that it almost convinces me. “I’m just tired.”
“From Dad?” The question comes out small and careful, barely louder than a breath. Mom’s hand stills completely in my hair. For a moment, the only sound is my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The words make the room shift, the air getting stuffier. Like the walls themselves leaned in to listen. Mom kisses my forehead. “Go to sleep, Sunshine.” Her voice changes, not the lyrics, but her tone as she sings them.
The song slows, stretching, each note sinking deeper into my chest. My eyelids start to weigh down, fluttering closed as something inside me fights to stay awake, almost as if I fall asleep, something important will be missed. “Mom?” I whisper again, my voice tiny. “Will you still be here?”
“Yes. I promise.” Her arms tighten around me. The wordpromiseechoes as the room's warmth fades, as if someone had turned down the outside world. Her voice keeps singing, feeling further away now—like it’s drifting through a wall, or a floor, maybe even a memory. I try to hold onto her shirt, my fingers slipping right through it. The fabric dissolves into a soft, glowing light. Her face blurring, smearing like wet paint.
“Mom…” The song doesn’t end. Instead, bending as the melody slows, dropping too low, stretching until every note changes—warped and broken in my ears. The warmth around me thins, like a blanket being slowly pulled away. Mom’s hand stays in my hair, but it’s heavier now. Not soothing anymore. Anchoring. Her voice echoes, no longer in the room. It comes from below. From somewhere deeper. The light flickers. The smell shifts. Lavender and rain rot into damp concrete and cold metal. Cold seeps into my skin, biting at my bare arms. The softness beneath me hardens, turning cruel.The floor. I know this floor.
I curl my body into a tight ball. “Mom?” Her hand slips from my hair. The song keeps going anyway, rough and unfinished. They press closer, the sound bouncing back at me in a way that makes my chest feel too tight. There’s a door somewhere. I can’t see it. I just know it’s there. Closed. Locked.
The air is thick and stale—tasting like fear and something chemical that burns. My stomach grumbles with a sharp, painful hunger. My legs ache when I try to move, like I’ve been still for far too long. “Stay here,” her voice says. Not sung this time. Spoken. The words don’t come from her mouth. They come from everywhere. From the walls. From the dark. From inside my head.
“I don’t want to,” I whimper, my voice small again. Younger. The sound of a child who already knows no one is listening. The song resumes, quieter now, distant. A shadow moves near the edge of my vision. Every instinct screams at me. Looking at it makes it real. My breath is shallow. My heart slams against my ribs. My body freezes on instinct like prey going still, hoping invisibility might save it. The door creaks open. A thin line of light cuts across the concrete floor and stops right at my feet. I squeeze my eyes shut.
The song stutters. Something is wrong. Not just bad. Not just scary. Wrong in a way that sinks into my bones and refuses to leave. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t exist in this place. Only waiting. Only knowing. Knowing that I’m not supposed to scream. Knowing that I’m supposed to be quiet. Knowing that this place will follow me, even if I forget it. The light disappears. The song finally stops. And the silence that follows is so much worse.
A couple of days later…
My eyes fly open to the dark ceiling. Familiar room. Safe bed. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts. My shirt is soaked with sweat, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. For a long moment, I can’t move. Can’t separate what’s now from what was then. The lullaby is gone, butthe feeling remains—lingering under my skin like a bruise. I don’t remember everything. Just enough to see the basement was never a dream.
Sterling sleeps beside me, solid and unmoving, a silent rock in the darkness. I slip out of bed without a word, the floor cold against my bare feet, and follow the quiet pull toward the guest room. Lila is already awake, curled on her side, scrolling through her phone like sleep is something that doesn’t exist. “Hey,” I whisper. I fall onto the bed beside her. The tension I’ve been carrying since the nightmare finally cracked.
