The storm hit like it meant to peel the skin off the tower. It came from out of nowhere, in the middle of the night… just like a novel.
Ice pellets hissed against the glass; wind bullied the frame into a steady shudder. Zubair called it before anyone asked. "No one out." He drew the curtains to kill the flicker and cut their reflections to a faint smear.
They settled into a trapped rhythm. Stove hot. Rope on the table. Knives out for maintenance. Elias opened his notebook and stared at a blank line he didn't fill. Sera sat near the heat, knees up, the greenhouse casting a wash of green across her face that nobody mentioned.
The building gave one long creak. Then another.
"Just the wind," Lachlan muttered, mostly to himself.
A new sound threaded through the room—soft at first. A wet slap. Pause. Another. Like heavy fabric being dragged one step at a time. It came from below the floor, not under the ice. In the stairwell.
