The ride was quiet.
Not tense. Not awkward. Just… quiet.
Dev sat in the back seat of the black SUV, his face turned to the window, watching the buildings give way to frost-covered fields, and then trees. Miles and miles of trees.
Alex drove like someone who didn't fear being followed — but knew how to lose someone if it came to that.
He didn't ask where they were going. She didn't offer.
Between them, resting flat on the center console, was a thick envelope, sealed and marked in all-caps black ink:
IN CASE OF DEATH — D.V. ONLY
Dev stared at it once. Then looked away.
The further they drove, the more muted the world became. Roads narrowed. Street signs vanished. Radio signal cut out. The only sound was the engine and the occasional crunch of ice beneath the tires.
He noted everything.
Gear shift scratched. Rearview mirror cracked. Dried bloodstain on the seatbelt latch. Glovebox locked. No backseats behind him. Cargo space had been cleared and carpeted. Military-gray duffel bag under the seat.
This wasn't a car built for errands.
Alex didn't speak until they were deep into the woods, where the sky was thin and the trees closed in like iron bars.
"You get motion sickness?" she asked.
"No."
She nodded once. That was the entire conversation.
Another thirty minutes passed.
He counted them by heartbeats.
The trees broke just long enough to reveal it: a square cabin sunk into the landscape like it didn't want to be found.
No fence. No mailbox. No signs.
Just sloped steel siding under weather-worn wood and a chimney that hadn't puffed smoke in weeks.
Alex killed the engine. Popped the driver-side door.
Dev opened his own.
The cold outside was sharp enough to bite. Snow crunched beneath his boots — too even. He crouched, looked closer. The snow near the treeline had been disturbed. Someone had walked perimeter recently.
No one else noticed. He did.
Alex opened the front hatch. She pulled out a canvas bag and a rifle case, slinging both over one shoulder like they weighed nothing.
When Dev stepped toward the front porch, she held out a hand.
"Stop."
He froze.
She took two steps ahead, then bent down beside the bottom stair. Lifted a flat rock. Disabled something — metal glint, low click — then rose again.
"Pressure trip," she said. "Only one at the entrance. The others are deeper. You'll learn the safe path later."
Dev said nothing.
She unlocked the door. Not with keys — with a keypad hidden in the doorframe. Fingers moved fast. Six-digit code.
Inside, the house exhaled warm, stale air. Old wood and coffee and something metallic beneath it.
Dev crossed the threshold.
No paintings. No family photos. No shelves filled with mugs or souvenirs.
Instead —
Wall-mounted monitors.
A black tactical backpack by the door.
Boots lined in silent rows.
A whiteboard with no notes. Just a permanent marker that hadn't moved in a while.
Alex dropped the bag by the couch.
"This isn't a home," she said, not turning around. "It's a place where we don't die."
She walked past him toward the kitchen.
"Make yourself useful."
The kitchen was barebones steel and pine — a knife rack, a cast iron pan, two mugs, and a single burner stove humming low with heat.
Alex cracked two eggs into a pan, added salt. That was it.
No ketchup. No toast. No questions.
Dev stood near the door, unmoving. Watching.
"You allergic to anything?" she asked.
"No."
"Good."
She slid one of the eggs onto a chipped gray plate and set it on the table. Then the second for herself.
No prayer. No "let's eat."
Just motion.
Dev sat, fork in hand.
The food was warm. Bland. Real.
He ate it without hesitation.
She sat opposite. Elbows on the table. Her fingers were scarred across the knuckles — one ring mark permanently imprinted in skin.
She didn't wear it anymore.
When the plates were empty, she spoke again.
"Three rules."
Dev looked up.
"First — don't go into my room. Not ever. I won't ask twice."
He nodded.
"Second — the radio stays off unless I say otherwise. If it's on, don't touch it. If it's silent, don't ask why."
Another nod.
"Third — no lies. Not verbal. Not visual. Not through silence. You try to manipulate me, I'll know."
Still no words from him.
Alex leaned back in her chair, studying him.
"You understand these rules?"
"Yes."
"You think you can follow them?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She stood, collected the plates, dropped them into the sink.
Dev didn't speak. Didn't thank her. He wasn't raised to thank people for feeding him. And she hadn't fed him to be thanked.
As she scrubbed the pan, she spoke without looking at him.
"This isn't a family. This isn't a story. This is a safehouse. You're not here to belong."
He stood slowly. "I never do."
She dried her hands on a towel. Didn't turn.
"That's why you're still here."
The room was small, square, and silent.
No posters. No curtains. No dust.
A twin bed with military corners. A desk with nothing on it. One chair, steel-framed. No dresser. No mirror. One shelf. Empty.
Alex didn't bother giving a tour.
"Bathroom's down the hall. I'll wake you at seven," she said from the doorway. "If I don't, you wake yourself. You eat what I cook. You wear what fits. You speak when spoken to — unless you have something better to say."
Dev gave a nod that meant yes and maybe don't talk to me again tonight.
She left. The door didn't close fully behind her. It didn't need to.
Dev dropped his backpack onto the floor without a sound. He knelt beside it. Unzipped it. Looked inside.
Clothes. Not many.
A notebook with nothing written in it.
Headphones. Wired.
At the bottom, in a fabric pouch tied in black cord, two rings:
One silver, engraved faintly in Cyrillic.
One platinum, heavier, cleaner, worn smooth.
He placed them on the desk side by side, the chain curled beneath them like a question mark.
Then he sat.
No books to read. No noise to distract.
Just the cabin groaning against the cold.
And somewhere in the hall — Alex.
She moved lightly, but he tracked her anyway. She paused near the kitchen, opened a drawer, closed it softly. Then silence.
The kind of silence trained people made. The kind he understood.
He didn't take off his jacket.
Didn't brush his teeth.
Didn't set an alarm.
He just sat. And stared.
He wouldn't sleep yet.
She wouldn't either.
It was just past midnight when Dev's boots touched the wooden floor.
He didn't tiptoe. Didn't sneak. He moved like fog — slow, deliberate, weightless.
The cabin didn't creak much. It was built for silence.
He passed the dark kitchen, traced a hallway with his fingertips. Paused in front of the room she said was off-limits.
Didn't open it.
Just memorized the scratches near the handle. The faint burn mark at the lower hinge. That door had been kicked, hard, by someone who didn't open it.
He moved on.
Found a storage closet. No lock. Inside: ammo boxes, unopened rations, emergency batteries, coiled radio wire, a crossbow.
Down the hall, near the back: a cabinet with a latch.
Not locked. Just uninviting.
He opened it slowly.
Guns. Not many — but enough. Cleaned. Cataloged. One had a name scratched into the barrel: "MIRA."
He didn't touch them.
On the wall above the cabinet: three folded documents taped neatly — old passports, shredded birth certificates, a printed obit for someone named "Samuel R. Kolt."
He closed the cabinet, quietly.
Turned.
Stopped.
There — in the far corner of the hallway ceiling, near the smoke detector — a tiny red dot blinked. Faint. Steady.
A camera.
She was watching.
Had been the whole time.
Dev stared at the light for a long, still moment.
Then gave the lens a nod.
Not approval.
Not submission.
Just acknowledgment.
He returned to his room without a word.
Closed the door.
Didn't lock it.
Laid back on the bed.
The rings were still there. Unmoved. Cold.
And somewhere in the walls —
She watched.