The station smelled like rust and secrets.
Xander moved like a shadow through the dim halls of the abandoned rail control center, scanning every corner with the precision of a man who'd survived too many ambushes. His gun was holstered, but his fingers twitched. He didn't trust Elijah—not even with Aurora's word.
She had insisted on the meeting.
"He's the only link to Isla," she had said, her voice shaking but her jaw set. "If he's lying, I'll kill him myself."
And he believed her.
She wasn't the same woman he'd seduced in a bar months ago.
That Aurora had been all silk and smoke.
This one was sharpened steel and fire.
The radio clicked once in his earpiece. "He's here," came her voice.
Xander doubled back, moving silently to the west platform where Aurora waited—alone, standing under a cracked archway that once held a station clock. The evening light painted her skin golden, but her eyes were dark. Emotionless.
A figure approached from the woods.
Elijah.
He looked older than Xander remembered—hair longer, face gaunter, eyes haunted.
He raised his hands. "I'm not armed."
Aurora didn't blink.
"Say her name," she said.
Elijah stopped. "Aurora—"
"Say her name," she repeated, her voice flat. "My daughter. The one I was told was dead. The one you helped hide."
He swallowed.
"Isla," he whispered. "Her name is Isla."
Xander stepped out from the shadows, gun drawn. "Careful what you say next."
Elijah nodded slowly. "You have every reason to hate me."
"Good," Aurora said. "Because I do."
Silence stretched.
Then Elijah spoke again, softer. "But I didn't know. I swear to you. Silas told me you were dead. He said you never made it through the last surgery. That the child was… a test subject."
Aurora flinched. "She's not a test subject. She's a child. My child."
"I know," Elijah said. "I saw her. She's alive. And she's not like other kids."
Aurora's heart clenched. "What do you mean?"
"She heals too fast. Her eyes change in different light. And there's something else… she remembers things she shouldn't. Words. Places. Faces she's never seen."
Xander glanced at Aurora. "Enhanced memory?"
"Or something more," Elijah said.
He stepped forward slowly and handed her a worn USB drive.
"She left this for you. She called you 'the woman with fire hair.' She dreams about you."
Aurora's knees nearly buckled.
Xander steadied her.
She grabbed the drive like it was sacred, her fingers trembling.
But her eyes never left Elijah's face.
"Why now?" she asked. "Why betray Silas?"
Elijah's mouth twisted. "Because I found a file. A schedule. She's being moved."
Xander stiffened. "Where?"
"A new facility. Offshore. Guarded like hell. Once she's there… no one will ever see her again."
Aurora looked at Xander. "We move now."
Elijah held up a hand. "There's more. She's not alone."
"What?"
"They've collected others," Elijah said. "Other children. Born from women like you. Women they experimented on. They call them 'Generation Alpha'. Your daughter is one of the first."
Aurora's breath caught.
"How many?"
"I don't know. At least eleven."
Silence.
Then Aurora looked up—and for the first time since this nightmare began, Xander saw real terror in her eyes.
"They're building a future," she whispered. "Not just experiments. Weapons."
That night, Aurora sat in the control room, staring at the USB Elijah gave her.
Xander watched from the doorway, arms crossed.
"You sure you want to see what's on it?"
"I need to."
She plugged it in.
A folder opened.
Inside: one video.
She clicked it.
The screen flickered.
Then: a little girl, maybe four years old, with a mop of deep red curls and sea-glass eyes. She sat on the floor of a sterile white room, humming softly to herself.
A camera voice spoke: "Subject 01A—Isla. Reflex tests complete. Memory recall—96%. Physical anomalies detected in retina and dermis response. Genetic profile: inconclusive."
Aurora leaned forward.
The girl turned to face the camera.
"I want Mama," she said.
Aurora's hand flew to her mouth.
"I dreamed her again," the child whispered. "She smells like flowers. And fire."
The video ended.
Xander exhaled slowly.
"That's her," she whispered. "That's my baby."
Xander knelt beside her.
"We're going to get her back."
"No matter what it costs," Aurora said.
Elijah was given a cot in the far end of the building.
Aurora refused to speak to him again that night.
But Xander approached him.
"You're sure about the transport route?" he asked.
Elijah nodded. "Leaves in 48 hours. If we intercept at the right point—coastline near Calora Harbor—we might have a window."
"You'll lead us in."
"I will."
Xander hesitated.
"You're not lying to us, are you?"
Elijah looked up, eyes tired. "No. But I am still afraid."
"Of Silas?"
"Of what they turned Isla into."
The next morning, Aurora woke from a dream soaked in blood.
In it, she'd seen a facility on fire.
She'd been running through it, carrying a child who kept whispering numbers—strange equations—between screams.
When she opened her eyes, she realized something strange.
The dream hadn't felt like fiction.
It had felt like a memory.
She sat up, sweating.
Then she noticed something new on the floor near her cot.
A small drawing.
She picked it up.
Crayon on yellow paper.
A fox. A red-haired woman. A tall man with a gun. A little girl between them.
She blinked.
There was no doubt.
It was her.
It was Xander.
It was Isla.
She ran to the others.
"Elijah!" she called. "Where did this come from?"
He stared at the drawing.
"I don't know."
Xander frowned. "There's no child here."
"Someone got in," Aurora said.
Xander's voice darkened. "Or someone never left."
She turned to Elijah. "Did you bring her here?"
"No," he said, but he looked rattled. "She's still in the compound. This isn't possible."
But Aurora knew.
A mother always knows.
"She's reaching out," she said. "She knows we're coming."
That night, Aurora lay curled beside Xander under an open skylight.
They didn't speak for a long time.
Just watched the stars burn above them.
"You ever wonder what it would've been like," she murmured, "if I'd never gotten caught? If Silas hadn't betrayed me?"
"I think about it," he said. "But then I wouldn't have met you."
She looked at him.
"You still would've fallen for me?"
He smirked. "Probably faster."
She smiled faintly.
Then her eyes darkened.
"I'm scared," she said softly.
He brushed her hair back. "So am I."
"What if she doesn't know me?"
"She will."
"What if I fail her?"
"You won't."
"What if I die before I hold her again?"
He cupped her face. "Then I'll raise her for you. Teach her to fight. To survive. To love."
Aurora's throat closed.
She kissed him—slow and aching, like she needed his strength to breathe.
He pulled her close, lips tracing every freckle, every scar, every inch of skin that had carried her through pain and rage and love.
Their bodies moved together again, slower this time—more reverence than fire.
And for the first time in years, she didn't dream of blood.
She dreamed of Isla.
Smiling.
Running into her arms.
Calling her Mama.