The night outside was too quiet.
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, each beat sharp enough to bruise as she sat hunched on the narrow bed. The blanket pooled around her waist, her fingers digging into the rough fabric as though it could anchor her to something solid. The air felt wrong, too thin, too cold, too still, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
Michael’s silhouette stood rigid at the window, one arm braced against the frame, the other holding his gun with casual familiarity, the kind born from years of killing. His eyes glinted, reflecting the faint moonlight through the trees. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t unsettled.
He was waiting.
“They’ve found us,” he murmured, voice low, as if the night were listening.
Elena’s breath snagged. “How do you know?”
Micha
