Evening settles over the house in slow degrees—the light shifting from gold to amber to gray, shadows pooling in the corners of rooms. Her rooms. Her books stacked on the side table. Her daughter's drawings still magnetized to the fridge. Tomorrow this space becomes a kill box.
The day passed in fragments. Angelina at the kitchen table, working through briefs she will not remember. Me cycling through feeds that showed nothing. Lunch eaten without tasting. Conversation made without meaning. The careful choreography of two people pretending to be normal while waiting for something to break.
Now she is curled on the couch with a novel, legs tucked beneath her. Different prop, same performance.
I take the armchair. Phone in hand, the faint static of an open channel in my ear.
The clock on the wall ticks past nine. Outside, a dog barks twice and goes quiet.
I pull up the B3 feed.
The common area fills the screen. Chesca sits cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand, tongue poking out in concentration. On the monitor in front of her, pixelated soldiers storm a pixelated fortress. Something explodes.
Alina leans over the back of the couch, pointing at something on screen, laughing at whatever Chesca just said. Mira sits at the other end—still, watchful, but present. Shecatches Chesca's eye and nods once at something. Approval, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.
Chesca laughs. Soundless through the feed, but I know that sound. Bright and sudden. The laugh she saves for genuine delight.
My daughter.
The thought doesn't settle—it hits. The same way it hit when I stood over Adrian's body and claimed her out loud. Mine to protect. Mine to teach. Mine to watch grow up, if I can keep her mother alive long enough.
I close the feed before something in my chest cracks open.
Angelina looks up from her book. "You okay?"
"Fine."
She does not believe me. She also does not push.
The clock ticks past ten. Past eleven. The house grows quieter, the street outside emptying of cars and voices until there is only the occasional sweep of headlights across the ceiling.
My phone buzzes.
"Movement." Vanessa's voice, sharp enough to cut. "Three blocks out. On foot. Dark clothing, hood up."
Angelina's head comes up.
"Confirmation?"
"Working on it." Keys clatter through the channel. "Thermal's got one body, no backup vehicle. She's alone."
I rise from the chair. Cross to the window. The street outside is empty—porch lights glowing, parked cars dark and still. The kind of quiet that could mean peace or could mean something waiting.
"Two blocks." Vanessa. "She just cut through the Peterson yard. She knows the neighborhood."
Angelina stands. The book falls closed, forgotten on the cushion.
"Is it her?"
"We don't know yet."
"One block." Vanessa's voice pulls tight. "She's slowing. Looking at the house."
I draw my weapon. Check the chamber. Position myself between Angelina and the front door.
"All units." Kade, low and controlled. "Hold positions. Let her approach. We need visual confirmation."
The seconds stretch. The house holds its breath.