The floor was cold against my back.
I hadn't noticed when I slid off the couch—only that the ache in my neck demanded release. When it cracked, sharp and loud, the pain eased just enough for me to breathe again. The hologram adjusted above me automatically, obedient to my motions.
Eighteen seconds.
That was all it was. Eighteen seconds of footage, watched again and again until it felt more like contamination than memory. Every frame burned into me with brutal clarity. Not that I needed the replay—I remembered it all as if it had happened yesterday.
The figure in black, already moving toward escape. Deliberate and efficient. He paused once—only once—and then he lunged straight at me.
That moment stuck with me more than the attack itself. Even now, I could recall his scent—sharp, unfamiliar—burned into my senses.
Uncle Jerry arrived a heartbeat later.
The footage told the rest of the story. The hesitation, judgement and retreat. The intruder fleeing with alarming urgency. A coward—or smart enough to know when he was outmatched. Probably the latter. I'd never known anyone stronger than Uncle Jerry. He must have sensed it too.
If I hadn't been there, he might have been caught.
Not that it would've mattered. The marshals said there had been five of them in the house that night.
"Sir," Zack said calmly, "I don't recommend continuing to watch this video. Prolonged exposure doesn't appear healthy."
"Shut up," I growled.
Silence followed, patient and unoffended. The PAA belonged to my mother.
No—belonged to me now.
He had recorded the footage but protested every time I replayed it. And even now, part of me knew he was right. I wasn't sure why I was still watching.
"You're right," I muttered. "Sorry. Just… turn it off."
"No problem, sir."
The room dissolved into darkness.
A sudden noise made me twist around, heart jumping—then I exhaled.
Ula.
She'd fallen asleep on the couch, mouth open, snoring with impressive dedication. I stared at her. How could a three year old make so much noise?
I'd forgotten she'd followed me in and watched the video with me. She should have been in bed.
I lifted her gently and carried her out of the living room. Her face was slack with sleep, drool shining on her chin. I wiped it away with my thumb and felt something twist in my chest.
She had no idea. No idea that our world had been torn apart.
Would she even remember Mom? Or the day she was taken from us—ripped away by people who didn't deserve to be called human?
Probably not.
I tucked her into bed and sat on the edge for a moment, brushing her hair back. She looked just like her. They even had the same scent. Mom often asked me to try to describe it. I'd always tell her it was a stupid question—like asking someone what a color looked like.
She wouldn't ask me that anymore.
I stepped into the hallway and stood in the dark. The sickness in my gut wasn't anger. That was gone in the first week since her murder. Revenge led nowhere. The marshals had no leads. Rage burned itself out fast. It wasn't grief either, I was all too familiar with that already.
This was something else.
I looked down at my hands, and understanding struck.
Fear.
It settled into me with uncomfortable familiarity. The same thing I'd sensed in the man that night, right before he ran.
I was afraid.
Afraid of how easily my mother had been killed. Afraid of how fragile everything I cared about truly was. Afraid that one day, someone else I loved would be taken just as easily—without warning, without consequence.
I exhaled slowly.
This couldn't happen again. I shouldn't have to feel like this again. If the world was going to take, then I'd rather be the one people feared losing to.
I glanced back into the room. Ula was still sleeping so peacefully, save the infernal noise she made with her mouth.
If I were as strong as Uncle Jerry—no, stronger—then nothing would ever be taken from me again. They would hesitate. Think twice. Run.
Just like that man had.
People like Uncle Jerry weren't born strong. They were made. I didn't know how yet. But I knew what would happen if I stayed weak.
I clenched my fists.
I wouldn't die the way my mother did. I would be better. Smarter.
I would be stronger.