Sophia
I wasn’t sleeping again.
My dreams, when they came, felt like half-sentences. Blurry faces, flickering lights. The kind of dreams that left you even more tired than before. Maybe it was the coffee. Or maybe it was the weight in my chest that never really left anymore.
Ricci was drifting, too. I could feel it. Like we were both inside the same storm but pretending not to notice the thunder.
That morning, I saw him from the window.
He was with Mike, in the old family warehouse down the hill, where all the relics of the Terminal’s past were kept—stripped-down weapons, old crates with faded names, heirlooms from an era of blood and power. It was where his father had kept most of his legacy. I wasn’t supposed to be watching, but I couldn’t look away.
I saw Mike throw something hard
