A steel door waits at the end of the hall. No handle. Just a smooth panel and a small scanner. He places his thumb against it. The door unlocks with a heavy, final sound.
“Panic room,” he says. “Independent power. Air filtration. No signal leakage.”
He steps inside, flips a switch. The door seals behind us, cutting off the hallway entirely. The silence is absolute.
“If alarms sound,” he continues, calm as ever, “you come here. You don’t wait for me. You don’t look back.”
I fold my arms. “And if I don’t?”
His gaze pins me in place. “You will.”
The door opens again, light flooding back in. As we step out, I glance around the wing—at the cameras, the glass, the walls that don’t feel like walls at all.
“This house really is a fortress,” I say.
He slows, just enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he says. “Because someone dangerous already found you.”
My stomach tightens.
I fold my arms around myself and keep walking, keenly aware of how closely he shadows me and how protected I am.
My stomach tightens.
I don’t answer. I fold my arms around myself and keep walking, pretending I don’t feel how close he is—how his presence brackets me in, shields my back, controls my pace. Protected. Contained. Both at once.
By afternoon, I escape to the library.
It’s the quietest place in the house, tucked away from the main corridors, all dark wood and towering shelves. The smell of old paper and leather settles my nerves a little. I breathe deeper here. Slower.
On a long table near the window sits a neat stack of newspapers.
My pulse stutters.
I recognize my father’s name before I even reach them.
Agent Jonathan Hart.
My fingers hover, then land. I flip through the pages, one by one. Missing person reports. Brief mentions. Speculation wrapped in careful language. A good man. A government asset. Disappeared under “unclear circumstances.”
Every article that ever existed. Collected. Preserved. Waiting.
Of course, he did this.
Konstantin didn’t forbid me from searching. He curated it.
The realization unsettles me more than outright denial would have. This—this feels like kindness dressed in control. Like he’s saying: Here. Look. But only at what I allow.
Hours slip by without my noticing. I read until the words blur, until my eyes burn and my shoulders ache. Outside, rain begins to fall, soft at first, then heavier, tapping against the tall windows like restless fingers.
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
My father’s face rises behind my lids—warm smile, tired eyes, the way he used to promise he’d always come back. My throat tightens.
Then—Click!
My eyes snap open.