The air inside the house was cooler than Serena expected, touched with a faint trace of wood smoke and something older—dust, perhaps, or time. The hallway stretched narrow before opening into a cozy living room. The furniture was plain, the walls decorated with old photographs and faded wallpaper. There was nothing about the place that screamed "bunker"—nothing secretive or hidden. Just an ordinary country home.
But Serena's attention snapped back when a figure stepped into view from the back room.
A woman, lean and sharp-eyed, held a flashlight in one hand and a blade in the other. Her hair was tied back in a severe ponytail, and her gaze narrowed immediately upon seeing them. Just behind her, a man followed—tall, wiry, and dressed in all black. He moved with fluidity, a gun already in his hand, held at the ready.
Serena froze, her heart lurching, but Darrell raised his hand calmly.
"It's me," he said, voice steady. "Darrell."
