Lucia did not scream.
She did not drop her phone or gasp or panic.
But something inside her tightened so sharply it almost hurt.
The image on the screen was unmistakable.
Her son's room.
The small night lamp near the wall. The pale curtains. The soft blanket rising and falling with each steady breath.
But the angle was wrong.
It was too high.
Too precise.
Too deliberate.
You're already too late.
Dominic noticed the change in her face before she spoke. That was enough for him. He stepped toward her, and she handed him the phone without a word.
He stared at the image for only a few seconds before his expression hardened.
"That's not our feed," he said quietly.
"I know."
He looked up slowly, scanning the ceiling.
Lucia was already moving.
She went back into the bedroom with a terrifying kind of calm. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just focused.
Dominic followed her, his body tense.
