Gray light through the blinds. Thin. Watered. The kind of light that comes before the sun fully commits.
Eve wakes to an apartment that feels wrong.
Not loud wrong. Quiet wrong.
She's still on the couch. The cannabis hangover sits behind her eyes—faint headache, dry mouth, the fuzzy edges of too-deep sleep. But underneath it, something else presses in.
The hum is gone.
Not the building's hum—that's still there, the low vibration through the frame, the whisper of air through vents. But the city's hum. The mag-levs that run 24/7. The distant traffic. The background pulse of twenty million people going about their lives.
Just... gone.
She sits up. The couch creaks. The sound is too loud in the silence.
Kiva is already standing at the door.
Not waiting. Standing. Ears flat against her skull. Hackles raised in a ridge down his spine. A sound comes from her that Eve has never heard—a low, continuous whine that vibrates in her chest like a warning she can't stop.
"Kiva?"
The dog doesn't look back. Eyes fixed on the door. Fixed on something Eve can't see.
Eve's left arm tingles. Phantom pain flickers at the edges, distant, ignorable. She reaches for her datapad on the counter.
No signal. Not even static. The screen reads: NO NETWORK.
She tries her holophone. Nothing.
The window.
She crosses to it. The plants brush against her legs—the basil needs water, the leaves just starting to droop. The thought is absurd. She has it anyway.
Below, the city.
The checkpoint on Bishop is still there. Three vehicles, angled across the intersection. But the soldiers are gone. The vehicles sit empty, hatches open like mouths, doors hanging loose. No one stands guard. No one drinks coffee. No one smokes cigarettes at the bus stop.
Just empty armor. Waiting.
Her eyes track east.
The street is wrong. Not empty—there are shapes. Dark shapes on the pavement. Some still. Some moving in ways that aren't right. Crawling. Dragging. A figure lurches across an intersection and disappears behind a building. Another lies face-down near the bus stop, and even from here Eve can see the pool around it, dark and spreading.
Two blocks east, someone is running. A woman, maybe. She makes it half a block before something tackles her from behind. They go down together. The woman doesn't get up. The other shape does.
Eve's hand finds her mouth.
Further out, near the overpass, a pile. Bodies. Not neat. Just piled, like someone—something—dragged them there and left them. The morning light catches on something wet.
She backs away from the window.
Her left arm is screaming now. Phantom fire. She ignores it.
Kiva hasn't moved from the door. The whine has stopped. Now she's just... staring. Waiting.
The first sound comes from above.
A scream. Muffled by floors and walls, but unmistakable. Not a scream of surprise. A scream of pain. Of terror. Then wet tearing. Then silence.
Eve stares at the ceiling.
Another sound. From the hallway. Running—someone sprinting, bare feet slapping composite. A voice, hoarse, desperate: "Help me! Please, someone help—"
The voice cuts off.
A thud against the wall. A struggle. Something wet. A gurgling sound that goes on too long.
Then dragging. Something heavy being pulled across the floor.
Kiva's lips peel back. A growl starts low in her chest.
The dragging stops.
Eve holds her breath. Listens.
Footsteps. Not running now. Slow. Shuffling. Coming closer.
They stop again. Right outside her door.
Through the wood, a wet, snuffling sound. Like something smelling. Like something listening.
Kiva's growl deepens.
The door shudders. Once. Twice.
Eve's eyes lock on the deadbolt. On the chain. On the thin slab of wood between her and whatever is out there.
A third thud. Harder. The frame groans.
Then nothing.
The snuffling stops. The footsteps shuffle away, down the hall, toward the stairwell.
Eve doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
Minutes pass. Or seconds. She can't tell.
Kiva relaxes first. Just slightly. The hackles go down. The growl fades to a soft whine.
She exhales, a short breath.
She moves on instinct. Crosses to the door. Checks the deadbolt. Checks the chain. Both engaged. Stupid to check. She just checked. She checks again.
The peephole.
She stares at it for a long moment. Then leans in.
The hallway is wrong.
The lights are still on—the building's systems are still working—but there's blood on the walls. A smear, waist-high, trailing down toward the elevators. More on the floor. A pool outside 87, the apartment that always smells like cumin. The door is open. Just a crack. Dark inside.
No bodies. Just blood.
Eve backs away.
The apartment feels smaller now. The walls thinner. Every sound is amplified—the drip of the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, Kiva's breathing. Above her, more sounds. Running. A crash. Another scream, cut short.
She needs a weapon.
The kitchen knives are on the magnetic strip by the stove. She grabs the biggest one—a chef's knife, vaguely ridiculous, but it's sharp and it's metal and it's something.
Her hands are shaking.
Kiva watches her, head tilted now. Worried.
"It's okay," Eve whispers. The same words. Still not sure who she's saying them to.
She checks her Spark Cell again. Green. Full. Her arm hums quietly, the sensors picking up every vibration—Kiva's footsteps, her own heartbeat, something heavy dropping two floors down.
Her datapad. She tries it again. Nothing.
The holotv is on, muted, cycling through channels. Static. Static. Emergency broadcast screen with no audio. Static. A news feed showing a helicopter shot of the city—fires burning, streets empty, something moving in a parking lot—then static again.
She turns it off.
The window calls her back.
She doesn't want to look. She looks.
The street below is worse now. More shapes on the pavement. More movement—slow, shambling, wrong. A group of them near the checkpoint, clustered around something Eve can't see. The soldiers' vehicles are still there, empty, but one of the hatches is closed now. Was it closed before? She doesn't remember.
A gunshot. Close. From the building next door.
Then another.
Then screaming. Then nothing.
Kiva whines.
Eve moves away from the window. Sits on the couch. The knife is in her hand. She doesn't remember picking it up.
The apartment breathes around her. The plants need water. Kiva's bowl is half-full. The entrance guide is still on the counter, APPLY BY OCT 15 staring at nothing.
She thinks about Lia. About last night. About the bread. About the way Lia's face looked when she said worried is when they start knocking on doors.
They're not knocking.
From the hallway, a new sound. Not footsteps. Something else. A wet, rhythmic smacking. Like something eating.
It's coming from outside 87.
It goes on for a long time.
Eve sits on the couch, Kiva pressed against her legs, knife in her shaking hand, and listens.
The city is silent outside.
The building is not.
More gunshots, later. She's lost track of time.
From two floors up. Then return fire—sharper, louder, military—then a crash, then screaming, then nothing.
From the floor below, someone begging. Please, please, please. Then a door breaking. Then wet sounds. Then quiet.
From the hallway, more dragging. More shuffling. More of that wet snuffling outside doors.
Sometimes it stops at hers.
She's learned to hold her breath. To press her hand over Kiva's muzzle—gentle but firm—to keep her quiet. To wait.
It always moves on.
The afternoon light changes. She watches it through the blinds, not daring to open them further.
She's moved to the floor, back against the wall, Kiva curled beside her. The knife is on the floor within reach. She's checked her datapad seventeen times. Nothing.
She's checked her Spark Cell twice. Green. Full.
She's thought about her arm. About the Helix logo. About what Devon said. About the soldiers at the checkpoint. About the way Reyes looked at her.
She's thought about her blood. B-Plus. She's be safe.
She's thought about what that means now.
Kiva's head lifts. Ears swivel toward the door.
Eve hears it too. Footsteps. But different. Multiple people. Moving with purpose.
Then a voice. Human. Shouting.
"ANYONE IN THERE? SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT!"
Eve is on her feet before she decides to move. Kiva beside her, tense but not growling.
The voice again, closer. "WE'RE CLEARING THE BUILDING! IF YOU'RE IN THERE, STAY PUT! DO NOT OPEN YOUR DOOR UNTIL WE—"
Gunfire. Close. Right outside.
Then screaming. Not the officers—something else. A roar, animal and human at once. More gunfire. A thud against the wall. "WE NEED BACKUP, MEGA-" the words cut short. Someone yelling "TASER TASER—" and then nothing.
"Sir, down on the-"
Then wet sounds.
Screams follow one after the other.
Then dragging.
Then quiet.
Eve presses herself against the wall. Kiva is silent. Frozen.
The snuffling starts again. Right outside. Closer than before.
Something hits the door. Hard.
The frame groans.
Kiva's hackles go up. His lips peel back. A growl starts—Eve clamps her hand over the dog's muzzle, feels the vibration of it in her palm.
Another thud. The deadbolt holds.
Another. The chain rattles.
Another.
Then nothing.
The snuffling moves away. Toward the stairs.
Eve waits. Counts her heartbeats. Loses track.
Kiva licks her hand. Soft. Reassuring.
She looks at the door. At the blood seeping under it—a thin red line creeping across the composite.
She looks at her left arm. At the Helix logo. At the Spark Cell still glowing green.
And she thinks: The ones who can't be replaced are the ones who survive.
She has no idea if that's still true.
Hours mix with screams and gunshots. The sun sets on the city below.
She watches it through the blinds. Orange and red, beautiful, indifferent.
The sounds continue. Screaming. Gunfire. Wet tearing. Dragging.
The snuffling comes back to her door twice more. Each time, she holds her breath. Each time, it moves on.
Kiva doesn't leave her side.
At some point, she fills the water bowl. She doesn't remember doing it. But it's full, and Kiva drinks, and that feels like a small victory.
The knife is still on the floor. She picks it up. Puts it down. Picks it up again.
Her datapad glows. A notification.
She stares at it. Doesn't breathe.
NETWORK RESTORED - 1 NEW MESSAGE
She opens it.
LIA: Don't open the door. Don't trust anyone. I'm in 38B. Still safe. Coming for you when I can. Stay alive.
Eve reads it three times.
Then she types back:
Here. 4289. Alive. Kiva alive. What's happening?
The response takes minutes. Feels like hours.
LIA: O-positive blood. Turns them. Don't know why. Don't know how. Just know they're not people anymore. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. I'm coming.
Eve stares at the words.
O-positive. The screenings. The people they took from 27. The soldiers at the checkpoint. The soldiers gone.
She thinks about her arm. About the synthblood. About what Dr. Wolffman said.
B-plus wasn't ideal. But the tests came back close enough.
Close enough for what?
From the hallway, a new sound. Not snuffling. Something else. A voice—human, desperate, right outside her door.
"Please. Please, someone help me. I'm bleeding. I'm—" A sob. "Please."
Eve moves toward the door before she can stop herself. Kiva blocks her. Growls. Actually growls.
"Kiva—"
The dog doesn't move. Stares at the door. Hackles up.
"Please," the voice says. "I have kids. I have—" A pause. Then, softer: "I can hear you in there. Please."
Eve's hand touches the deadbolt.
Kiva's growl deepens.
Through the door, a sound. Wet. Wrong.
The voice again—but different now. Lower. Thicker.
"Let me in."
Eve backs away.
The door shudders. Once. Twice. Three times.
The voice is still talking, but it's not words anymore. Just sounds. Hungry sounds.
Then footsteps. Running away. Then nothing.
Eve slides down the wall, lands hard, stares at the door.
Kiva licks her face.
She doesn't move for a long time.
The night is worse.
She can't see outside. Can only hear. Screams from other floors. Gunfire from somewhere distant. The wet sounds that never stop.
Her door holds.
Kiva stays close.
She reads Lia's message again. Again. Again.
Stay alive.
She doesn't know if she can.
But she's still here. Still breathing. Still holding the knife.
And somewhere in the building, Lia is coming.
She just has to survive until then.
The night stretches like a wound that won't close.
Eve has lost track of hours. The apartment is dark—she turned off the lights hours ago, didn't want to be seen, didn't want to announce herself. Just the glow of her datapad and the faint green of her Spark Cell.
Kiva sleeps in fits, twitching, whimpering. Then awake again, ears swiveling, listening to sounds Eve can't hear.
She's dozed. She knows she has. Because suddenly the holotv is on.
She didn't turn it on.
The screen flickers. Static. Then an image resolves—a podium, microphones, flags. A man in uniform stands behind it, face grim, reading from a screen Eve can't see.
The audio cuts in. Mid-sentence.
"—cities under federal jurisdiction as of 2200 hours. This includes Bishop, Spruce Springs, Eugene, Salem, Murkwell, Cook, Gresham, Hillsboro. All citizens are advised to remain in their residences. Do not approach individuals exhibiting symptoms. Do not attempt to leave designated safe zones without authorization."
Eve sits up. Kiva stirs, watches the screen.
The general looks up from his notes. Older. Gray hair. Eyes that have seen too much. The nameplate reads: GENERAL ARTHUR L PIERCE - BISHOP COMBINED ARMS CORPS.
"I am General Pierce, commander of military operations for the Bishop region. I want to be clear with you tonight." His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it. Tired. Maybe defeated. "What we are facing is unprecedented. The outbreaks you have witnessed are not riots. They are not civil unrest. They are the result of a pathogen. Airborne. Highly contagious. We do not yet have a vaccine."
He pauses. Looks directly into the camera.
"All major population centers are now under martial law. Effective immediately, all citizens—private and public sector alike—will be offered transport to Fort Greylock, where temporary housing and medical screening are available. This is voluntary. But I urge you to consider it. The city is not safe."
Voluntary. Eve thinks of the people from 27. The ones taken in the night. The screenings.
"Transportation will begin at dawn. Listen for announcements. Follow instructions from military personnel. Do not—"
The screen flickers. The general's image freezes.
Then it's replaced.
A man in a black suit. Mid-forties. Neat hair. Calm face. Behind him, Eve can see General Pierce—still at the podium, but off to the side now. His expression shifts. Something flickers across it. Displeasure. Disgust. He doesn't step forward.
The new man adjusts the microphone. Smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Thank you, General. Citizens of the State of Oregon, my name is Daniel Ashford. I'm a liaison from NERDS, here to coordinate federal response efforts."
NERDS. National Emergency Response Department & Services. Eve's seen their logos everywhere. Their spokespeople on the news. Their drones in the sky.
"I want to assure you that help is coming. The outbreaks are being contained. But we must all do our part." His voice is smooth. Too smooth. "Some individuals have chosen to resist evacuation orders. To ignore curfews. To spread panic and misinformation. Let me be very clear."
He leans forward slightly.
"All persons who obstruct justice will be deemed insurgents by the U.S. Government. Do not resist. We are here to help."
Behind him, General Pierce's jaw tightens. He looks away from the camera. Looks at the floor. Looks like a man who just swallowed something poison.
Daniel Ashford smiles again.
"Thank you for your cooperation. God bless."
The screen goes dark.
Static.
Then nothing.
Eve stares at the blank holotv. Her heart pounds against her ribs. The general was telling them something. The suit was telling them something else. And the general's face—
Deemed insurgents.
We are here to help.
Kiva whines.
Eve looks around the apartment. At the plants. At the books. At the entrance guide still on the counter, APPLY BY OCT 15. At the blood under the door.
She moves.
 The backpack is in her closet. Old. From high school. She pulls it out, dumps the contents on the floor—old notebooks, a sweatshirt she never wears, a water bottle from a field trip she barely remembers.
Her hands are shaking. She makes them stop.
Kitchen first.
The loaf of golden bread from Lia's. Still half there, wrapped in cloth. She puts it in the backpack.
Canned food from the back of the cabinet. Three cans of soup. Two of beans. One of those sad vegetable mixes she bought on sale and never opened. In.
Dog food. Eight cans. She stacks them carefully, wraps them in a kitchen towel so they don't clank. Kiva watches, head tilted, worried.
Water. She has bottles under the sink for emergencies—the city water sometimes goes down for maintenance. Four 16-ounce bottles. In. Then two more from the fridge. Six total. Not enough. It'll have to be enough.
Her Spark Cell charger. Small. Essential. She checks her arm again—green, full, but she grabs it anyway.
The bathroom.
Med kit. Bandages. Antiseptic. Painkillers. The pre-rolls from last night—she stares at them for a second, then puts them in. If she makes it out of this, she'll need something.
And in the back of the bathroom cabinet, behind the towels she never uses, a small insulated case.
Medical grade. Temperature regulated.
She pulls it out. Opens it.
Two 16-ounce pouches. Synthblood. For the arm. For when the Spark Cell isn't enough, when the interface needs fluid, when the phantom pain becomes something real.
The pouches are cool to the touch. The case keeps them at exactly the right temperature. She has no idea how long they'll last without power. No idea if they'll still work when she needs them.
She puts them in the backpack anyway.
The backpack is heavy now. She tests the straps. It'll do.
Kiva is standing at the door again. Not growling. Just watching. Waiting.
Eve crosses to her. Kneels. Presses her forehead against the dog's.
"We're getting out of here," she whispers. "I don't know how. But we are."
Kiva licks her chin.
The datapad glows.
LIA: Still coming. Slow. Third floor is bad. Don't open for anyone but me.
Eve types back:
Understood. Packed. Ready to move.
The response takes longer this time.
LIA: Good girl. Wait for my knock. Three fast, two slow. You remember?
Eve remembers. From months ago, when Lia first gave her the code, laughing about how you never know when you might need one. Eve thought she was being paranoid.
EVE: Three fast, two slow. Remember.
LIA: Stay alive.
Eve sets the datapad down. Picks up the knife. Looks at the door.
From the hallway, a new sound. Shuffling. Snuffling. Getting closer.
She holds her breath.
It stops outside her door.
She waits.
It moves on.
She exhales.
The night isn't over.
But she's packed. She's ready. She has bread and water and synthblood and a dog who loves her.
And somewhere in the building, Lia is coming.
She just has to survive until then.
The first knock isn't right.
Not three fast, two slow. Just pounding. Desperate. The kind of pounding that means someone's out of time.
"EVE! EVE OPEN IT'S ME IT'S LIA—"
The voice cuts off. A scream behind her—not hers, something else, something wrong—and then Lia's voice again, closer to the door: "OPEN THE DOOR OPEN IT NOW—"
Eve's body moves before her brain catches up. Deadbolt. Chain. The door swings open and Lia crashes through, half-falling, and Eve slams it behind her, throws the deadbolt, throws the chain, stumbles back.
Something hits the door from the other side.
Hard.
The frame groans. Kiva's barking now—sharp, frantic, backing away with her hackles up. Another hit. Another. The wood shudders.
Then a sound Eve has never heard before. Not a scream. Not a growl. Something in between. Wet. Hungry. Wrong.
Then footsteps. Running away. More screams from down the hall. Then nothing.
Just breathing. Her own. Lia's. Kiva's whining.
Lia is against the door, back pressed to it, chest heaving. Her gray hair is wild, escaped from its tie, stuck to her face with sweat and something darker. Blood. Not hers—maybe. Her jacket sleeve is torn, and underneath it, a dark bruise already rising.
She's not wearing coveralls. Work pants, sturdy boots, a thick canvas jacket that's seen better years. A bag over one shoulder—not military, just a bag, the kind you grab when you don't have time to pack.
"Help me," she gasps. "Help me move something—"
Eve doesn't ask. They grab the small table by the door together, tip it, wedge it under the handle. Then the bookshelf—light, cheap composite, but it's something. They drag it in front of the table, and Lia adds her weight, pushing until it's solid.
Kiva has stopped barking. She's pressed against the far wall now, watching the door, making a sound low in his chest.
Lia slides down the wall. Sits on the floor. Breathes.
Eve stands there, knife still in her hand, staring at the door.
"What—" she starts. Stops. Starts again. "What the hell is happening?"
Lia looks up at her. Her face is pale under the sweat. There's a cut on her cheek—fresh, still bleeding. Her eyes are wide, the kind of wide that comes from seeing too much too fast.
"They're in the building," she says. "They're everywhere. Third floor is—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Marisol. From 31. She was at my door five minutes ago. She was fine. She was scared but she was fine. And then she just—" Lia's hand goes to her mouth. "Her eyes went white and she just—she attacked me. I had to—"
She doesn't finish.
Eve looks at the blood on Lia's sleeve. At the torn fabric. At the bruise underneath.
"Did she—"
"No. No, I got away. I ran." Lia's voice breaks. "I left her there. She was still moving. Still—" She makes a sound, half sob, half something else. "She wasn't dead, Eve. She was still moving but she wasn't Marisol anymore."
The words hang in the air.
From the hallway, a thud. Then dragging. Then quiet.
Neither of them moves.
Kiva creeps closer to Eve, presses against her leg. Eve's hand finds her head automatically.
Lia pushes herself up. Her legs shake, but she stands. She moves to the window, peers through the blinds, then steps back quickly.
"The street," she says. "It's full of them. Just—standing. Walking. Attacking anyone who moves." She turns to Eve. "The military checkpoint on Bishop is gone. Just empty vehicles. I saw people trying to get to them. They didn't make it."
Eve thinks about the soldier with the dog. About Reyes, who looked at her like she was someone worth watching. About the hand-painted lion on the side of the vehicle.
"They're not coming," she says. It's not a question.
Lia shakes her head. "No. They're not."
Silence.
Then Lia moves. She shrugs the bag off her shoulder, drops it on the floor. It lands heavy—not the clink of weapons, but something else. Tools. Supplies.
"What's that?" Eve asks.
Lia kneels, unzips it. "I grabbed what I could. From work. From my apartment." She starts pulling things out.
A canvas tool roll, unrolled to reveal the contents—screwdrivers, wire strippers, a multimeter, a small soldering iron. Not for weapons. For fixing. For maintaining. For keeping things running.
"A repair kit," Lia says. "Helix-issue. For the drones. Figured it might be useful."
Next: three ration packs. The kind that come in plain white packaging, with Helix logos and expiration dates two years from now. "From the break room. Grabbed them on my way out."
Two water pouches. The flexible kind, with drinking spouts. "My apartment. I had a case under the sink."
A first aid kit. Small, red, standard issue. "Bathroom cabinet."
And then—Eve's breath catches.
Three small crystals.
Not French Blue. Not Hope Diamond. Smaller. Brighter. Each about the size of her thumb, nestled in foam padding inside a hard plastic case.
"From work," Lia says quietly. "For the handheld diagnostic tools. They're not military grade—just industrial. But they'll power pretty much anything we can plug into them. Lights. Chargers. The soldering iron." She looks up at Eve. "I figured if we're going to survive this, we need to be able to fix things. Make things. Keep things running."
Eve stares at the crystals. At their soft internal glow. At the promise they represent.
"How long—"
"Depends on the draw. The small ones, like these? A few weeks if we're careful. Maybe more if we only use them when we have to." Lia closes the case. "They're not the answer. But they're something."
From the hallway, another thud. Closer this time.
Kiva's growl starts again.
Lia stands. Looks at the barricade. At the door. At Eve.
"We need to figure out our next move," she says. "But not right now. Right now we need to be quiet, and we need to wait, and we need to hope that door holds."
Eve nods. Doesn't trust her voice.
Lia moves to the couch, sinks onto it. She looks suddenly old. Suddenly tired. The adrenaline is fading, leaving something raw underneath.
Eve sits on the floor next to Kiva. The dog's head rests in her lap. Her left arm tingles—phantom pain, distant, manageable.
The apartment is quiet. The city is quiet. The only sounds are their breathing, and Kiva's soft whines, and the occasional thud from the hallway.
Hours pass. Or minutes. Time has stopped meaning anything.
Lia dozes on the couch, her hand still resting on the case with the crystals. Kiva sleeps in fits, her legs twitching. Eve can't sleep. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Marisol. Sees her eyes going white. Sees Lia running.
The sounds from the hallway have changed. Less movement now. More of that wet snuffling. Like they're just... waiting. Patrolling. Hunting.
Eve's mind won't stop racing.
They can't stay here forever. The food won't last. The water won't last. And eventually, something stronger than that door is going to find them.
But going out there? Into the hallway? Into the stairwell? Into the lobby she saw from her window, with bodies piled and things moving?
Her chest tightens. She can't breathe.
Kiva lifts her head, worried.
Eve's hands are shaking. She looks at them—her real hand, her prosthetic—both trembling. The knife is on the floor. She doesn't remember putting it down.
"We're going to die here," she whispers.
Kiva whines.
Lia's eyes open. She's been awake longer than Eve realized.
"No," Lia says quietly. "We're not."
Eve shakes her head. "How? How do we get out of this? The hallway is full of them. The stairwell is worse. The lobby—" Her voice cracks. "I saw it, Lia. From the window. Bodies everywhere. Things moving. How do we get past that?"
Lia sits up. Rubs her face. "I don't know yet. But we're not dying in this apartment."
"You don't know that."
"No. I don't." Lia's voice is steady. "But I know we have supplies. I know we have each other. I know we have a dog who can hear them before we can." She pauses. "And I know you're smarter than you give yourself credit for."
Eve stares at her.
"So think," Lia says. "You know this building. You've lived here for years. Is there another way out? Service elevator? Freight access? Something the rest of us don't know about?"
Eve's mind churns. The service elevator is on the other side of the building, past the worst of it. The freight access is on the first floor, near the loading dock—but that's through the lobby.
The lobby.
Devon.
"Devon," Eve says.
Lia frowns. "The maintenance guy?"
"He knows the building better than anyone. All the systems. The security overrides. The back ways." Eve's heart is pounding now, but different. Not fear. Something else. "If he's still alive, if he's in his apartment or the management office—he could help us. He could override the security system. Unlock doors. Shut down elevators. Whatever we need."
Lia considers this. "You know where he lives?"
"39th floor. 3912. I've been there once. He had a leak in the apartment below his and needed to check something." Eve's mind is racing now. "If we can get to him, if he's still there—"
"That's a big if."
"I know."
Another thud from the hallway. Closer still.
Lia looks at the door. At the barricade. At Eve.
"Okay," she says. "Say we make it to 39. Say he's alive. Say he can do what you think he can. Then what? Where do we go?"
Eve thinks about the group chat. About Deaxon's farm. About Satellite 12, hours away, isolated, safe.
"Out of the city," she says. "I have friends. A place. But we have to get out of the building first."
Lia is quiet for a long moment. Then she nods.
"Alright. Then that's the plan. Get to Devon. Get answers. Get out." She looks at the barricade. "But first, we need to survive until the hallway clears."
Eve's hands are still shaking. But her mind is clear now. A plan that may be a death wish, but it's better than dying in the apartment.
The night stretches on.
They take turns sleeping. Listening. Waiting.
The sounds from the hallway ebb and flow. Sometimes nothing for hours. Then shuffling. Snuffling. Dragging. Sometimes screams from other floors—short, cut off, then silence.
Kiva stays close. His ears never stop moving.
Eve checks her pack again. The bread. The cans. The water. The synthblood, still cool in its insulated case.
Her Spark Cell is still green. Still full.
She thinks about her arm. About what Lia said about Marisol's eyes going white. About blood types. About O-positive.
She thinks about the synthblood in her pack. O-positive. Universal donor. Manufactured by Helix.
She doesn't let herself think about what that means.
Not yet.
Lia is asleep. Kiva is watching the door. Eve is watching Kiva.
From the hallway, a new sound. Faint. Regular.
Footsteps. Not shuffling. Walking. Deliberate.
Then a voice. Low. Human.
"...anyone in there? If you can hear me, stay quiet. Don't open the door. I'm making my way floor by floor. There are survivors. We're organizing. If you're there, tap once on the wall. Just so I know."
Eve's heart stops.
She looks at Lia. Lia's eyes are open. She heard it too.
A tap on the wall. Just once. From somewhere down the hall.
Then the voice again: "Good. Stay alive. I'll be back."
Footsteps. Moving away.
Then silence.
Eve stares at the door.
Someone is out there. Someone alive. Someone organizing.
She taps Lia's arm. Points at the wall.
Lia nods slowly.
They don't speak. Don't move.
But for the first time all night, Eve feels something other than fear.
Hope.