That night, the vehicle stopped deep in a dense forest, hidden behind thick bushes and foliage. The headlights were switched off. Veyra gestured for everyone to move quickly and quietly. They followed a narrow path toward a makeshift camp, nearly invisible from the outside.
As they arrived, the soft glow of a small campfire greeted them. Sitting around it were Elior, Nyssa, and Uncle Tyson. Their faces tensed at the sound of footsteps—but immediately softened when they recognized who was approaching.
"Lirael?" Elior stood quickly, disbelief in his eyes.
"You're alive!" Nyssa stared, eyes welling up.
Uncle Tyson let out a long breath. "I thought we'd lost you…"
Lirael paused in the middle of the group, uncertain. She looked at each familiar face—but to her, they were strangers.
"I… I don't remember any of you," Lirael finally said, quietly.
Silence fell.
Elior stepped forward with a gentle smile. "That's okay. What matters is that you're back."
Uncle Tyson gently patted her shoulder. "We have time. Time for stories. Time to remember."
Veyra signaled for everyone to sit. The fire crackled louder as someone added more wood. That night, in the calm of the forest, they gathered again—at least some of them.
But their hearts weren't at ease. Questions still hung heavy in the air:
Where exactly is Peterson?
What's happening beneath Taren's skin?
And why is Lirael's pendant reacting… at the same time something under Taren's skin began to glow?
Lirael stared into the fire. In a flash, a memory returned—Peterson's bloodied face, the sound of the explosion behind them, and… a voice calling her name. A voice she couldn't forget.
"Peterson's still alive," Lirael murmured.
Everyone turned to her.
"I know it. He's out there."
Exter stood near the campfire, arms crossed, his expression serious but confident.
"Peterson isn't the kind to just disappear," he said. "He's brave, strong… and smart. If he's not back yet, it's probably because he's doing something way beyond what we can imagine."
Everyone fell silent. Lirael stared into the fire, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to piece together the fragments of her fading memory.
Elior nodded slowly. "He always had a plan, even in the middle of chaos."
One by one, the group's eyes turned toward Taren.
Taren raised an eyebrow. "Why is everyone looking at me like that?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood with a teasing tone.
"Okay, fine. I'm his little brother. And yeah... his one real weakness has always been our father."
He sighed and added, "If he's doing something insane right now, it's probably because he discovered something about our old man that he couldn't ignore."
Nyssa spoke softly, "Your father… is he still alive?"
Taren shook his head slowly, uncertainty in his eyes. "No idea. But even if he's dead, his shadow is still messing with our lives."
Veyra broke the silence. "What matters is we need to find out. Both about Peterson… and whatever is going on with your family."
Uncle Tyson placed a hand on Taren's shoulder. "Tomorrow morning, we start making a plan. But tonight, we rest. Lirael needs peace. And we all need clear minds."
Lirael remained quiet, still staring into the flames. In the red-orange glow, she felt—somehow—that Peterson was watching her too. Not through eyes, but through memories still buried deep within her.
Riven looked at Saria with a cold, wary gaze.
"So, this is your friend, Lirael?" he asked quietly but firmly.
Lirael nodded, a bit hesitant but certain.
"Her name is Saria."
Riven gave a brief nod, then said firmly,
"If she can't come tomorrow, Veyra and Elior will stay behind to guard her at the camp. The rest of us making the plan will be much harder."
Taren, standing nearby, couldn't hide his mischievous grin,
"Yeah, I'm coming tomorrow."
Riven shot him a cold look,
"You'll only be the driver."
Nyssa joined in with a teasing tone,
"Does Taren even know how to drive?"
Everyone chuckled at that. Taren immediately puffed out his chest with confidence,
"Of course! I'm the best driver among us! Don't underestimate me."
Meanwhile, Exter stared at Lirael deeply, his gaze full of meaning. Lirael noticed and turned to meet his look, slightly puzzled but not avoiding it.
That night was filled with a mix of tension over the plan for tomorrow, growing friendships, and mysteries yet to be unraveled.
Elior suddenly exclaimed,
"Uncle, is there any barbecue left? I didn't have dinner earlier; my stomach's feeling a bit upset."
Everyone around the campfire groaned in unison,
"Oh, Elior..." they said, sounding exasperated.
Saria and Lirael exchanged slight, amused smiles, feeling the warmth of the moment despite the little joke.
Without hesitation, Veyra lightly tapped Elior on the head with a laugh,
"Seriously, you! You're sick but still thinking about barbecue?"
Elior scratched his head sheepishly but kept a cheerful smile,
"Well, who wouldn't want some good barbecue here?"
Uncle Tyson chuckled and said,
"We'll grill some more tomorrow, don't worry."
That night, soft laughter and camaraderie filled the air in the dark forest, bringing a little warmth to their struggle.
Elsewhere, in a cold and sterile laboratory, Peterson lay on a metal examination bed, eyes closed. Thin wires were attached to his arms, chest, and temples—each one linked to a monitor that beeped steadily, drawing samples and collecting data from his body.
The overhead light flickered softly with a pale white glow. The only sounds were the steady hum of machinery and Peterson's quiet breathing.
Suddenly, he stirred.
Peterson's eyes blinked open, slowly adjusting to the brightness. His vision was still hazy—but then he saw it.
A tall man in a dark suit stood before him, his face partially shadowed. His gaze was sharp, analytical, as if evaluating something critically important. There was something familiar about his presence—something buried in Peterson's memories.
After a long moment, a whisper escaped from Peterson's lips—barely audible, but filled with disbelief.
"Dad...??!"
The man didn't respond immediately. His expression remained unreadable, almost emotionless—except for his eyes. For a fleeting second, they revealed something deeper: conflict, regret, perhaps even guilt.
Peterson clenched his fists and tried to sit up, but his arms were still restrained.
"What is this… some new experiment? Are you really... my father?"
The man took a step closer.
"I'm not here to explain. I'm here to make sure you stay alive."
His voice was calm, low, and controlled.
Peterson stared at him with fury.
"After everything you let happen… now you care?"
The tension thickened between them. A dozen unanswered questions filled the silence.