The dawn didn’t break over the Nevada desert; it bled. A jagged, bruised violet line split the horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows of the Joshua trees across the adobe walls of the mill. Inside, the air was cold, smelling of ancient dust and the sharp, metallic tang of the looms.
The tension didn't start with a scream. It started with a sound so faint it shouldn't have been audible—a rhythmic, high-frequency chirp that didn't belong to the desert.
Ethan was out of bed before the third pulse. He didn't reach for me; he reached for the heavy iron fire poker leaning against the hearth. His movements were a blur of instinct, the "Unit" hardware in his limbs reacting to a threat his mind hadn't even processed yet.
"Grace," he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Don't turn o
