14 HOURS EARLIER
Mikey woke up slow.
The dim morning light barely reached his corner of the basement, but the heat of last night's argument still simmered behind his eyes. Bobo's voice echoed in his head—rough, unrelenting:
"You're not ready."
The words thudded in his chest like a second heartbeat.
He sat up in silence, eyes heavy, body stiff. His bed was barely more than a pile of folded blankets on a cot, but it had been the only thing that felt stable since the explosion.
He rubbed his temples, then ran a hand over his tangled hair and finally stood.
Bobo told him to be gone by morning.
So he would be.
Mikey walked to the small wooden chair in the corner, where his old clothes lay folded beside the dark suit he wore to his father's funeral. His fingers hovered for a second before grabbing the hoodie—the same one he'd worn during the explosion that took his father's life.
Still stained with ash. Still streaked with dried blood. A monument to that night.
He pulled it over his head slowly. It smelled like smoke and cold metal.
Crossing the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The bruises Payne gave him were fading, but one eye was still red, the sclera streaked with burst vessels. The swelling had gone down, but his face still looked foreign—older, worn, angry.
He stared.
I'm not ready.
Sorry, Mom…
Sorry, Dad…
I can't do it. I can't fight for your cause.
I'm not strong enough.
A tear welled in the corner of his eye, but he blinked it away fast and wiped it clean with his sleeve.
He reached into his hoodie, felt the cool silver of his mother's necklace, and tucked it beneath his shirt like a secret.
His gaze shifted to the funeral suit again. He picked it up. Ran a thumb over the stiff fabric.
Then smiled, just a little, and set it back down.
I'm not taking the past with me.
Turning toward the stairs, Mikey moved quietly. Each step up creaked under his weight. When he reached the top, he eased the door open—just enough to slip through.
The house was quiet, save for Bobo's unmistakable snoring rumble.
He padded toward the front door and rested his hand on the knob.
"Be gone by morning," huh, Bobo?
Thanks for the help.
He paused.
From here, he could see into Luce's room.
The door was open a crack, and the bedsheets shifted.
His eyebrows lifted.
Wait… are they—?
He stepped softly to the side, curiosity overtaking guilt, and confirmed what he suspected.
Oh god. They're in the same bed.
Luce was curled against Bobo, mostly covered by the blanket, her hair fanned across the pillow. Bobo was flat on his back, snoring like a freight train.
Mikey recoiled with a twisted smile, sticking his tongue out.
So that's what the thumping was…
There was literally a kid under your floor, guys.
Gosh...
He snorted under his breath, smiling to himself.
I wish I could've known you guys a little bit longer...
I wish we could fight together..
He frowned slightly then turned to leave—but something above him caught his eye.
A small square panel in the ceiling. Rough wood. Dusty edges.
An attic?
The idea hit him like a jolt of electricity.
A wicked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
No.
Not yet.
I'm not done.
If they won't let me come… I'll just have to follow.
He tiptoed through the room, heart pounding louder than his steps. As he passed the bed, Luce shifted.
Shit.
He froze.
But she only sighed, smacked her lips, and rolled to the other side.
She's actually kinda beautiful—
He slapped the thought away, cheeks warming, and focused back on the panel.
A nightstand sat directly under it—dangerously close to Luce's side of the bed.
Mikey stepped up onto it, slow and steady. One foot balanced carefully while he reached overhead. The wood creaked slightly. He pushed the panel aside with shaking fingers.
It opened.
Jackpot.
He grinned wide and started to lift himself up—But his foot slipped. The nightstand groaned under him.
His eyes went wide.
With one desperate push, he scrambled up into the attic and quickly pulled the panel shut.
Below him, Luce stirred. "What was that…?" she mumbled sleepily.
Bobo's voice came through like gravel.
"Nothin'. Just shut up, I'm tryna sleep…"
Then the snoring resumed.
Mikey let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He was in. He could see through small gaps in the floorboards—thin slats of moonlight carving through, giving him a perfect view of the bedroom below.
He smirked.
Now all he had to do… was wait.
Time passed.
Mikey didn't move. He barely breathed. The attic was cramped, dusty, hot—but he didn't dare shift his weight. Every creak in the wood felt like thunder under his stomach.
Eventually, he heard stirring.
Bobo's up.
Mikey squinted through one of the slats in the attic floor, careful not to make a sound.
And then—
Oh god.
He's butt-ass naked?!
Mikey recoiled from the gap like it had burned him, eyes wide.
Show some decency you old freak!
He squeezed his mouth shut to keep from laughing—or dry heaving—as Bobo's hairy backside moved around the room like it owned the place. He turned away, facing the dusty beams behind him until he heard Bobo's heavy footsteps shuffle out.
Silence again.
Then movement. The sheets rustled.
Mikey peeked back down through the gap.
And immediately slapped his hands over his face.
SHE'S ALSO NAKED?!
DON'T PEEK, MIKEY.
DON'T PEEK, MIKEY!
YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS!
He clamped his palms tighter against his face.
Then—very slowly—his fingers cracked open, just enough for one guilty eye to sneak a glance.
He caught a glimpse of skin and blonde hair and—
NOPE. NOPE. NOPE.
He yanked his head away and turned to the side like he'd been hit.
IT'S NO USE!
DAMMIT, YOU ANIMAL!
YOU FILTHY, WEAK-SPINED LITTLE FREAK!
PLEASE JUST PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, LUCE! I'M LOSING MY MIND!
Minutes passed like hours. Then finally—mercifully—he heard the sound of drawers. Zippers. Footsteps. The door.
She was gone.
He let out a huge breath, rolling onto his back and pressing both hands over his face, groaning into the dusty wood.
In the next room, he could hear voices again. Bobo. Luce. And now—a new one. Male. Calm, confident.
Mikey tilted his head toward the sound, listening.
Something about "gear." About "heading out soon." About "the prison camp."
He grinned.
Gotcha. Now I know when and where. Just gotta tail them when they go.
Luce's voice was closer now.
"I'll get the gear."
He froze, eyes back to the slats. She re-entered the room beneath him and went straight to the closet. Right below him. He watched as she opened it and knelt down, pulling out a duffel bag.
Then another.
She started packing.
Guns.
Wait. Guns?!
He stared, stunned, as she loaded magazines and sidearms into the open bags.
We need guns for this?!
After she got what she needed—Luce left the room.
His eyes darted to the duffel bag, still open, a few feet away from him. He could make out the glint of metal from his position. A pistol. Two, maybe.
Perfect.
He'd taken enough risks by now. His heart hammered as his hand slowly reached toward the attic panel. He pushed it open, inch by inch, careful not to make a sound.
He poked his head down and checked the room.
The door was mostly closed—just a sliver of hallway showing beyond.
Nobody in sight.
With a quiet shift, he slid down, bending low to make the grab. His hands shook as he reached for the sleek, heavy gun resting in the bag. It felt foreign in his hand—unnatural, almost too heavy.
Heavier than I thought…
Then he snatched two extra mags. Tucking them into his hoodie pocket.
That's when he heard it—footsteps. Close.
Too close.
His heart leapt.
Eyes wide, he scrambled up, pulling himself back into the attic just as the door creaked open.
He slid the panel shut in a flash.
Down below, a voice spoke.
"They're in the bags?"
Mikey peered through the slats.
A short, brown-skinned man entered the room, his voice casual but alert. Confident.
Mikey hadn't seen him before.
That must be Elliot.
The tunnel guy.
Elliot leaned over the duffel bag, grabbed a pistol, and disappeared out the door.
Time dragged. Mikey stayed frozen, listening to every muffled sound below. Then came movement—voices, footsteps, the shuffling of gear. They were getting ready to leave.
He crawled forward on his elbows, slow and deliberate, toward the front of the attic. Just above the narrow entryway, he peered through a crack in the wood.
Below him, Luce, Bobo, and Elliot stood lined up at the front door.
It's time.
Mikey shifted his weight, preparing to crawl back toward the attic panel—and then:
CREAK
The sound cut through the silence like a blade. Mikey stopped breathing. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Beneath him, Bobo's footsteps moved—directly below. Mikey's eyes went wide.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Bobo pulled out his metal shock-club, extended it with a snap, and tapped the ceiling—right where Mikey lay.
The vibrations rattled through Mikey's chest. He didn't move.
Then Luce called out from near the door, voice urgent.
"Bo, we gotta move."
Bobo paused, then chuckled.
"You got rats?"
Luce snorted.
"Hell no. Maybe you're finally going deaf."
"I ain't that old," he muttered, turning away.
They stacked at the door again. Elliot looked back at them, his voice low but firm. "Right on time. We ready?"
Both nodded. Elliot gave a thin smile. "Let's go get your friends back."
Then the door slid open. The three of them disappeared into the night. The door clicked shut behind them.
Mikey didn't wait.
He scrambled back across the attic, no longer worried about noise. Reaching Luce's bedroom, he kicked open the panel, dropped down fast, and sprinted to the front door.
The moment he opened it—
A wall of sound hit him.
Sirens. The whine of drones. The sweeping searchlights cutting across the crumbling alleys.
7PM CURFEW—IT IS NOW CURFEW—STAY IN YOUR HOMES—7PM CURFEW
Mikey stepped into the alley, pistol gripped tight in his hand. He glanced left.
In the distance, just beyond the glow of a passing drone, he saw them—Luce, Bobo, and Elliot—disappearing around a corner.
Without thinking, he ran.