Brooke lifts her eyes to mine, and I see things we were never promised sitting there anyway. Peace, safety, a life that doesn't orbit violence. A future that doesn't end soaked in blood.
“She’s got your eyes,” Brooke whispers, drawing our daughter closer to her chest.
I reach out, brushing my fingers along the baby’s cheek.
I want to hold them both closer. I want the world to stay quiet.
And then it takes everything away.
I shoot upright in the back seat of the SUV, lungs locking as pain tears through my ribs. My chest flares so violently it feels like something has split back open. The air inside the car is cold, and my pulse slams hard enough that I taste iron at the back of my throat.
Travis twists around in the driver’s seat, eyes wide. “Jesus. You okay?”
My breath comes fast and uneven, refusing to settle. The dream clings to me, like it followed me out of sleep. Brooke’s smile stays embedded in my mind. Our baby’s face. Then the hollow silence when they disappear.
Beau doesn't turn from the front passenger seat. “You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“Brooke’s name,” Beau says. “And something about not taking her. Then you hit the window.”
I look down at my hand. A spiderweb crack splits the glass beside me, pale lines branching outward, quiet evidence of what I can't remember doing.
Travis exhales. “That’s… deeply unsettling, but also very on brand.”
I ignore him and lean my head back against the seat. I force my breathing to slow. My heart refuses to cooperate.
The dream replays vividly. Brooke is safe. Our daughter is there between us. A family exists in a place my mind retreats to when it allows itself to hope.
I close my eyes.
She felt real.
Now Brooke is somewhere locked inside a torture compound, alone and terrified, carrying the future I was just shown and had ripped away.
The dream is not comforting.
It is a warning of what I have to lose.
Travis turns down a narrow gravel road carved through dense, unmarked woods. There are no signs or lights. Branches scrape the sides of the SUV. Mist clings to the trees. My ribs ache with every jolt of the ride. I keep one hand pressed against my side, eyes fixed forward.
At the end of the winding path stands a structure that looks like it has been condemned. A crooked hunting shed. Gray paint flakes like sunburnt skin, tin roof rusted through in patches, and a warped metal door barely hanging from its hinges.
Beau gets out first. He doesn't say a word, just yanks the rusted door open with one sharp pull, hinges squealing, and motions for us to follow.
The moment we step into the pitch-black interior, he hits a switch embedded in the wall.
The floor clicks, then shifts.
With a low mechanical hum, the section of floor beneath us begins to descend. An industrial lift dropping into the earth, smooth and silent despite the weight. My boots stay planted, but my body tenses anyway. It feels like being lowered into a crypt.
The deeper we sink, the colder the air becomes.
A panel hisses open.
When the lift doors open, it feels like stepping into a luxury panic room.
The bunker stretches wide and deep, reinforced concrete wrapped in matte black soundproofing panels. A pristine kitchen sits to one side, slate countertops, brushed metal appliances. The living area has low leather furniture. A wide digital fireplace. Mounted screens with feeds Beau can access from anywhere.
