The glow of the monitor faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the desk lamp to fill the room. Amy leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as if that could push away the knot in her chest. The events of the past few days refused to settle — they tangled in her thoughts, tightening with every memory of laughter, of trust, of faces she could not afford to lose again.
Her gaze shifted to the open folder beside her. The blueprint of her grandmother's house lay spread across the desk, edges held down by a mug and a half-empty box of snacks. Lines and annotations sprawled across the paper in neat precision, every wall and corridor waiting for her pen to decide its fate.
A fortress.
That's what it needed to be.
She pulled a small notebook closer, flipping to a fresh page. At the top, she wrote: Friendship Survival Pack. It was an absurd name, one Sara would probably tease her for, but it made the weight in her chest a little easier to bear. Shelter, supplies, escape routes — everything she wished she'd had the first time the world ended. This time, she would be ready. They all would.
The hours blurred as she worked, marking storage rooms, potential safe zones, and choke points where the house could be sealed off in an emergency. She factored in the technology she could source from Nymira's connections, weaving in layers of protection that would make the walls more than just brick and steel.
It was only when her pen slipped from tired fingers that she realized how late it had become. The clock on the wall ticked quietly past midnight. The plan was still raw — she would need to explore every hidden corner of the house to refine it, see which spaces could be repurposed, and which secrets might already be waiting for her.
But not tonight.
Amy gathered the blueprints and notes into a careful stack, sliding them into the desk drawer before turning off the lamp. As darkness settled over the room, she allowed herself one last glance at the plan's title.
Tomorrow, she would begin.
Tonight, she needed to sleep.
…
The winter light woke her before the alarm did, spilling pale and cold through the guestroom window.
Amy pushed herself upright, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The house was still — not dead silent, but holding a kind of quiet that was alive, like a great animal breathing in the dark.
She slid from the bed and padded toward the bathroom. Steam rose in slow coils as she lowered herself into the onsen tub, the heated water loosening muscles still tight from hours spent hunched over the blueprints last night. She let herself drift for a few minutes, eyes half-lidded, before the day's work pulled her back.
By the time she stepped out, she felt sharper. She dressed simply: black cargo pants, a fitted thermal, and socks soft enough to move without sound. Her hair went up in a low, practical tail.
Breakfast was quick — toast, eggs, and tea from her grandmother's old tin of leaves. She ate at the counter, the rolled blueprints waiting beside her. Her gaze kept returning to them, tracing the faint lines that marked places she'd never known were there.
When the last sip of tea was gone, she gathered the papers and started.
She began on the second floor, where the hallway branched toward the standard bedrooms. The air here still carried the faintest scent of lavender from old sachets in the drawers.
The first room she entered — bright, with a wide window and enough floor space for comfort — she set aside for Lumi. Warm colors, personal touches, and maybe a view of the garden would suit her.
The next bedroom, similar in size but tucked away at the quieter end of the hall, she earmarked for Risa. Close enough to the stairs for quick access, far enough from distractions.
Her own room was already chosen. She didn't mark one for Sara — not officially. Some part of her liked the ambiguity.
The fourth standard bedroom she chose for conversion into a gym: reinforced flooring, compact equipment, and space for resistance training. A necessity, not a luxury.
Another unused room would become an entertainment space — VR setups, films, books, a place for minds to rest when the world outside refused to. She also penciled in a small relaxation room for meditation or quiet work, separate from the library.