The rumble had faded, but the house stayed tight.
Grant lay curled beneath his blanket, a toy car clutched in his fist. Each time his lids sagged, another beam of white light cut through the blinds and snapped him awake.
For a moment, it was quiet. Almost normal.
Then came the crash.
Metal screeched against pavement—brakes locking, doors slamming. Engines roared so close the floorboards seemed to hum with it.
Grant jerked upright. His heart thudded in his throat.
Spotlight beams swept the neighborhood in long, blinding arcs. The glow poured through the cracks in the blinds, slicing his room into pale stripes.
Dogs exploded into barking, one after another down the block. Someone shouted—words Grant couldn't catch, drowned in the churn of boots and engines.
His door burst open.
Spencer filled the doorway, hair mussed, shirt half-untucked. Pale in the wash of light, but every movement quick, decisive.
"Grant—up. Now."
Grant scrambled, feet tangling in his blanket as his dad yanked him free and set him upright.
"What's happening?" His voice cracked on the words.
Spencer crouched, gripping his shoulders. His eyes flicked once toward the window, then back to Grant. The muscles in his jaw worked, but his voice was steady.
"Doesn't matter. You stay close. No questions."
Outside, boots pounded up the street. The shouts grew louder.
The raid had begun.
The shouts outside grew sharper, clearer.
"Open up! Taskforce patrol—open now!"
A fist slammed into wood, rattling the frame.
From next door came the sound of crying, a woman's voice rising in panic. "Please—please, there's no one here but my son!" Boots thundered against her door anyway, a crash following like thunder splitting the night.
Grant clutched Spencer's sleeve, the noise pressing in from every side.
Spencer bent low, his face inches from Grant's. His whisper cut quick and fierce:
"Closet. Now. Stay quiet. No matter what happens."
Grant shook his head, throat too tight to argue. Spencer didn't wait—he shoved him gently but firmly toward the bedroom, pulling the door wide and all but stuffing him inside the dark.
The smell of cedar filled the narrow space. Coats brushed against his cheek. Spencer's hand lingered one heartbeat on his shoulder, then was gone.
Grant crouched, knees drawn up, peering through the sliver of light between the doors.
The apartment shook with another blow. Then—
CRASH.
The front door splintered inward, wood skidding across the floor. Heavy boots poured in, rifles sweeping the room with beams of mounted light. Shadows leapt across the walls, sharp and jagged.
"Clear the hall!" one barked.
Another voice, lower, closer: "Check every room."
Grant pressed his palms over his ears, but the thud of boots still hammered through, closer, closer. His heart beat so fast it hurt.
Through the narrow crack, he saw a visor glint as a soldier passed, scanning. The barrel of a rifle followed, slow and steady, slicing the dark.
From his hiding place, Grant held his breath as boots pounded closer, shaking the thin walls. His father's voice cut through the chaos—steady, but tight.
"That's far enough."
Grant leaned forward against the crack in the closet door. He saw the living room washed in white light, soldiers fanned in a half-circle. Their rifles were raised, black and sharp against the glow. Spencer stood alone in the middle, hands loose at his sides.
The leader stepped forward, visor retracted to reveal a pale, hard face. His voice was colder than the air spilling through the broken door.
"Spencer Graves. You know why we're here."
Spencer didn't flinch. "Looks like you're lost. Nothing here but bread on the counter and a busted door you owe me for."
One of the soldiers snorted, but the leader didn't smile. His eyes flicked once toward the hall—the direction of Grant's room—before locking back onto Spencer.
"We have orders. A Weed was reported in this building. You're going to tell us where."
Spencer's jaw tightened, just enough for Grant to notice. "Don't know what you're talking about."
A silence stretched, heavy as stone. The other soldiers shifted, fingers resting against triggers.
The leader took a step closer. His words landed like needles. "Don't play games. You've kept him hidden long enough."
Grant's pulse roared in his ears. Him. They meant him.
Spencer's voice sharpened. "Even if I did know, you think I'd hand over a child to your cages?"
The leader's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something colder. "You're making this harder than it has to be. Think about her. Think about Kaela. She wouldn't want it to end like this."
Grant's breath hitched. Kaela. His mother's name.
Through the crack, Grant saw his father flinch—just a heartbeat of raw pain—before it hardened into steel.
"You don't get to say her name," Spencer said, low and fierce.
The leader tilted his head, studying him like a specimen. "Last chance. Give up the boy, and maybe you live long enough to regret it."
Spencer spat, the sound sharp against the hush. "You won't take my son."
For a moment, no one moved. The rifles hummed faintly with their power cells, the spotlights buzzing against the silence. Grant's heart hammered so loud he thought they'd hear it.
The leader didn't wait long. He gave another flick of his hand, and the nearest soldier swung the butt of his rifle hard into Spencer's jaw.
The crack of impact snapped through the room. Spencer staggered, blood spilling, but he stayed upright, eyes blazing defiance. Then the gunshot—deafening in the small apartment. He jerked, and crumpled.
That was all it took.
From the closet, Grant's tiny gasp broke free before he could stop it.
The soldiers froze. Heads turned. Boots pivoted toward the sound.
Grant's heart slammed against his ribs. He wanted to stay hidden, wanted to vanish into the dark—but his body moved before his mind could stop it. The closet door rattled as he shoved it open, stumbling into the light.
"Dad!"
He ran for Spencer, sliding across the floor to reach him. His father's blood was already pooling, hot and slick beneath his hands.
"Stay back!" one soldier barked, but the boy didn't listen. He pressed his small palms against the wound, desperate to hold his father together. "Dad, wake up—please, wake up!"
The squad leader leaned forward, a smirk faint under his mask. "Years of hiding. And for what?"
A soldier raised his rifle.
The shot rang out before Grant even looked up.
Pain exploded in his chest—sharp, burning, then hollow. His breath hitched. He collapsed into his father's arms, blood soaking through his shirt, mixing with Spencer's.
For a heartbeat, Grant felt an unnatural stillness, like his body was refusing the laws of the world. Heat and cold danced across his chest. His ears rang. The room tilted, yet he could still hear the boots, the soldiers' commands, the hum of rifles.
The soldiers bent closer. One knelt, brushing a glove across Grant's shoulder. "Direct hit… he should be—"
The leader's gaze lingered on the boy, sharp and calculating. His voice dropped, colder than before. "The boy's gone. Bag the father."
Grant didn't move. Not a twitch. His chest ached, every breath shallow. The soldiers stepped back, convinced the child had succumbed.
The leader's whisper cut through the hum: "He should be dead."
The soldiers loomed above, rifles still aimed at the silent, small form on the floor. In that stillness, Grant's body lay motionless and impossible, a boy the world had counted out.