LENA
I don't sleep.
I spend the entire night staring at those coordinates on my phone. Petra's apartment. Exact location. Someone knows where I am. Someone is watching me right now.
And they're warning me about Rafe.
He's already compromised.
What does that mean? Compromised how? By who?
I pace Petra's living room until sunrise. My mind spins through possibilities. The military contractors at the warehouse. The blocked messages. The photograph from my first life. Someone is playing a game, and I don't know the rules.
But I know one thing.
I can't hide. I can't wait for them to make the next move.
I need to take control.
At six in the morning, I pack my things. Leave Petra a note on the kitchen counter: Going home. Need to handle Damon. Stay alert. Trust no one.
Then I drive back to the apartment I share with my husband.
The man who killed me.
The key turns in the lock. The door swings open. Everything looks exactly the same. Clean counters. Folded towels. The life we pretended to have.
Damon is in the kitchen drinking coffee.
He looks up when I walk in. Surprise crosses his face. "Lena. I didn't know you were coming back today."
"I live here," I say flatly.
"I know. I just thought—after you stayed at Petra's—"
"We need to talk."
Something shifts in his expression. Wariness. He sets his coffee down slowly. "About what?"
I don't sit. I stand across from him, hands at my sides, back straight.
"I want a divorce."
The words land like a bomb.
Silence.
Then Damon laughs.
It's a soft laugh. Warm. The laugh of a man who thinks his wife is being dramatic. "Lena. Come on."
"I'm not joking."
"You're stressed. Work has been—"
"This has nothing to do with work."
He stands up. Walks around the table toward me. His hand reaches out. "Whatever this is, we can talk about it. We can fix it."
I don't move. Don't flinch. I just look at him with eyes that have already seen him for what he is.
"There's nothing to fix," I say. "I don't want to be married to you anymore."
His hand stops in mid-air.
The smile falters.
He searches my face. Looking for the crack. The weakness. The place where he can push and make me fold.
He won't find it.
I reach into my bag. Pull out a manila folder. Set it on the table between us.
"I filed yesterday," I say. "The papers are already submitted. My lawyer will be in touch with yours."
Damon stares at the folder.
Then at me.
The laughing stops.
His hand drops to his side.
"You're serious," he says slowly.
"Completely."
"Why?"
The question almost makes me laugh. Why. As if he doesn't know. As if he didn't spend three years slowly suffocating me. As if he didn't watch me die screaming and feel nothing.
But he doesn't remember that. In this timeline, he's still pretending.
"Because I don't love you anymore," I say simply.
His face goes blank. Empty. Like someone just unplugged him.
Then something else slides into place. Something cold. Something that was always there, hidden under the charm.
"You're making a mistake," he says.
His voice is different now. Lower. Harder. The mask is cracking.
"I don't think I am."
"You don't understand what you're doing."
"I understand perfectly."
He takes a step closer. I hold my ground.
"I built this life for us," he says. "I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me?"
"You gave me nothing. I built my own life. You just stood in the way."
His jaw tightens. "You think you can just walk away? You think it's that easy?"
"I think it's been too hard for too long."
"You're going to regret this, Lena."
There it is. The real voice. Cold and low and full of warning. The voice of the man who signed my death warrant.
I look him dead in the eyes.
"I already have one regret," I say quietly. "Waiting this long."
His hands curl into fists.
For a second, I think he might actually hit me. I can see it in his eyes. The rage. The violence he's kept buried under all that charm.
But he doesn't.
He just stands there, breathing hard, staring at me like I'm a stranger.
"You'll be hearing from my lawyer," I say.
Then I turn and walk toward the bedroom to pack.
"This isn't over," he calls after me.
I don't respond. I just keep walking.
Because he's right. It's not over.
It's just beginning.
Twenty minutes later, I have a bag packed. Clothes. Documents. The things I actually care about. I walk past Damon in the kitchen without looking at him. He doesn't try to stop me.
But I feel his eyes on my back the whole way out.
I'm loading my bag into my car when my phone rings.
Unknown number.
I answer. "Who is this?"
"Dr. Rhys?" A woman's voice. Professional. Unfamiliar. "This is Detective Sarah Chen with Metro Police. We need you to come to the station. There's been an incident."
My stomach drops. "What kind of incident?"
"It's regarding Petra Okafor. She was found unconscious in her apartment thirty minutes ago. Possible break-in. She's been asking for you."
The world tilts.
No. Not Petra.
"Is she okay?" My voice sounds strangled.
"She's stable. But Dr. Rhys, there's something else." The detective pauses. "When we found her, there was a message written on her wall. In her blood."
I can't breathe.
"What did it say?"
The detective's voice is careful. Measured. "It said: She's next."
The phone almost slips from my hand.
"I'm on my way," I manage.
I hang up. My hands are shaking. The coordinates from last night flash in my mind. Petra's apartment. They knew. They knew exactly where she was.
And they went after her to get to me.
I'm about to get in my car when I see it.
A white envelope tucked under my windshield wiper.
No address. No stamp. Just my name written in black ink.
I look around the parking lot. Empty. Nobody watching.
I grab the envelope and tear it open.
Inside is a single photograph.
It's Petra. Unconscious. Blood on her face. Taken hours ago.
And on the back, in the same handwriting: You should have listened. Rafe Callahan is not who you think he is. He will be the reason you die. Again.
My blood turns to ice.
Because underneath that message is something else.
Another photograph.
This one shows Rafe from my first life. In military gear. Standing in front of a government facility I recognize.
The same facility where they developed the virus.
The same facility that caused Z-Day.