Blackout

INCANDESCENT BLUE SPARKS rained down on my bare feet, the smell of ozone and melting plastic blooming in the dark. I didn’t flinch at the bite of the current; I welcomed the sting. The house audio system gave a final, distorted screech—a mechanical death rattle that vibrated through the floorboards—before the smart suite plunged into a thick, suffocating blackout.

Above me, the master bedroom door lock let out a high-pitched, dying *whine*. Then, the heavy clatter of a magnetic deadbolt hitting the floor. The cage was open.

"Mark?" Chloe’s voice erupted from the hallway, stripped of its saccharine layers. "Mark, why is the master suite offline? Open this door!"

I ignored the drumming of her heels against the hardwood and scrambled toward the closet. My body was a map of pain—the stitches in my abdomen pulling, my legs trembling from weeks of chemical paralysis—but the rage in my chest acted as a high-voltage battery. I reached into the dark corner behind my long coats and gripped the heavy brass lamp I’d stashed there three nights ago.

"Mark!" A heavy thud shook the door. Chloe was throwing her weight against it.

I moved to the side of the doorway, my back pressed against the cold drywall. I could hear Mark stirring in the armchair, a low, drunken groan rising from his throat as the silence of the blackout finally reached his stupor. The fire alarm I’d bridged didn’t just trip the locks; it triggered the house’s secondary emergency protocol.

A high-decibel howl suddenly ripped through the quiet—the industrial fire siren meant to deafen the neighborhood. It was a piercing, bone-shaking shriek that made the glass walls of the house vibrate.

"Elena, stop!" Mark’s voice was a panicked slur, barely audible over the mechanical scream.

The door hissed open, forced back by Chloe’s desperate strength. She stumbled into the room, the silhouette of her serrated blade catching the strobe of the red emergency lights that were now pulsing from the ceiling. Behind her, the man in the tactical vest loomed like a shadow, his hand reaching for the holster at his hip.

"Change of plans," Chloe shrieked, her face a contorted mask of white dust and fury. She didn't look at the bed. She looked at Mark, her eyes twin pits of murderous realization.

Mark stood up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He looked at the knife, then at the smoking vent where the sparks had just died. "Elena, wait—we can still—"

"You’re a liability now, Mark," she hissed, her voice cutting through the siren like a wire. "Just like Sarah was. Survivors don't leave witnesses, and I'm the only one leaving this house."

She lunged, not toward me, but toward him.

I didn't wait for the blade to find its mark. I didn't care about the man who had traded me for a bank account. I lunged past them, my bare feet silent on the carpet, heading for the only thing that mattered.

I burst into the hallway, the red strobe light painting the walls in the color of blood. I sprinted toward the nursery, my hand reaching for the brass handle. I needed to see Lily. I needed to know they hadn't already moved her.

I threw the door open, but the room was a hollow white square.

The crib was empty. Lily was gone.