Marcus rose.
The back door was rusted but not locked. A padlock hung to the side, broken not by force but by impatience.
He lifted the latch without a sound.
Before stepping inside, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A thin white thread of moving light.
From the grate.
He leaned down.
Inside the cellar, against the far wall, Lila crouched with her back to the vent. One hand was positioned with care, a sliver of reflection angled from a loose shard of glass in her palm. She was signaling.
Not desperately.
Not wildly.
Intentionally.
One short flash. A pause. Another.
Marcus’s chest tightened. She was not waiting to be rescued. She was creating the rescue.
A fierce pride swept through him, sharper than anything he had felt in months.
“I see you,” he whispered toward the grate, knowing she might or might not feel the vibration.
Inside, the firstguard barely had time to turn.
Marcus seized him by the collar, slammed him into the wall, and dropped him to the ground in a single, brutal motion.
The second man stumbled back, stunned by the silent attack. “You—what—”
Marcus’s fist cut the question short.
Silence returned.
Fenwick is not careless enough to leave Lila to others. If he isn’t here, he’s with her.
He stepped over the bodies and moved for the cellar stairs, not charging but measuring each tread. Lila had sent the signal because she knew he was close. She had stayed alive because she fought first with her mind.
Marcus reached the bottom of the stairs.
Stopped.
Looked into the dim room.
There she was.
Kneeling. Wrists bound. Spine straight. Head tipped slightly as she listened for him.
When she lifted her eyes and saw him—
She did not gasp.
She did not collapse.
She did not break.
