Lenna Pov
It's been hours. Hours since Dad stormed into Amiriah's room and everything exploded. Hours since we last saw the child—her small, sleeping form in Dad's arms. Hours since that moment of pure horror, watching Kelani recoil, run, vanish.
My nerves are shredded. I've looked everywhere—upstairs, downstairs, every guest room, closets, even the wine cellar, desperate enough to check under beds and in linen cabinets. Every empty space makes my anxiety spike higher: Where would a terrified little girl run in a house full of strangers?
We can't even call for her by name. I don't know what she's called. I don't even know how old she is, really. All I know is the look in her eyes as she ran—a look I swear I've seen before, in Amiriah, all those years ago.
My phone rang, jolting me out of my panic. I fumbled to answer, staring at the wall of faces in the family group FaceTime. Everyone's shouting, the panic on their faces matching mine.
"Me and Tara searched everywhere. There's no sign of the child," Hayden said, his jaw tight. Tara, pale but determined, echoed his words.
Kario's voice came through next, tight as a wire: "I looked with my shadows, brought the soldiers, checked the grounds... nothing. It's like she vanished."
Zuri and Zari were both on another camera, their faces grim. "No trace here," Zuri said.
"We tried tracking her shadow, but it's being blocked—or she's not casting one," Zari added, shaking her head.
My mother, Amara, was openly crying. "She's too little. She's alone and scared—please, please, we have to hurry."
Before I could answer, a chill prickled down my spine. Something in the back of my mind drew my gaze to the ventilation shafts. I'd spent enough years hacking this house's security to know where every vent led. On the main floor, the vent fans ended just above the utility room—and the blades moved fast when running.
I heard a faint metallic clatter—a rhythmic, sickening thump of something falling and hitting its way down the metal ducts. Instinct gripped me. Shit, no...
I dropped my phone and ran, shouting for anyone nearby. As I rounded the corner to the vent, I could hear something get caught in the fan—the sound of a small body, not an object. I let my dark matter flare, pouring every ounce I had over the spinning blades, freezing them as the vent cover buckled.
Then, in a nightmare moment, a little body dropped through the open vent. "SHIT—NO!" I screamed, catching her in my dark matter and pulling her gently toward me.
Blood was everywhere. The girl's hand was purple and swollen, all her little fingers broken and bent; her head was gushing blood from a deep gash. Her breathing was faint, barely even there. She was unconscious, cold, her fragile body limp against my chest.
Panic and rage exploded through me as I ran screaming through the house. "HELP! I NEED HELP! SHE'S HURT! GOD, HELP! DOCTOR, DOCTOR—SOMEONE CALL THE FUCKING DOCTOR!"
I knew the family was behind me, but I didn't care. I saw their horrified faces, saw Tara press Harrison against her chest, saw Amara burst into sobs right there in the hallway.
"We need a doctor!" I screamed, covered in blood, my hands shaking. "She doesn't have long—the cut won't stop bleeding, she's losing too much, she can't—SHE CAN'T DIE, AMIRAH CAN'T LOSE HER!"
Hayden grabbed his phone and started barking orders. Seconds blurred into minutes. Doctors rushed in with a crash cart and equipment. I barely let them take the child from my arms—I had to see her, to feel her, one last time before she disappeared behind a closed door. They shoved me aside and I heard the words: transfusion, surgery, critical, hurry.
I tried to follow but they blocked me: "You can't come in. We'll do our best. Wait here."
Covered in blood, shaking with adrenaline and grief, I stumbled into the living room and straight at my father. I didn't hesitate; I wrenched my arm back, ready to break something. Only Hayden's hands grabbed me, holding me back.
Rage poured from me like poison. "THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT! If only you'd listened to me, left Amiriah's child alone, waited for her to introduce us! Now look—now look! She's in that operating room because of you. Why couldn't you WAIT?"
I was sobbing, spitting the words, but I didn't care. He had to hear it. "Why are you so selfish? You better hope—pray—that child makes it out of surgery alive. Because if she dies, you will be responsible for not one death, but two—your granddaughter and your daughter. Oh God, this would be the breaking point for Amiriah. You will lose her forever."
No one spoke. Not my mother, who just cried, nor my siblings, who stared at my hands, still soaked in blood. Outside, the night pressed cold and silent against the windows, but in the living room, heartbreak and fear hovered, heavy, over us all.
If that little girl didn't come back to us, nothing would be the same—especially not for Amiriah. Especially not for me.