Darkness breathed around him.
Grant's first thought was that he'd been buried. The air was heavy, stale, pressing close against his face. He clawed upward, panic jerking him awake—
—but his hand struck stone, not soil.
A ceiling. Low, rough-hewn, close enough that his fingertips scraped against uneven grooves. He blinked hard, but the dark stayed. Only a thin glow bled in from somewhere distant, pale and cold.
His body jolted upright. Pain ran through his chest, phantom sharp though there was no wound left to ache. His hands scrambled over his shirt, searching—blood, holes, something to prove what had happened. But the fabric, though torn and stiff, lay flat against unbroken skin.
Memory snapped back like a lash.
The raid. His father's voice. The thunder of rifles.
The silence after.
"Dad…" His voice cracked, hoarse, swallowed by the stone walls. Louder this time: "Dad!"
No answer.
Grant lurched to his feet, swaying. The space stretched wider than he'd thought—arched ceilings, stone corridors, shadows shifting in the glow of lanterns set deep in alcoves. He staggered toward the nearest passage, every nerve demanding escape.
"Easy, kid."
The voice came from the dark. Calm. Level. Not unkind.
A figure stepped into the glow. Detective Rook. His coat hung heavier here, the edges trailing dust. He didn't move toward Grant, only stood, watchful.
"You're safe," Rook said. "For now."
"Where's my dad?" The words ripped out raw, sharp with fear. "Where is he?"
Rook's eyes didn't flinch, but something unreadable shifted behind them. "He's not here."
Grant's fists clenched. His chest heaved with a breath that shuddered into a sob. "Take me to him!"
"Rook!"
The new voice was softer. A girl stepped into view, maybe eleven years old, dark curls framing her cautious eyes. She clutched the hem of her sweater, knuckles white, bracing herself against her own fear.
Anna.
She tilted her head. "He's… loud," she whispered to Rook, though her gaze never left Grant.
Grant spun toward her, confusion snapping with his grief. "Who are you? What is this place?"
Before Rook could answer, another presence entered the chamber.
The woman seemed to carry silence with her. She moved slowly, every step measured, the hem of her robe brushing the stone floor. Her hair, streaked silver though her face was not old, caught the lantern light in fragile threads.
Her eyes fixed on Grant.
"I am Aldus," she said, her voice low, deliberate. "And this place is a refuge. Of sorts."
Grant staggered back, his breath ragged. "A refuge? From what? From who?" His eyes darted between them all, wide and wild. "I don't know you. I don't know this. I need to go home!"
A silence stretched. Anna shifted uncomfortably, her fingers fidgeting at her sleeves. Rook's jaw tightened.
Finally, Aldus stepped closer. She knelt so her eyes leveled with his, her expression softening under the weight of her words.
"You cannot go home, Grant."
The words fell like stone in the chamber.
Grant shook his head, trembling. "No. That's not true. He's waiting for me. He has to be."
Her gaze did not waver. Grief lingered in it, old and heavy. "The Taskforce has him now. They do not give back what they take."
The safehouse felt too quiet once Aldus left him. Stone pressed in from every side, lantern light puddling low on the floor. Grant sat on the narrow cot, hands knotted in the torn fabric of his shirt. The words wouldn't stop circling.
You cannot go home.
He stared at the floor until the seams in the stone went blurry.
Footsteps—soft, light—paused at the doorway.
Grant looked up. A girl stood half-hidden in the shadow, fingers worrying the hem of a thin sweater. Dark hair, uneven at the ends like someone cut it with a pocketknife. Her eyes kept darting—to him, to the cot, to her bare hands.
"You're awake," she whispered.
"Who are you?" His voice came out rough.
"Anna." She stepped in a little, then stopped again, as if the room might spit her back out. "I just… wanted to check."
"Check what?"
Her gaze flicked to his chest, to the blackened bullet holes in his shirt. "If it hurt. When you… came back."
Heat slid up his neck. He folded his arms over himself, jaw tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do," she said, not unkindly. Just honest. "You died. And then you didn't."
"Leave me alone."
She didn't. She came closer—slow, careful. When she stopped, there was only an arm's length of air between them. Up close, he noticed how she kept her elbows tucked in, how her hands hovered like she was afraid of where they might land.
"You're different," she said softly. "Like me."
Grant swallowed. The words should have made him angry. Instead, they just made him tired. He reached without thinking—just to prove something was still human in the room—and his fingers lifted toward her open palm.
Anna flinched. "No—don't." The word cracked out of her sharp enough to sting. "You can't touch me. Not skin. You'll get hurt."
He froze, hand hanging there. "Why?"
"I wear gloves. Most days. Rook gets mad if I forget. I just—" She glanced toward the door, guilty. "I wanted to see you were okay."
Grant nodded, because he didn't know what else to do. The fear in her eyes matched the fear in his chest. That felt like proof.
They stood there, the space between them careful and fragile.
"You should wear gloves," he said, voice small.
"I know." She glanced at her empty hands like they'd betrayed her. "I left them by the door. I thought… if I looked like a normal person, you wouldn't be scared." She huffed a laugh that wasn't a laugh. "That was dumb."
He almost smiled. It came and went like a blink.
Grant stared at the floor again, blinking hard. "I want to go back."
"I know." Her voice was barely audible. "Me too."
They didn't touch. She stood there anyway, close enough to feel like he wasn't falling.
"They'll tell you more tomorrow," Anna said again, softer now, as if the words might build a wall for him to lean on. "But I just… wanted you to know you're not alone."