Page 4 of The Monster You Made
The floor trembles beneath my boots. Structural supports groan, weakened by charges and fire. I don’t have long before the whole bunker comes down around me. I gather weapons, whatever ammunition remains, and the single drive I salvaged, the one containing Declan’s name. Everything else burns.
Smoke claws my throat as I climb toward the emergency exit. Behind me, flames lick higher, devouring every secret I ever kept. My lungs scream for air. My vision narrows. Still, I climb. One rung, then another, boots slipping on scorched steel.
At the hatch, I pause, dragging in a ragged breath. Outside, the world waits, a hunting ground already crawling with enemies. I don’t know where Vera is. I don’t know if she’s alive or if the Crown’s hounds have already closed in. But I know this: She won’t survive what’s coming unless someone tears out the throat of the machine hunting her.
I slam the hatch open. Cold night air rushes in, sharp and clean compared to the bunker’s rot. Stars wheel above me, unblinking, indifferent. I haul myself out into the darkness just as the ground shudders with collapse. The bunker gives a final groan and folds inward, a dying beast consuming itself.
I don’t look back. I can’t. Ghosts live down there now, and I’ve carried enough of them already.
I shoulder the rifle and melt into the night. Declan St. Croix has shown his face. Cadmus has declared war. And Vera, whether she knows it or not, is the prize they all want.
They think they can claim her. They think they can claim me. They’re wrong.
Chapter 2 - Vera
The rain has followed me across borders, thin sheets of silver that cling to my coat and soak through the paper soles of borrowed shoes. I keep moving. Cities swallow you if you let them. I learned that quickly: Don’t linger, don’t leave patterns, don’t give anyone time to notice the way your shoulders tense when a siren wails. Exile is not freedom. Exile is the art of becoming invisible.
I sit at the edge of a terminal in a nameless town, fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets above my head. The air reeks of diesel and wet wool. People cluster in tired knots, waiting for buses that may or may not arrive. I watch the reflections in the windows more than I watch the schedules. The Crown taught me paranoia, but Cadmus refines it, whispers say they swallow whole governments. If the Crown catalogued me, Cadmus will dissect me.
My fingers ache from clutching the strap of the satchel pressed to my side. Inside: scraps of proof. Copies of files, fragments of ledgers, testimonies scribbled in hands that shook too hard to be neat. I should have destroyed them. Carrying evidence is carrying fire, and yet I can’t let it go. Without proof, I’m just a runaway whisper. With proof, I’m a target with a price too high for mercy.
The girl beside me fidgets with the hem of her coat. She can’t be more than fifteen. Her eyes flick to the men at the far end of the terminal, two of them, broad-shouldered, not waiting for any bus. They scan faces instead of timetables. I recognize the posture. Hunters. Not amateurs either. Their movements aretoo careful, too rehearsed. A Crown leash, maybe. Or Cadmus is already bleeding into the seams of Europe.
I lean toward the girl, voice low. “Is someone waiting for you?”
Her knuckles whiten around a crumpled ticket. She shakes her head.
“Then don’t look at them,” I whisper. “When the doors open, walk fast. Don’t stop, don’t talk, and don’t look back.”
She blinks at me, caught between fear and confusion. I don’t wait for gratitude. Gratitude is a luxury for safer people. The bus hisses to a halt, doors yawning open. I stand with her, shielding her with my body as we push through the crowd. The men watch, but they don’t follow, not yet. Maybe they’re weighing the risk. Maybe they’ve already marked me.
On the bus, the windows fog quickly. The girl sits near the back, shoulders hunched, eyes wide. I take the opposite aisle, keeping her in sight but not in orbit. If they’re after her, I’ll intervene. If they’re after me, I don’t want her blood on my conscience.
The engine grumbles. The bus lurches forward. The men remain on the curb, silhouettes blurred by rain. One raises a phone. A single flash of light marks me. Not a picture. A signal.
My stomach knots. It’s beginning again.
The bus shudders as it climbs out of the valley, the rain streaking sideways across the windows in pale veins. I pull my coat tighter, though the damp has already claimed me. The passengers sit in heavy silence, faces drawn, shoulders hunched inward as if they can make themselves small enough to escapethe gloom. Everyone is tired. Everyone wants to disappear. It’s the perfect camouflage.
I keep my eyes on the reflections. In glass, you see more than what’s in front of you; you see what hunts behind. The girl keeps glancing my way, nervous, but she does what I told her. Head down, mouth shut, body tucked into the corner like she could dissolve into the fabric. Good. She’ll live longer that way.
At the second stop, an old woman climbs aboard, dripping from the storm. She sits two rows ahead of me, muttering to herself in a language I half recognize. My fingers itch to translate, to turn meaning into a weapon, but I force myself still. Not every shadow hides a knife. Some are just shadows. It’s the ones that don’t blink that matter.
I press my palm against the satchel. The edges of the folders bite through the canvas, sharp reminders of the burden I carry. Pages that survived fire, stolen drives cracked open in internet cafés where the owners didn’t ask questions as long as you paid cash. Testimonies scrawled on napkins, receipts smudged by tears. Evidence, scattered and broken, but together it tells a story. A story about how the Crown bought loyalty with chains disguised as opportunities. About how Cadmus has been feeding on the marrow of the world while the rest of us learned to look away.
Once, I thought the truth was enough. That if you gathered it, exposed it, held it up to the light, people would recoil in horror and demand change. I know better now. Truth isn’t enough. Truth is fragile. It must be carried like a blade, and only someone willing to cut with it can make it matter.
The bus groans as it slows for the border. My heart kicks against my ribs. Border posts are the worst, uniforms, scanners, and questions asked by men who’ve already decided the answers. I slide lower in my seat, hood shadowing my face. I’ve traded names so often that my tongue stumbles when I’m asked who I am. In this moment, I am no one. I have to be.
The officers board, wet coats steaming in the heat. They move aisle by aisle, eyes scanning, hands resting on holstered pistols. The girl two rows behind me trembles. I want to reach out, steady her, but I can’t afford the attention. Instead, I slip a folded note into the aisle, nudging it under her boot with the edge of mine. She bends as if adjusting her laces and finds it:
Breathe. Look bored. You belong here.
The officer pauses by my seat. His gaze lingers too long, sliding over my face, down to the satchel. I keep my eyes unfocused, my body slouched, as if I’ve been on too many buses and seen too many storms to care. The silence stretches. Then he grunts, steps past, and keeps moving. My pulse thunders in my ears.
When they leave, the bus exhales. Engines rumble, wheels turn, conversations flicker to life again in hushed tones. I release the breath I’ve been holding and catch the girl’s eyes. She nods once, small, almost invisible. Gratitude without weight. Good. She’s learning.
The rain eases by the time we reach the city. Not enough to clear the air, just enough to leave everything slick and shining under the streetlamps. The bus empties in a spill of bodies, each hurrying in a different direction. I slip into the flow, shoulders rounded, gait casual, one more shadow among many. The girlvanishes toward the train station, swallowed by the crowd. I let her go. Saving her once is enough. Saving her twice is a promise I can’t keep.
