“Luna?”
My voice cracks against the empty shell of the safehouse, swallowed by walls that should still smell like her shampoo and burnt coffee. No answer. Just the low hum of a generator somewhere below, like a pulse pretending this place is still alive.
I step inside.
Glass crunches under my boots.
Red stains the white tile in long, violent arcs...too much, too chaotic, unmistakably hers and not hers at the same time. A chair lies split in half. The small Christmas tree Luna insisted on setting up is toppled, silver ornaments shattered like teeth. One blinks weakly on the floor, its light flickering...on, off, on...mocking me.
“Zee,” I say into my comm, already knowing she won’t answer fast enough. “Tell me she’s not gone.”
Static answers.
I move deeper, heart slamming so hard it h
