Justin's hoodie was warm.
That was the first thing Tally registered once her heart stopped trying to break through her ribs. The second was the simple, grounding fact that it was Justin—solid, breathing, annoyingly real—standing in front of her instead of whatever her imagination had decided was lurking upstairs.
Her body reacted before her brain caught up. She stepped into him hard, arms wrapping around his middle like she needed the physical proof of him there. Not a shadow. Not a noise. Not another thing her mind could spiral into something worse.
She didn't let go right away.
Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, curls brushing the soft fabric of his hoodie. She breathed him in slowly, deliberately, counting each inhale like her therapist had once suggested after a panic attack she would never admit had been a panic attack.
In.
Out.
Again.
The scent grounded her. Laundry detergent. Something faintly familiar beneath it—home, maybe. Justin had always smelled like that. Clean. Safe. Predictable.
Her fingers were still clenched in the front of his sweatshirt, knuckles tight, when she realized her heart had slowed enough that it no longer hurt.
Justin didn't move.
Didn't joke. Didn't pry her off. He just stood there and let her recalibrate.
"You good?" he asked quietly.
She nodded against him, then pulled back abruptly, annoyed at the heat gathering behind her eyes. Crying was not an option. Crying was embarrassing. Crying was something people used against you later.
She scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand. "You owe me."
Justin lifted an eyebrow. "I do?"
"For the emotional damage I just sustained," she said flatly. "And the therapy I'm gonna need after almost stabbing my own brother with a flashlight."
He huffed a laugh under his breath. "In my defense, sneaking around wasn't the plan."
"Sure," she muttered. "That's what everyone says right before the horror movie starts."
Outside, dogs barked again.
Not one dog. Not two. All of them.
The sound layered over itself, sharp and frantic, echoing through the cul-de-sac like an alarm no one had programmed but everyone was suddenly responding to. It poured through the windows in waves, relentless, impossible to tune out.
Justin's gaze drifted toward the front of the house. His posture stayed alert—shoulders tight, weight subtly shifting like he was listening for something specific beyond the noise.
"They've been doing that all day?" he asked.
"Since I got home," Tally said. "Every dog on the block. It's like they're competing."
He didn't respond right away.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
"So," she said, flipping her tone like a switch, forcing brightness into it the way she did when things got uncomfortable, "you gonna explain why you're home before Christmas, or am I supposed to guess?"
Justin grimaced. "We're really doing this now?"
"Yes," she said immediately. "Because I almost died, and that earns honesty."
He exhaled through his nose and gestured toward the kitchen. "Sit before you pace a trench into the floor."
She followed him, irritation buzzing just beneath her skin, but relief riding under it. The house felt different with him in it. Less hollow. Less exposed.
The generator hummed steadily somewhere outside, threading through the walls like a mechanical heartbeat. The sound was constant. Reassuring in theory. Unsettling in practice. A reminder that whatever was holding things together wasn't meant to be permanent.
Justin opened the fridge and frowned. "Why do we have almond milk?"
"Because Mom says dairy is trying to kill us."
"She drinks half-and-half."
"That's different," Tally said. "That's emotional support dairy."
He snorted despite himself.
They moved around each other easily, falling into old rhythms without thinking. Tally pulled snacks from cabinets like she'd done a thousand times before. Justin leaned against the counter, arms crossed, like he hadn't been gone for months.
It surprised her how normal it felt.
Like he'd only been away for a weekend. Not an entire semester. Not long enough for things to change in ways she couldn't name yet.
"I missed this," he said quietly, almost to himself.
She paused, then shoved a bag of chips into his hands. "You could've called more."
His expression shifted—guilt flickering across his face before he smoothed it away. "Yeah. That one's on me."
She studied him longer this time. Really looked. He looked thinner. Tired in a way sleep didn't fix. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes and didn't leave.
"You okay, though?" she asked. "Like… actually?"
He hesitated.
Not dramatically. Not obviously.
Just a fraction too long.
"Just tired," he said. "School's been a lot."
She filed that away.
Didn't push.
Not yet.
A sound drifted from down the hallway—fabric brushing against a wall, followed by a cough that stopped too abruptly.
Tally stiffened.
Her body went tight before her brain could talk her out of it.
Justin sighed. "Okay. Before you spiral—"
A woman stepped into the kitchen doorway.
She was wrapped in a thick coat even though the house was warm, hands tucked into the sleeves like she was trying to make herself smaller. Blonde hair pulled back, face pale but composed, green eyes sharp and cautious as they tracked Tally's reaction.
"Hi," she said gently. "I promise I wasn't trying to scare you."
Tally blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"You're… new."
Justin rubbed the back of his neck. "This is Marisol. Mari. She came back with me."
"Back," Tally repeated slowly. "As in staying?"
"Just until things settle," Mari said quickly. "Everything shut down across town."
Tally opened her mouth, already lining up questions like weapons—Who are you? Why didn't I know about you? Why is my brother making decisions without telling me?—then stopped.
She exhaled slowly.
"Okay," she said. "Fine. Welcome to the circus."
Mari's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Thank you."
"House rules," Tally continued, ticking them off on her fingers. "Don't eat Ella Belle's snacks. Don't touch Mom's mugs. And if Dad asks questions, answer confidently."
Justin laughed. "She's not joking."
"I absolutely am not."
The house creaked softly as it settled—an ordinary sound. Familiar. Still, Tally's eyes flicked toward the ceiling before she could stop herself.
"So," Mari said, trying for casual, "does the power usually come back this fast?"
"Dad installed a backup generator," Justin said. "Calls it preparedness."
"Calls it paranoia," Tally corrected.
"Same thing," Justin said.
They drifted into the living room, collapsing onto the couch and floor the way they used to during storms and hurricane warnings. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bright and ordinary, like the world outside hadn't started slipping sideways.
Justin leaned back, hands folded behind his head. "Okay. Catch me up."
So she did.
School stress. Graduation panic. College applications. Dad hovering. Mom working doubles. Ella Belle losing her front tooth and lying about how it happened.
"She's gonna run the world," Justin said, smiling.
"She already runs this house."
A siren wailed outside—distant but sharp.
"Traffic accident," Tally said automatically. "No lights."
"Savannah drivers," Justin replied.
They accepted that explanation because it was easier than questioning it.
Mari talked about her cousin's apartment across town—how the elevator stopped between floors, how people started yelling instead of helping.
"People don't like not being in control," she said.
"No," Justin agreed. "They really don't."
Another siren joined the first.
Then another.
Tally noticed—but brushed it aside. "They're all responding to the same thing."
Justin didn't argue.
A heavy thud echoed somewhere far away.
Mari shifted. "That didn't sound like a wreck."
"Construction," Tally said quickly. "They've been tearing up roads everywhere."
Justin stood. "I'll check the generator."
"You just want to feel useful."
"Always."
Outside, daylight felt sharper than it should have. The street was eerily still—no passing cars, no kids, curtains drawn on houses that were usually loud by now.
Justin crouched by the generator. "Still running clean."
Tally scanned the treeline. Smoke curled faintly in the distance—thin enough to ignore if you weren't already uneasy.
She was uneasy.
"Let's go back inside," she said. "It's cold."
They cooked together like nothing was wrong.
Normal motions. Familiar routines. Justin chopping vegetables. Tally stirring. Mari setting the table carefully, like she didn't want to disturb the house.
Then the dogs stopped barking.
All at once.
Tally froze.
The silence pressed in—thick, heavy, unnatural.
"They finally tired themselves out," she said.
It didn't sound convincing.
Justin didn't respond.
They ate while sirens layered closer together, overlapping until it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began.
"Dad's gonna call," Tally said. "Mom too. They'll explain everything."
Justin nodded. "Yeah."
His jaw stayed tight.
Outside, someone screamed.
Not an animal.
Human.
It cut off abruptly.
Mari froze, fork hovering.
"That was—"
"Someone panicking," Tally said quickly. "Probably hurt."
Justin didn't contradict her.
They sat there, clinging to normal like it was something solid.
The generator hummed.
The lights stayed on.
While they still could.
The silence after the scream stretched too long.
Not the kind of silence that felt calm or resolved—but the kind that pressed in on itself, thick and deliberate, like the world was holding its breath and waiting to see who would move first.
Tally chewed without tasting, jaw working mechanically as she stared at a dark knot in the wood grain of the table. She didn't look up. If she looked up, she'd have to acknowledge the way Mari's fork hovered frozen in midair, the way Justin hadn't moved since the sound cut off.
She swallowed hard.
"They need to control this better," she said finally, breaking the quiet. Her voice sounded too loud. Too sharp. "That's how people get hurt—when no one explains anything."
Mari set her fork down carefully. The soft clink against the plate sounded obscene in the stillness. "That didn't sound like confusion."
Tally snapped her head up. "People panic."
"People panic loudly," Mari said. "They don't just… stop."
Justin pushed his chair back and stood. The scrape of wood against tile made all three of them flinch.
"I'm checking the front," he said.
"No," Tally said instantly.
He paused.
She hated that pause. Hated that he was already weighing her reaction instead of dismissing it.
"Why?" he asked.
Because if you look, you can't unsee it.
She swallowed. "Because there's nothing you can do."
"That doesn't mean I shouldn't look."
"It does," she snapped. "This isn't a movie."
Justin studied her for a moment, then nodded once. "One minute."
Tally didn't relax.
She paced instead, steps tracing the same tight loop from kitchen to living room and back again. She checked her phone for the fifth time even though she already knew what it would say.
No service.
"No service is ridiculous," she muttered. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."
Mari hugged her coat tighter around herself. "I couldn't get signal anywhere before the power came back."
"Temporary outage," Tally said. "Cell towers go down."
Justin drifted toward the front window and pulled the curtain back just enough to look out, keeping his body angled so neither of them could see what he saw.
"What?" Tally demanded. "What do you see?"
He hesitated.
That hesitation made her stomach drop.
"There's a car," he said finally. "Stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac."
"That happens," Tally said quickly. "People freak out."
"It's still running."
"So?"
"So no one's inside."
Mari inhaled sharply.
Tally scoffed. "Maybe they went to a neighbor's house."
Justin let the curtain fall. "Maybe."
A dull thud echoed from somewhere nearby—heavy enough to be felt more than heard.
Mari flinched. "That wasn't a wreck."
"Construction," Tally said immediately. "They're tearing up roads everywhere."
Justin didn't respond.
He went upstairs without another word.
Tally stood at the base of the stairs, staring after him, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. Mari hovered behind her, silent.
They waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Every sound the house made felt amplified—the creak of wood, the faint hum of the generator, the distant wail of sirens that never seemed to move farther away.
Justin's footsteps returned.
"No one's here," he said. "Everything's fine."
Relief hit Tally so fast it left her dizzy. "Obviously," she snapped, angry at herself for needing confirmation.
They drifted back into the kitchen, tension still clinging to them like static.
The clock blinked 12:00 over and over.
"That's annoying," Tally muttered.
Justin unplugged it.
They cleaned up dinner in stiff, efficient movements. Plates clinked. Water ran. No one spoke more than necessary.
When the last dish was put away, Tally checked her phone again.
Nothing.
"Dad should've called by now," she said.
"He's on base," Justin replied. "Service might be restricted."
"And Mom?"
"She's probably busy."
Tally's stomach tightened. "She always texts."
Justin didn't answer.
Outside, the cul-de-sac sat unnaturally still. No doors opening. No people shouting to each other. No kids cutting across lawns.
Mari stood near the window. "Why is no one outside?"
"They're inside," Tally said. "Like normal people."
Even as she said it, she noticed the empty porch across the street. Mrs. Harland's chair sat vacant.
The generator sputtered once.
Tally's heart jumped violently before the hum evened out again.
Mari whispered, "That's not supposed to happen, right?"
"It's fine," Justin said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Then—
BANG.
The sound slammed into the front door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Mari screamed.
Justin moved instantly, stepping in front of both of them.
Tally's breath caught painfully in her throat. "That was—"
BANG. BANG.
Harder.
The door shook in its frame.
Mari clutched Tally's arm, nails digging into her skin. "Justin—"
"Stay back," he said sharply.
The banging came again—uneven, frantic, violent. Like fists. Like a body hitting wood with no rhythm, no restraint.
Tally's pulse roared in her ears. "Someone needs help."
Justin didn't move.
BANG.
The doorframe creaked.
Mari sobbed quietly. "Please don't open it."
"They could be hurt," Tally whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
The banging stopped.
Silence rushed in so suddenly it made her dizzy.
They stood frozen, staring at the door.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Nothing.
Justin waited longer than that—counting in his head, jaw clenched—before finally stepping forward.
"Stay here," he said.
He reached for the deadbolt, paused, then unlocked it carefully.
The door opened.
No one was there.
Tally leaned forward, heart slamming against her ribs.
The porch was empty.
But the door—
Dark red smeared across the wood near the handle. Thick. Uneven. Still wet.
Blood.
It streaked downward in sloppy lines, pooling on the concrete at the threshold.
Mari gagged.
Tally's vision tunneled. "Oh my God."
Justin shut the door immediately and locked it again, hands steady despite the color draining from his face.
"No," he said firmly. "That's it."
He turned to face them, voice low and certain. "We do not open the door again. Ever."
Tally stared at him, shaking. "Someone was bleeding."
"And we're not equipped to help them," he said. "And whoever did that—if it was an accident or not—we're not opening that door."
Mari nodded, tears streaming silently.
Tally slid down onto the couch, hands trembling violently now. "This doesn't make sense."
Justin checked his phone again.
Nothing.
"No service," he said. "Still."
The generator hummed.
The lights stayed on—but dimmer now, flickering faintly like they were tired.
They sat there in stunned silence, the image of the blood burned into Tally's mind.
Outside, sirens wailed closer.
Inside, no one moved.
Justin's words settled heavy in her chest.
We do not open the door again.
The generator hummed.
The lights stayed on.
While they still could.