(Isobel's Point Of View)
The safe house turned out to be a small cottage tucked into the woods, the kind of place you'd rent for a romantic weekend getaway if your life wasn't currently imploding. It sat low among pines, the roof dark with age, a ribbon of gravel leading up to it that crunched under the tires like brittle paper.
Marcus pulled up to the gravel driveway and cut the engine. The car's low thrum died and left an odd, sudden silence — wind in the branches, the distant creak of wood settling, a single bird giving a sharp, suspicious call. A smell of damp earth and old fireplaces moved through the open windows as if the house itself had exhaled.
"This is it," he said. "There's food in the fridge, firewood out back. No internet, but the cell signal should work if you need to make calls."
"No internet?" I asked. "How am I supposed to watch the world tear me apart in real-time?"
