The jet landed in a city whose name I didn't catch — somewhere coastal, judging from the faint salt in the air when the cabin door opened.
4:12 a.m.
The dead zone of morning when even night owls have quit and early risers haven't surrendered to consciousness yet.
The streets were mostly empty as we drove: shuttered storefronts, dark apartments, the occasional delivery truck carving through the stillness.
Nothing about the route felt special.
The car finally pulled into a neighborhood full of mansions — clean lines, manicured hedges, expensive silence.
Luke unlocked the door of one that looked perfectly ordinary from the outside.
Inside?
Not ordinary.
Not lived in.
Not anything but expensive.
The living room opened into a space that whispered money, not shouted it — soft gray walls, matte black fixtures, a curved modular sofa facing a projection wall that dissolved into the architecture.
Everything was arranged with museum precision.
Nothing personal.
Not a photo. Not a stray mug. Not a misplaced book.
A soft hum ran beneath the floorboards — climate control, reinforced insulation, and something else I couldn't name.
Something designed to protect without announcing its presence.
The kitchen was stainless steel and dark stone, every surface immaculate.
The kind of place you could cook a five-star meal…
…if anyone here actually cooked.
Kieran's hand brushed a Protocore induction counter; it lit up in a perfect gradient.
"Restocks every two days," Luke said proudly.
Kieran corrected, "It restocks as needed."
Luke grinned at me like that clarified anything.
They led me down a long hallway lined with discreet panel lighting and thick, unnervingly silent carpeting. At the far end, glass doors revealed a full home gym — too polished, too curated, too empty to belong to someone who used it regularly.
Another room no one lived in.
Finally, Kieran stopped at a door halfway down the west wing.
"This is your room."
He opened it.
Warm lighting drifted up in automatic response as I stepped inside.
The bed was oversized, wrapped in dark charcoal sheets that looked softer than anything I owned.
A built-in wardrobe slid open soundlessly, revealing precise, unused space.
The desk was already outfitted with universal ports and a private network hub — untouched, waiting.
A plush rug cushioned the floor, absorbing the last of my adrenaline.
The ensuite bathroom was all black stone and glass, smooth enough to look like it had been installed yesterday.
Expensive.
Perfect.
Utterly devoid of personality.
Luke leaned on the doorframe, casual as always.
"If you need anything, we're two doors down. But not a medical emergency — that's Kieran."
"Please don't," Kieran sighed.
"Meeting's at eleven p.m. tomorrow," he added. "Be ready fifteen minutes early."
"I will."
They wished me goodnight and vanished into their rooms.
I closed the door behind me.
Exhaled.
Dropped my backpack onto the impossibly soft rug.
Changed into pajamas that felt embarrassingly cheap against the immaculate sheets.
And I was asleep almost the moment my head hit the pillow — swallowed whole by curated, impersonal comfort.
Sleep didn't stay quiet for long.
It started innocently enough: a hallway I didn't recognize, humming lights, the soft warmth of Elara's apartment.
Then the scene twisted — quietly, without warning — and every doorway became the scorched metal frame from the photo Viktor forced me to open.
The girl was there.
Not moving.
Not screaming.
Just waiting.
Her limbs were wrong.
Bent wrong.
Cut wrong.
Arranged with the kind of precision only someone enjoying themselves would use.
Her hair fell over her face the way mine does when I'm not paying attention.
Her breathing — shallow, wet — synced with mine.
I tried to step back.
My feet wouldn't move.
She lifted her head.
And where her eyes should have been—
—there was nothing but static.
White, buzzing, consuming static.
Electricity crackled up the walls.
The lights flickered, heating into a violent hum.
And then the static spoke, but it wasn't her voice.
It was his.
"Little spark… I can make you match her."
The bedframe behind her snapped like metal under a welding torch.
The world surged white.
I ripped out of the dream like breaking the surface of cold water.
Air punched into my lungs too fast.
My stomach clenched once, viciously.
I was on my feet before I even understood that I'd moved, stumbling into the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before—
—vomit hit porcelain, sharp and acidic.
Again.
I braced a hand on the counter, breath shaking out of me in uneven shudders I couldn't hide from myself anymore.
This was always the part I hated.
Not the dream.
Not the horror.
The delay.
Hours of ice-cold composure when the trauma should have hit me.
And then, when I'm finally safe, when the danger is gone and the world is quiet—
—my body remembers.
Too late.
Too strong.
It's always been like this.
Not control.
Not discipline.
Just a broken timing mechanism in my brain.
My ribs ached as I heaved again, nothing left to throw up but bile.
It burned at the back of my throat, metallic and vicious.
I rinsed my mouth, splashed water on my face.
My reflection stared back:
pale, eyes red-rimmed, braid falling loose at the temple.
Not a soldier.
Not a hunter.
Just a person who had seen something she wasn't built to process in real time.
I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles whitened.
The girl's image lingered like afterburn on my eyelids.
Her empty eyes.
Her limbs.
The deliberate cruelty of it.
My stomach twisted again, quieter this time.
I let myself breathe.
Slow.
Measured.
Because Sylus, the twins, the mission — all of that demanded that other version of me. The calm and collected one.
But right now?
For a minute?
I was allowed to be human.
I bent down and leaned my forehead against the cool marble of the sink, trembling fading into a dull, exhausted ache.
And finally…
finally…
when my pulse stopped tripping over itself—
I stood up straight.
Wiped my face dry.
And walked back into the immaculate, impersonal bedroom that didn't care whether I lived or died.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains.
Real sunlight.
Warm, indifferent, far too bright for the kind of dream I'd just had.
I glanced at the clock.
9:57am.
Six hours of unconsciousness, couldn't call it rest.
I couldn't go back to sleep.
My pulse was too high, my skin too tight, my thoughts too full of the girl in the photo.
So I changed into workout clothes.
Tank top.
Compression leggings.
Nothing restrictive.
Nothing that would catch on bruised ribs.
The hall was silent when I stepped into it — the curated hush of an expensive space that had never known real life. The lights warmed automatically as I approached the gym.
The workout wasn't intense.
It couldn't be.
My ribs protested the moment I lifted my arms too high.
Push-ups were out.
Sit-ups might as well have been torture.
So I stuck to what my body would allow:
Slow squats.
Modified planks — twenty seconds at a time.
Shallow lunges.
Gentle footwork — shadowboxing without torque.
Light, careful, controlled.
It wasn't about training.
It was about reclaiming my body from the nightmare.
About proving I could still move.
A little before eleven, the ache sharpened — the good kind, the boundary-pushing kind. But my ribs burned with the first signs of overuse.
I stopped immediately.
The water cooler in the gym tasted metallic and cold, soothing the dryness in my throat. I stood there for a moment, towel draped over my shoulders, watching my reflection sway slightly in the mirror.
Hair frizzing out of the braid.
Eyes darker than they should be.
Chest rising unevenly.
But standing.
Breathing.
Still here.
A hollow, demanding ache opened in my stomach now that the adrenaline had drained.
I needed food.
The hallway lights guided me as I padded barefoot across the soft carpeting toward the kitchen. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows made the space feel less like a showroom and more like a quiet retreat.
The kitchen greeted me with soft ambient lighting and the faint hum of high-end appliances. Matte black counters, a stone island, and a fridge that probably cost more than my entire apartment back home.
I opened it.
Fully stocked.
Fruit. Protein packs. Yogurt. Fresh bread. Prepped vegetables and grains.
A drawer full of labeled meal kits with neat minimalist writing.
I grabbed yogurt, berries, and a protein drink and set them on the counter.
For a moment, I just stood there, leaning against the island, head bowed, breathing in the quiet.
Then I dug in.
The spoon scraped softly against the yogurt cup as I forced down another bite. My ribs ached, my eyes burned, and my stomach wasn't entirely convinced it wanted food — but hunger won out over nausea.
I was halfway through the yogurt when footsteps approached — two sets, familiar in their imbalance: one light and impatient, the other measured and annoyingly perfect.
Luke rounded the corner first, shirt already damp at the collar like he'd sprinted here.
Kieran followed at a normal human pace.
Both halted when they saw me.
"Whoa," Luke blurted. "You look terrible."
Kieran smacked the back of his head. "Luke."
"What? She does!" He gestured wildly at me. "No offense, Diana, but you look like someone drop-kicked you back into consciousness."
I snorted — an involuntary, tired laugh that loosened something tight in my chest.
"Thanks," I said. "I slept… less than restfully."
Kieran's eyes sharpened in that quiet, perceptive way of his, though he didn't pry. "Nightmares?"
"A lot."
Luke opened his mouth — presumably to ask what kind — but Kieran side-eyed him with such lethal precision that Luke's curiosity evaporated on the spot.
"We were headed to the gym," Kieran said instead. "You joining?"
I shook my head. "Already went."
Kieran's gaze drifted down, taking in my posture, the stiffness in my movements, the towel draped over the counter.
"You shouldn't push too hard," he said gently.
"Yeah," Luke added. "You can't impress Boss by breaking yourself."
Kieran froze.
Luke froze.
I blinked.
Luke made panicked, unsynchronized hand gestures. "Not that you're trying to impress him! Obviously! I mean—you're not, right? Unless you are! No judgment—"
Kieran slapped a hand over his mouth. "Enough."
Luke nodded frantically behind the palm.
I sighed — tired, amused, and vaguely concerned for both of them. "First of all, yes I am trying to impress the boss, I need to survive and he can do that for me, but only as long as I'm useful. Second, this wasn't about that, I was just trying to tire myself out."
"Well," Luke said once Kieran finally released him, "you also tired your face out, because seriously—"
Kieran shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
Luke changed trajectory mid-sentence: "—you look great! For someone who got zero sleep and is definitely haunted."
A laugh escaped me — weak, but real.
"Thanks," I said. "I think."
Kieran softened. "If you need anything before tonight's meeting… let us know."
"Or if you want to nap in the gym," Luke added. "Or cry on the gym floor. Or eat on the gym floor. The gym floor is very versatile."
I stared at him.
Kieran dragged him away by the elbow. "Ignore him."
"I'M TRYING TO BE SUPPORTIVE!" Luke yelled as they disappeared down the hall.
"You are not!" Kieran's voice echoed faintly back.
Their bickering faded.
The room felt lighter.
I looked down at the yogurt cup in my hand… and realized I wasn't forcing every bite anymore.
Somehow, between Luke's catastrophic honesty and Kieran's resigned competence, the pressure had eased.
I finished the food without fighting myself.
The twins weren't subtle.
They weren't quiet.
They definitely weren't normal.
But they'd helped.
More than either of them probably realized.