LENA
I bring a knife.
Petra thinks it's paranoia. She doesn't say it out loud, but I can see it in her face when I tuck the blade into my boot before we leave. She's driving the truck, hands steady on the wheel, completely focused on the mission.
She doesn't know someone sent me a photo of myself. Someone who knows exactly where we're going.
The warehouse looks abandoned from the outside. Broken windows. Rusted fence. The kind of place people drive past without looking twice. That's why it's perfect. In my first life, no one thought to check here until three weeks into the outbreak, when everything valuable was already gone.
This time, I'm taking it all.
Petra parks the truck at the back entrance. We move fast. No talking. Just efficiency. She grabs the bolt cutters and snaps the chain on the loading dock door. It swings open with a metallic groan.
Inside, the warehouse is exactly how I remember it. Rows of metal shelves stacked floor to ceiling. Medical supplies in labeled boxes. Everything organized, catalogued, waiting.
"This is insane," Petra whispers. "How is nobody guarding this?"
"They don't think anyone knows it's here. It's a distribution center, not a retail location. The real security is in not being noticed."
She grins. "Then let's rob them blind."
We split up. Petra takes the left side, grabbing generators and water purification tablets. I head straight for the medications. My hands move on autopilot, pulling exactly what I need. Antibiotics. Surgical kits. Pain medicine. Insulin. Everything that will be worth more than gold when the world falls apart.
I fill two boxes before the hum starts.
It's faint at first. Just a whisper at the base of my skull. But it's there. The same sensation from two days ago, crawling up my spine like something alive.
I freeze.
The infected aren't here yet. They can't be. It's Day Three. Z-Day is eighty-nine days away.
So why can I feel them?
The hum pulses. Once. Twice. Then stops.
I force myself to keep moving. Focus on the supplies. Focus on the mission. Whatever's happening with my ability, I'll figure it out later.
I'm reaching for a box of surgical gloves when I hear footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the back of the warehouse.
Not Petra. Her footsteps are quick and light. These are heavier. Controlled. The footsteps of someone who's done this before. Someone trained.
I set the box down carefully. My hand drops to my boot, fingers brushing the knife handle.
The footsteps stop.
I turn around.
A man stands at the end of the aisle.
He's tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Eyes that look black from this distance. He's wearing a tactical jacket, and everything about his posture screams military. Not active duty. Something older. Something that's been carved into his bones and never left.
But that's not what makes me freeze.
It's his face.
I know that face.
Rafe Callahan. The man I stitched back together in Shelter Seven the night before they threw me out. He came in with a knife wound in his side, bleeding everywhere, refusing to talk. I worked on him for two hours while he watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
He never learned my name. I never learned his.
He died three days after I was banished. One of the refugees told me later. Infection. No antibiotics left.
But he's standing right here. Alive. Whole. Staring at me like I'm the ghost instead of him.
"You," he says.
One word. Barely a whisper. But it hits me like a punch to the chest.
I don't move. Don't speak. My hand stays on the knife.
He takes a step forward. "I've been looking for you."
My heart is racing. "You don't know me."
"I know." His voice is rough. Confused. Like the words don't make sense even to him. "But I've been looking for you anyway."
This is wrong. In my first life, I didn't meet him until Day Seventy-Three. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't know anything about me.
Unless he's the one who sent the texts.
I pull the knife.
It's in my hand and pointed at him in half a second. "Who are you?"
He stops. Raises his hands slowly, palms out. Not scared. Just careful. "My name is Rafe Callahan."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." He watches me. Studies me. "I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why I woke up three days ago feeling like I'd lost something I never had. I just knew I needed to find you."
The words sink into me like stones.
Three days ago. The same day I came back.
"How did you find me?" I ask.
"I followed the pull."
"The what?"
"The feeling." He presses his hand to his chest. "Right here. Like something hooked into my ribs and dragged me across the city until I ended up outside this warehouse. And then I saw you walk in, and I knew." His eyes lock onto mine. "You're what I've been looking for."
I should run. I should call for Petra. I should do anything except stand here listening to this stranger talk about feelings and pulls and things that shouldn't be possible.
But I can't move.
Because I know exactly what he's talking about.
The hum at the base of my skull surges. Stronger than before. So strong my vision blurs. But this time, it's not pointing me toward the infected.
It's pointing me toward him.
"What are you?" I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes. "I was about to ask you the same thing."
Then Petra's voice cuts through the air. "Lena! We've got company!"
I spin around.
Through the broken windows, I see headlights. Multiple vehicles pulling into the parking lot. Moving fast.
Rafe moves beside me, looking out. His whole body goes tense. "That's military."
"What?"
"Private contractors. The kind governments use when they want something done quietly." He looks at me. "Someone sent them here."
The pieces click together in my head. The texts. The photo. Someone knew I'd be here. Someone wanted me followed.
Or captured.
"We need to leave," I say. "Now."
But before I can move, Rafe grabs my arm. His grip is iron. His eyes are urgent.
"Listen to me very carefully," he says. "These people are not here to arrest you. They're here to disappear you. And whatever you are, whatever you know that made them send a kill team after you, it means you're more dangerous than they're willing to risk."
My blood runs cold. "How do you know that?"
"Because I used to be one of them."
The warehouse doors explode inward.