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The day passes in a haze. I help Sophia with Luke, grateful for the distraction of a child’s uncomplicated needs. We build LEGO structures and read stories, activities that require just enough attention to keep the nightmare at bay. But every time a shadow passes the window or a door opens unexpectedly, I flinch, my body reacting as if the dream has followed me into waking life.

“You keep doing that,” Sophia observes quietly while Luke naps. “Jumping at shadows.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, embarrassed by my obvious paranoia. “I’m not usually this jumpy.”

“I was the same way after Blake rescued Luke and me from Malfor,” she says, her gaze understanding rather than judgmental. “Every sound was a threat. Every strange face was an enemy. It took months before I stopped checking the locks three times every night.”

“How did you get past it?” I ask, genuinely curious.

She smiles, a small, private expression. “I didn’t, not completely. I just learned to channel it. Blake calls it my ‘spidey sense’ now—that hyperawareness that notices things others miss. ”

Her words strike a chord. Perhaps the nightmare wasn’t just anxiety manifesting. Maybe it was my subconscious piecing together subtle warning signs my conscious mind had dismissed.

“What if it’s not paranoia?” I ask slowly. “What if we really are in danger?”

Sophia’s expression turns serious. “Then we stay alert. We protect each other. It’s what we’ve always done.”

The conviction in her voice steadies me. These women have survived Malfor before. They’ve faced threats and emerged stronger. Whatever comes—real or imagined—we’ll face it together.

But as the day wears on, small incidents keep triggering flashes from my dream. The emergency lights flicker briefly during a power test, casting the apartment in that same bloody glow. Max growls at a delivery person; his hackles raised exactly as they were before he attacked in the nightmare. Rebel cleans a knife, the blade catching the light just so.

Each time, my heart rate spikes, palms sweating, breath shortening. My body remembers the dream’s terror even when my mind tries to dismiss it.

“You’re hyperventilating,” Malia observes as she finds me gripping the kitchen counter, trying to steady myself after the latest flashback. She places a calm hand on my back. “Breathe with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

I follow her lead, gradually regaining control of my breathing.

“This is more than thesis stress,” she says once I’ve calmed. “What’s going on?”

“I keep seeing it,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “The dream. But I’m awake. It’s like… déjà vu , but for things that haven’t happened yet. That can’t happen.”

Instead of dismissing my fears, Malia considers them seriously. “The mind processes information in ways we don’t always consciously recognize. Perhaps your subconscious is connecting dots your conscious mind hasn’t yet.”

“You think it could be real?” I ask, surprised by her willingness to entertain the possibility.

“I think your instincts are worth listening to,” she replies carefully. “And I think we should take additional precautions, just in case.”

With Malia’s support, I voice my concerns to the entire group that evening. To my surprise, no one laughs or dismisses me as paranoid. They listen intently as I describe the dream in detail, including the sensory elements—the smell of gas, the taste of fear, the specific words Mike spoke.

“Some of those details are tactically significant,” Jenna notes, her expression thoughtful. “The darts, the gas, the approach through windows… those are actual infiltration techniques.”

“And the timing makes sense,” Rebel adds. “With most of our operators deployed, security is at its thinnest right now.”

“So what do we do?” Malia asks, looking around the circle of women. “If there’s even a chance Ally’s right, we need a plan.”

Jenna takes charge naturally. “We increase our awareness. Max stays alert at all times. We keep weapons accessible but hidden. We establish a safe room for Luke and Zephyr. And we contact Stitch to update her on our concerns.”

“I’ve got knives,” Rebel says, her voice steady as she pulls a slim case from her bag. She flips it open to reveal a collection of throwing knives nestled in velvet. “Ethan insists I keep them close after what happened last time.”

Sophia shifts uncomfortably. “Weapons and children don’t mix well.”

“We’ll place them strategically,” Jenna assures her, moving to a tall bookshelf. “High enough that Luke can’t reach, but accessible to us in seconds.” She pulls a chair over and stands on it, positioning Rebel’s knife case on the top shelf, partially concealed behind a row of books but with the edge visible to those who know where to look.

Malia’s nervous laugh breaks the tension. “Walt would freak out if he knew we were doing this.”

“Better to have them and not need them,” Rebel counters, producing a small pistol from her ankle holster. She moves to the kitchen and secures it with magnetic strips under the counter, just out of sight but within easy reach.

Sophia’s eyes widen. “With Luke here? ”

“It has biometric locks,” Jenna explains, demonstrating how the grip reads her fingerprint before it will fire. “And I’ll keep it up here.” She places the weapon inside a hollowed-out book on a high shelf in the living room. “No chance the kids can access it, but we’ll know it’s there.”

“That’s the problem though,” Rebel points out. “If it only recognizes your fingerprint, none of us can use it if you’re not here or… incapacitated.”

A heavy silence falls as we all process the implication.

“We need Stitch,” Mia says quietly. “She can reconfigure the biometrics to recognize all of us.”

“Good call.” Jenna’s already thumbing her phone. “I’ll ask if she can bring extra weapons too. Ones we can hide in plain sight.”

The apartment shifts around us, slowly but deliberately. Rebel slides a curtain rod off its brackets. Malia replaces heavy candlesticks just a little closer to reach. Jenna swaps the decorative letter opener from her desk drawer to the end table. Everything looks the same—cozy, curated—but now it bristles with intention.

Mia holds up a rolled magazine. “Strike the neck, side of the throat. Pressure points.” She points to the kitchen. “Hairspray. Lighter. Instant blowtorch.”

She quietly shows us how ordinary household items can become defensive tools—hairspray near lighters, a rolled magazine that can strike pressure points, even how a kitchen towel can temporarily blind an attacker.

“Where’d you learn this?” I ask, watching her tie a dish towel with calm efficiency.

“Rigel.” Mia’s smile is sad. “He’s paranoid about my safety. It’s why we train.” She points to Rebel and Sophia. “We should all learn basic self-defense.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a reminder of what binds us together.

Jenna kneels beside Max, her German Shepherd. “He’s trained for threat commands. If I say ‘sentinel,’ he goes into full protection mode.” He sits at attention, intelligent eyes scanning the room.

“That your safe word?” Malia deadpans.

“More like our danger word,” Jenna replies, scratching behind Max’s ears. “Let’s hope we never need to use it.”

A knock on the door freezes us in place. Max is up in an instant, ears high, no growl—but alert.

Jenna checks the peephole and exhales. “It’s Stitch.”

She opens the door, and there she is—black jeans, combat boots, silver chains flashing as she steps in, tablet in hand like an extension of her body.

“I got your message.” Stitch’s gaze sweeps the room, catching every weapon and fallback point. “Heard you were prepping.” She scans the room. When she sees me, she approaches. “Hi, I’m Stitch.”

“Ally,” I respond. “Do you think we’re overreacting?” I ask.

“It’s never a bad thing to be prepared. We’re not aware of any imminent threats. Not that Mitzy doesn’t have us tracking every inconsistency in our security reports, system glitches, or communication delays. I think we’re all waiting for something. ”

“Something?” I catch something in her tone.

“Only that Malfor has been suspiciously quiet. It’s got everyone on edge. So, don’t feel bad about wanting to be prepared.”

She turns toward the hallway. “Which is why I’m showing you this now. Should’ve done it weeks ago.”

“Showing us what?” Malia asks.

“Your fallback plan.” Stitch eyes Jenna. “Did you know each unit has a panic room?”

Jenna straightens. “I… no. Carter never mentioned it.”

“Few people know. Forest insisted on installing them during construction, but we keep their existence need-to-know.” Stitch moves to what looks like an ordinary closet near the bathroom. “This isn’t just storage.”

She walks to what looks like a regular linen closet. Presses her palm to the wall. A hidden keypad slides out. A hiss of pressurized air, and the back wall splits open.

We all lean in.

“Holy shit,” Malia whispers.

It’s compact but solid. Two bunks. A privacy screen over a tiny toilet. Emergency rations, water, med kits, and a comm panel glowing faintly green. There’s even a weapons locker hidden beneath the lower bunk.

“Designed to protect the apartment’s main residents,” Stitch explains. “Reinforced walls. Air filtration. Direct uplink to Command, even if Guardian systems are compromised.”

Jenna runs a hand along the steel frame. “I can’t believe Carter never told me.”

“Guardian policy,” Stitch says, not unkindly. “The fewer people who know about these rooms, the less likely their locations will be compromised. But given current circumstances, you all need to know now.”

“What about the children?” Sophia asks, eyes drifting toward Luke asleep in the next room.

“Each apartment has a panic room—they’re identical in design. You’ll need to stock them for your specific needs.” She points to a small chest built into one wall. “This is where you should keep essential supplies for the kids—toys to keep them calm, extra formula, diapers, a change of clothes.”

“So if something happens…” Sophia frowns.

“You get in here, you seal the door, and you call for help,” Stitch finishes. “But more importantly, we’re going to practice doing exactly that. Right now.”

“Now?” Sophia protests. “Luke is sleeping.”

“And if an attack happens while he’s sleeping?” Stitch challenges. “Better he learns now, when it’s safe, than during an actual emergency.”

Her logic is irrefutable.

“I’ll get Luke,” Sophia concedes with a sigh. “Malia, can you call Violet and ask her to bring Zephyr? They should both know the procedure.”

Stitch’s approval is evident in her nod. “We’ll start the drill once they arrive. Twenty seconds from alarm to lockdown—that’s our goal.”

We gather near the panic room, but the math doesn’t work. I look at the space, then at all of us—Jenna, Sophia, Violet, Malia, Mia, Rebel, me.

“This won’t hold all of us,” I say.

“No,” Rebel says bluntly. “We won’t all fit.”

“We can squeeze,” Sophia starts, but Rebel cuts her off with a look.

“We need a plan. Not hope.” Her voice is firm. “Luke and Zephyr go in first. Non-negotiable. Then their moms.”

Sophia shakes her head. “I’m not hiding while you’re out here.”

“This isn’t about hiding,” Rebel says gently. “It’s about priorities. Malfor would use them against you again. You both know it.”

Silence.

“If there’s time,” Stitch adds, “others can get to the panic room in Sophia’s unit. But don’t count on it.”

“My apartment is in the east building,” Mia adds quietly. “Too far to be practical in an emergency.”

“There has to be another way.” Sophia looks torn, her maternal instinct to protect Luke warring with her unwillingness to abandon the others.

“There is,” Jenna interjects. “We create a distraction. Buy time for everyone to reach safety.”

Stitch, who has been silently observing our debate, finally speaks. “This is exactly why we train. So these decisions don’t have to be made in the moment.” She looks at each of us in turn. “Rebel’s assessment is correct. In a crisis situation, you must prioritize the most vulnerable.”

“And the rest of us?” Malia asks, her voice smaller than usual.

“You fight,” Stitch says simply. “Or you run. Whichever gives you the best chance.”

The reality of our situation settles like a weight on my shoulders. This isn’t theoretical anymore. These aren’t precautions against an abstract threat. We’re planning our survival.

“I agree with Rebel,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “Children first, then their mothers. The rest of us will deal with whatever comes.”

While waiting for Violet to arrive, Stitch walks us through the panic room’s features—the reinforced door that locks with both electronic and manual systems, the emergency medical kit with everything from bandages to surgical supplies, the weapons locker concealed beneath one of the bunks.

“In a worst-case scenario,” she says, demonstrating the pistol stored inside, “you have defensive options. But remember, this room is designed to keep you safe until help arrives. It’s not a base for launching a counterattack.”

Violet arrives holding hands with a sleepy Zephyr. Luke, roused from sleep by Sophia, rubs his eyes and stares wide-eyed at the hidden room.

“It’s like a secret fort,” Sophia tells him, keeping her voice light and excited. “We’re going to play a game to see how fast we can all get inside when Stitch gives the signal.”

“Like hide and seek?” Luke asks, perking up slightly.

“Exactly like that,” Sophia agrees. “But better because we all hide together.”

Stitch positions herself by the apartment door with a stopwatch. “I’ll sound the alarm, then you have twenty seconds. Ready?”

We nod, spreading out through the apartment to simulate a realistic scenario. I take position in the kitchen, Malia in the living room, Rebel near the balcony door. Sophia sits with Luke on the floor, while Violet holds Zephyr close to the bathroom.

“Remember,” Stitch says, “prioritize speed. Three, two, one—” She presses a button on her tablet, and a high-pitched alarm sounds through the apartment.

What follows is controlled chaos.

Luke startles, eyes wide.

Max bolts for the front door, planting himself in front of it like a sentinel—ears forward, muscles taut, ready. Not barking. Just watching. Waiting.

Sophia scoops Luke up, Violet grips Zephyr tighter, and the four of them rush for the panic room. The hiss of the pneumatic seal cuts through the chaos. The door shuts—locking them safely inside.

The rest of us freeze in place, scattered around the living room like debris after an explosion—outside the safe zone.

The postmortem is fast and sharp—just like the drill needed to be.

“We missed the mark,” Stitch says, glancing down at the stopwatch. “Twenty seconds. That was the goal. You clocked in at thirty-four.”

Sophia shifts Luke on her hip. He’s calmer now, but her arms are tense.

“He froze,” she admits. “I should’ve picked him up the second the alarm went off.”

“Next time, you will,” Stitch replies. “That’s why we train.”

Violet nods, brushing Zephyr’s curls from her damp cheek.

Stitch looks around the rest of us—Malia, Rebel, Jenna, me. “None of you went for weapons.”

Rebel stiffens. “We weren’t sure if?—”

“Don’t guess,” Stitch cuts in. “Part of your prep is knowing beforehand where your fallback weapons are. Grab-and-go. One second, two max. You don’t have time to think. You don’t have time to search.”

Malia exhales slowly. “We were just trying to get them inside.”

“And that’s the priority,” Stitch says. “But you don’t go empty-handed unless you have to. Every second counts. Every tool matters.”

She paces once, then stops. “Again.”

This time, we all move faster.

Sophia doesn’t hesitate—Luke in her arms before the alarm finishes its first ring. Violet’s already halfway to the panic room with Zephyr. Rebel snags the tactical pen from the couch cushion as she passes. Malia grabs the curtain rod.

Max doesn’t move from the door. Watching. Guarding.

Stitch hits the stopwatch.

“Twenty-two seconds,” she announces. “Closer. Again.”

By the fourth run, we’re down to eighteen.

Luke runs straight for the panic room. Zephyr stays quiet. Rebel doesn’t fumble for gear—she knows where it is. We move like a unit now. Not perfect. But ready .

Stitch finally nods. “Good. You’ve got muscle memory now. That’s what keeps you alive.”

She doesn’t smile.

None of us do either.

Not yet.

Jenna pulls her pistol from the hidden safe under the end table and holds it out, grip-first. “We need this accessible to all of us. If I’m not here—or can’t reach it—I don’t want that to be the reason someone gets hurt.”

Stitch takes it without hesitation, already tapping on her tablet. “Give me your hand.”

One by one, we step forward. Stitch scans our fingerprints—quick, clinical swipes over a compact biometric reader. No one speaks. The gravity is understood.

Once she’s logged all our data, she links it to the pistol, fingers flying over the interface. A soft chime signals the upload’s complete.

“You’re all authorized now,” she says, handing it back to Jenna. “Any one of you can fire it.”

Then she unzips the small duffel at her feet, revealing two more compact sidearms and a slim, matte-black taser. “These are configured the same way. Same print access. Spread them out. Couch cushions, top of the fridge, bathroom cabinet—I don’t care where, just make sure you remember.”

As Stitch finishes securing the final biometric update, Malia leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Okay, but what about during the day? When we’re at the café?”

A pause. We all look at each other—because none of us thought about that.

“That place has windows for days,” Violet murmurs. “And it’s always packed.”

Jenna straightens. “If something went down while we were working…”

“There’s a safe room there, too,” Stitch says without missing a beat.

We blink at her.

“The storeroom?” Malia arches a brow.

Stitch actually smiles.

“You’re kidding,” Rebel says.

Stitch shakes her head. “Behind the second set of shelves. There’s a disguised panel—looks like a breaker box. Tap twice on the right side, then swipe the top edge. Panel opens, keypad activates.”

“What’s the code?” Jenna asks.

“Delta-nine-seven-three-four,” Stitch says. “That’ll trigger a sliding wall panel. It won’t lock down like these residential panic rooms, but it’s reinforced, concealed, and buys you time.”

“You should really be more open with this kind of info,” Malia mutters, half in awe, half-annoyed.

“I share what’s necessary when it becomes necessary,” Stitch replies calmly, tucking her tablet under one arm. “And now? It’s necessary.”

After she leaves, we settle into an uneasy routine for the night.

“Do you really think something’s coming?” Rebel asks as we position ourselves in the living room. Max lies between us, alert even in his apparent rest.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I’d rather be paranoid and prepared than taken by surprise again.”

Rebel nods, understanding in her eyes. “To paranoia, then,” she says, raising an imaginary glass in toast.

“And preparation,” I add, matching her gesture.

Outside, the night is quiet. But somewhere in that darkness, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching, waiting, planning. The electronic glitches might just be coincidence. The maintenance worker might just be doing his job. My dream might just be trauma resurfacing.

I fall asleep clutching Hank’s hoodie, the familiar scent a talisman against the darkness. This time, I don’t dream of attacks or capture. Instead, I dream of Kazakhstan—but not the terror of being taken. I dream of the moment the reactor began to fail, of the cascade effect my hidden calculations triggered.

In the dream, I stand before the quantum equations I hid in Malfor’s system, watching as they spread, infecting the entire network. The numbers transform into a beautiful, terrible pattern that consumes everything it touches.

I wake just before dawn, a terrible certainty settling in my bones. This isn’t paranoia or PTSD or even premonition.

It’s understanding.

The weird electronic glitches feel very similar to the cascade failure I designed for Malfor’s reactor.