ISABELLA — THE QUIET THAT WASN'T PEACE
The dawn was pale when Isabella opened her eyes.
She'd drifted off in Sebastian's arms, their bodies curled on the cot beside the flickering remains of the safehouse fire. For the first time in days, she'd slept without nightmares. No visions of Evelyn, no screams of Genesis. Just silence.
But silence had never lasted long in their world.
When she rose, the first thing she noticed was the hum.
Soft. Mechanical. Persistent. Like the low thrum of electricity beneath the walls.
Her hand instinctively went to her belly. The baby kicked once faint but steady as if reminding her it was still there, still strong.
She smiled weakly. "We made it."
Then the hum deepened.
It wasn't from the walls. It was from outside a vibration through the earth, a pulse beneath her bare feet. She turned toward the window, heart tightening.
The horizon was bleeding red.
