The Knock

Twelve hours. The number was a life raft in a hurricane. Elena stared at the ventilator’s display, the amber glow of the warning light reflecting in her eyes. The duds were still in her hand—two useless bricks of plastic she’d been holding since the lights died. She hadn't swapped them. In her panic, she’d grabbed the wrong pair from the cart.

Her mistake had just saved her son’s life.

*Boom.*

The sound was heavy, deliberate. A fist hitting the nursery door.

Elena scrambled backward, dropping the dead batteries onto the rug. They landed with a dull *thud-thud* that seemed deafening in the silence. She gripped the knife, her other hand instinctively covering Leo’s ear, though he couldn't hear the violence over the hiss of his own breathing.

"Elena."

It wasn't a question this time. Marcus's voice was stripped of all pretense, a raw, angry baritone that vibrated through the wood. He knew. He knew the power was out, he knew the generator was dead, and he knew the ventilator should be screaming by now.

But it wasn't. It was humming.

"Open the door, Elena. We need to check the breakers. The whole circuit is down."

"The breaker box is in the basement," she called out, her voice thin but steady. "You know that."

"I need the key to the panel," he lied. "You have the master set."

"Use the spare," she said. "In the kitchen drawer."

Another heavy thud against the door, this time lower, near the handle. The wood groaned, the barricaded rocking chair scraping an inch across the floor. He wasn't knocking anymore. He was testing the structural integrity of the frame.

"Don't lie to me, Elena!" The shout cracked the last veneer of civility. "Open the damn door! I know what you’re doing in there!"

He slammed his shoulder into the wood. The chair skidded another inch. The dresser shuddered but held.

"Go away!" she screamed, the knife shaking in her hand. "If you come in here, I swear to God, Marcus—"

"You'll what?" he sneered. "Stab me? With a kitchen knife? Don't be stupid. You're not a killer, El. You're a mother. And right now, you're endangering our son."

"Our son is fine!" she yelled back. "He has power! He has twelve hours!"

Silence. Heavy, thick, and realizing. She had just given him the timeline. She had told the wolf exactly how long the siege would last.

"Twelve hours," Marcus repeated softly. "Well. That changes things."

The handle stopped rattling. The pressure on the door eased. But the menace didn't leave; it simply shifted, curdling into something darker.

"If you won't open the door," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "then we'll have to find another way to warm you up."

The handle stopped. Marcus's voice: 'Just checking on you, honey.'