The generator kept humming.
Justin focused on it because he needed something steady to latch onto. The sound had become a kind of metronome—proof that time was still moving forward, that the house hadn't slipped into whatever chaos waited outside. As long as it ran, the lights stayed on. As long as the lights stayed on, he could keep everyone anchored to normal.
No one looked at the front door.
They didn't have to. The memory of it was enough.
Tally leaned back in her chair at the kitchen table, arms crossed, chin lifted like defiance alone could keep fear at bay. She looked exactly like herself—perfect hair, sharp eyeliner, mouth already curled with something ready to say. Justin loved her for it and hated it at the same time. She was mean when she was scared. She always had been.
Mari sat quieter, hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. She hadn't taken a sip in a while. Her eyes kept drifting—not to the door, but to Justin, like she was checking whether he was still holding everything together.
He was. He had to.
"So," Tally said, breaking the silence because she couldn't stand it anymore, "how exactly did you two meet?"
Justin felt the question before it landed.
He adjusted his grip on his glass, forced his shoulders to stay loose. This wasn't suspicion. This was Tally trying to regain control by poking at something familiar.
Mari answered first. "Orientation week."
Justin nodded. "First few days."
Tally tilted her head, unimpressed. "That's vague."
"Same seminar," Mari added.
"Public policy and tech ethics," Justin said.
Tally made a face. "That sounds exhausting."
Justin smirked. "You'd hate it."
Mari smiled politely. Justin caught the tightness in her jaw when Tally didn't look away.
"What kind of seminar?" Tally pressed.
Mari hesitated, then spoke carefully. "One about systems. How they work. What happens when they don't."
Justin cleared his throat. "And how people react when they lose structure."
"Which is always badly," Tally said.
"Usually," Mari agreed.
Outside, a siren wailed—close enough now that Justin could feel the sound vibrate through the window glass. It didn't fade. It didn't move on. It just stayed, a long, constant scream that made his teeth itch.
"They've been busy today," Tally said lightly, like she was commenting on traffic.
Justin didn't answer.
Mari shifted in her chair, pulling her sweater tighter even though the house was warm. "Is it always like this when the power goes out?"
"No," Justin said. "Not like this."
Tally shot him a look. "Way to reassure us."
He shrugged. "I'm not lying."
A dull boom rolled through the distance. Not sharp. Not close. Just heavy.
Tally flinched despite herself. "Okay, that one sucked."
"Transformer," Justin said, automatically.
She latched onto it. "Right. Obviously."
The generator hummed on, unbothered.
"As long as the lights stay on," Tally said, forcing a laugh, "we're fine."
Mari nodded, but her eyes didn't leave Justin's face.
He moved to the living room window, lifting the curtain just enough to look out. He avoided the porch. Avoided the concrete. He didn't need to see it again.
"What do you see?" Tally asked.
"Smoke," he said. "Far off."
"Downtown?"
"Probably."
She accepted it. Not because she believed it—but because she needed something simple.
"Let's turn the TV on," Tally said. "If we're stuck in here, I want to know why."
Justin hesitated just long enough for Mari to notice.
Then he nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
He reset the cable box with hands that stayed steady through muscle memory alone. The screen flickered. Static hissed softly.
The anchor appeared—calm, composed, eyes tight with something she couldn't hide.
"…widespread disturbances," she said. "Residents are urged to remain indoors."
Tally scoffed. "That's vague."
The footage cut in.
A street Justin recognized.
Cars abandoned. Smoke drifting low. People running in directions that didn't make sense.
Someone fell.
Someone else didn't stop.
Mari inhaled sharply. Her hand tightened around the mug.
The feed glitched.
"Violent incidents," the anchor said. "Emergency services are overwhelmed—"
Black screen.
The generator hummed.
"That's fake," Tally said immediately. "It has to be."
Justin shook his head. "It's live."
Mari whispered, "Oh my God."
The broadcast returned—shakier now. A reporter shouting over chaos. Police lights flaring in the background.
"—attacking without provocation—"
Something slammed into the reporter from off-screen.
She screamed.
The camera hit the ground.
The feed cut.
Tally took a step back. "No. That's not real."
Justin stepped in front of her without thinking, blocking the screen. "Don't watch."
Another siren screamed outside.
Closer.
Tally's voice wavered. "Justin… what is happening?"
He didn't answer right away. He was listening—to the generator, to the distant noise, to the way Mari's breathing had gone shallow.
The TV flickered again.
A red banner scrolled across the screen.
EMERGENCY ALERT: SHELTER IN PLACE. AVOID CONTACT.
Tally stared at it. "Avoid contact with who?"
Justin turned the TV off.
The sudden quiet was worse.
"We stay inside," he said. "Doors locked. Windows covered. No exceptions."
"You don't get to just decide that," Tally snapped.
"I do," he said calmly. "Because I'm the one thinking clearly right now."
Mari nodded once, subtle but firm.
Tally looked between them, then scoffed and dropped into a chair. "You're both being dramatic."
But her hands were shaking.
Justin watched her, felt the familiar pull of protectiveness settle into his chest. His sister could be awful. Sharp. Cruel when cornered.
But she was his.
"I've got you," he said quietly.
She didn't look at him, but she didn't argue either.
Outside, something moved—too far away to see clearly, close enough to feel.
Inside, the generator hummed.
The lights stayed on.
And Justin knew he would keep lying if he had to—about why they'd left early, why he'd driven straight through from Pennsylvania, why he'd chosen this house.
Not yet.
Not while fear was still raw.
Not while the lights still worked.