They trade a glance and let it go. There’s nothing left to argue.
This house is compromised. Poisoned. Haunted by everything we couldn’t protect.
It isn’t home anymore—it’s a bullseye.
Chapter Two
Emerson
We follow Berk’s orders like soldiers, moving in quiet synchronization as we tear down the war room piece by piece. Every click of a keyboard being unplugged, every hum of a cooling fan shutting down feels like we’re dismantling the heart of everything we’ve built. She’s meticulous—nothing leaves without being checked twice, sometimes three times. I’ve seen Berk operate under pressure before, but this is different. There’s a cold precision in her movements, the kind that comes from knowing one mistake could end us all.
We don’t take anything unnecessary. No keepsakes. No papers. Not even the picture Kimber drew that used to hang near the door. Anything that might have a bug or tag gets left behind.
By the time we step out into the night, the air feels different—thinner, sharper. The house stands behind us, dark and empty, and it feels like we’re abandoning a part of ourselves. Rowan locks the door out of habit, even though we all know it doesn’t matter. This place isn’t ours anymore. It’s compromised, infected with their reach.
The van groans to life when I turn the key, a rattle that makes me pray it’ll last the night. It’s old and ugly, covered in dents and grime, but that’s what makes it perfect. Just another forgotten shell in a city full of them. Berk sits up front beside me, laptop balanced on her knees, screens flickering with encrypted code. The twins are in the back, their silhouettes restless shadows against the windows.
The city passes in a blur of darkened buildings and broken streetlights. Each turn feels heavier than the last, like the road itself is closing in on us. My hands ache from gripping thesteering wheel too tightly. Berk’s eyes never leave her laptop. She’s monitoring signal strength, intercepting traces, scanning for anything that could lead them to us. I can tell she’s running on fumes, but she doesn’t slow down. She never does.
We swap vehicles three times before dawn. Each trade is quick and silent, rehearsed down to the second. The first switch happens under a freeway overpass, where the concrete sweats moisture, and graffiti fades into blackness. We move fast, unloading gear into another van that’s been stashed there for weeks. The next trade is deeper in the city, in an underground garage that smells like oil and rust. Berk wipes down every surface before we leave—steering wheel, handles, seats.
The last switch happens on the edge of the suburbs, where the streetlights grow farther apart and the world feels like it’s holding its breath. We ditch the vehicle for good this time, loading our gear into two grocery carts like a band of stragglers. The metal squeaks against the cracked pavement, every sound too loud in the dead quiet. We look ridiculous, but that’s the point. Just another group of forgotten faces no one wants to look at.
We walk for miles. The city fades behind us until it’s nothing more than a dim orange haze on the horizon. The air grows cleaner, colder, filled with the smell of damp leaves and wet asphalt. My legs ache from the weight of the cart, my palms raw from the handle. Berk doesn’t stop once. She leads us with the same stubborn determination that’s kept her and us alive this long. Ronan walks beside her, his hand randomly hovering near the small of her back like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep her close. Rowan takes the rear, eyes scanning the shadows.
By the time we turn onto a narrow side street, dawn is a gray bruise stretching across the sky. That’s when she points it out—the house.
It’s small and unassuming, tucked between two larger homes, like it’s trying not to be noticed. White siding dulled by time, a sagging porch with chipped railings, the faintest flicker of light leaking through the blinds upstairs. A wind chime hangs from the eave, tangled and silent. The place looks old, forgotten. The kind of house people drive past without a second glance. Exactly what we need.
The yard is uneven, grass pushing through cracks in the walkway. A weathered mailbox leans sideways, paint stripped by rain. The smell of earth and cedar hangs thick in the air, mixed with that faint metallic tang of morning dew. Berk slows in front of the steps, scanning the street behind us before she enters a code into the keypad. The code she punches in is muscle memory, practiced. The door unlocks with a muted click.
I glance up and down the street. Every other house is dark, curtains drawn, porches empty. A quiet that feels safe but could turn on you in a heartbeat. When I turn back, Berk’s already inside, her outline framed by the faint glow of a single lamp she must’ve left here long ago. The tension in her shoulders eases for just a moment—barely noticeable, but it’s there.
We push the carts up the walkway, metal wheels clattering softly against the boards. As I step onto the porch, I catch the faint scent of old coffee and dust drifting from the open door. The air inside feels different—still, stale, but familiar somehow, like she’s been keeping this place ready for years.
I pause on the threshold and look back one last time. The street is still. No headlights. No movement. Just quiet houses and the whisper of wind through the trees.
Maybe this is safety. Or maybe it’s just the calm before the next storm.
Either way, I follow her inside. Because wherever Berk leads, that’s where the fight goes.
By the time morning finally crawls over the horizon, we’re beyond exhausted. This isn’t exhaustion sleep can fix; it’s the kind that burrows into your bones and strips you down to nothing but reflex. Every one of us is stretched thin, frayed at the edges, held together by nothing but rage and the memory of what we lost. But none of us even think about closing our eyes. Not with Kimber still out there. Not with Dean and Bryce breathing the same air.
The new safe house creaks and settles with the wind, the sound low and constant, like it’s sighing with us. Dust catches the early light filtering through the blinds, soft and golden, making the space look deceptively peaceful. But there’s nothing peaceful about our situation.
We’ve been at it since we got here, dismantling what’s left of our equipment and setting up a new war room in the spare bedroom. It’s smaller than the old one—tight and suffocating, with water stains on the ceiling and wallpaper peeling at the edges. Still, we work fast. Rowan handles the wiring, Ronan lifts and hauls the heavier cases, and I watch Berk as she organizes the layout with the same precision she brings to everything she does.
She doesn’t say much. None of us do. The silence between us is loud enough to fill the room. Every time she passes me, I glimpse her face, pale and tight, eyes shadowed but burning with the same dangerous determination that’s both kept us alive and damn near destroyed us. Berk doesn’t crack easily. Tonight… she’s close. But so am I.
The weight of Kimber’s absence hangs over her. I see it in the way she keeps glancing toward the door, like she’s half expecting Kimber to walk through it. She knows better than any of us what that girl might be going through right now. The memories she tries to bury—the things done to her—are writtenall over her face. She’s reliving them with every heartbeat, praying Kimber isn’t.
When we finally power up the system, the familiar hum of electronics fills the air, soft and steady. It’s comforting in a way—a heartbeat for the house. Berk stands near the door, arms crossed, scanning the setup with critical eyes. Her voice is steady when she finally speaks.
“This war room isn’t as cool as the old one,” she murmurs. There’s an attempt at humor there, but it falls flat, the words landing heavy in the stale air. She’s trying to keep it light, to pretend for our sake, but her tone gives her away. She’s shutting down, retreating behind that invisible wall she builds when things get too heavy.
Ronan looks up from the cords he’s coiling and watches her for a moment, silent. He doesn’t call her out on it—he knows better—but he moves toward the kitchen without a word. The sound of cabinet doors opening, metal scraping, and the soft hiss of a burner fills the quiet a moment later. It’s a small, simple thing, but that’s Ronan’s way of grounding us. He cooks when he can’t fix anything else, having a food delivery ordered within the hour.
I keep busy with cables and connections, double-checking lines and encryptions I’ve already checked twice. Rowan reinforces the locks again, muttering under his breath about windows and angles and sightlines. We all know the motions. It’s what we do when we’re too wired to sit still.