“Keep moving,” Adrian says.
No one argues.
The basement door opens with a soft click that sounds too loud in the stillness.
Adrian goes first, checks the stairwell, then motions us down.
The stairs feel endless.
I have been in this basement a thousand times. Storage. wine room, utility area. The room I told Adrian he could use for whatever security setup he wanted when he first insisted on more coverage at my house.
I have not been down here much since that first week.
I knew he brought in a desk.
I knew he added monitors.
I knew he moved some equipment in because I signed the invoice and complained about the cost just to annoy him.
I did not know this.
At the far end of the basement, past the wine storage and utility closet, Adrian opens a door I do not recognize.
The old wooden door that separated a small storage room from the rest of the basement is now a steel door.
My steps slow despite everything.
There’s a keypad and a manual lock and everything. Even the trim has been changed to metal framing sunk into the wall.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
I get no answer, of course.
He keys in a code, scans the hall once more, then shoves the door open.
“Inside.”
We file in.
And I stop again.
For one wild second, even through the fear, I am amazed.
The room is not the plain basement office I expected. It is not just a desk, monitors, and a few pieces of equipment.
It is a command room.
A small one, yes, but still.
There is a desk near the far wall, a wall of monitors above it, camera feeds covering every inch of my property. The front gate, driveway, garage, rear lawn, garden wall, kitchen access, side entrance, perimeter trees, interior hall outside the basement. There are even emergency supplies stacked neatly against one wall. There are new panels on the walls, too, reinforced.
This is not an office.
This is a damn bunker.
He built a panic room in my basement.
Of course he did.
