The woman who opened the church basement door was dressed in a gray sweater, practical shoes, and a face that stopped Ivy in her tracks—not because it was unfriendly, exactly, but because it was so serene. As though she'd been waiting for this second to arrive for a very long time.
She stepped aside wordlessly, admitting Ivy to the narrow stairway. Elias came behind, glancing at Ivy but saying nothing. He was allowing her to lead. He realized this wasn't his show just yet.
The stairs creaked beneath the weight. At the ground floor, the smell of wet stone and moldy books hit them in the face like a memory. The hall was lined with filing cabinets and stacks of paper taller than Ivy could even bend to lift. It all looked unworked—but cared for, in a way that seemed to say someone had hugged it close.
The woman led them into a back room, where golden light streamed out of an antique desk lamp.
One chair. One heavy binder. A voice recorder.
She indicated the chair. Ivy sat down. Elias stood.
The woman finally spoke.
"My name is Lena Raines. I worked with Michael Carradine. Quietly. Off the record. This place is the last corner of his project that hasn't been erased."
"What project?" Ivy asked.
"Stillpoint was more than a leak shelter," Lena continued. "It was an experiment." Carradine had believed the world wouldn't change through war—it would change through unity. He had been looking for someone who could unite people, not intimidate them. Someone who people would follow not because they were told to… but because they couldn't help it.
She pinned Ivy with a glare. "He found you."
The silence in the room was too much.
Ivy could have sworn someone had just read her diary out to a crowd.
"That's not me," she whispered.
"No?" Lena asked. "Then how did the city find you?" Why are people murmuring your name? Why are strangers putting papers in your hands when they won't even speak to a reporter?"
Ivy shook her head. "I never wanted that."
"That's why it's happening exactly."
Elias, lounging in the doorway, finally spoke. "Why didn't Carradine tell her?"
"He didn't want her to become it out of obligation. Without the shadow of expectation. Without being trained for it. If she became anything, it had to be by choice.
Ivy's voice cracked a bit. "So what now? You're expecting me to be something? Be a revolutionary?"
Lena smiled sadly. "No. We expect you to continue."
She walked to a locked cabinet, pulled out a small black box, and opened it carefully.
Inside: a flash drive and a sealed envelope.
Lena held out the envelope. Ivy took it.
On the front, in Carradine's slanted writing:
"When you've seen enough of the dark."
They left the church just after noon.
The sky had darkened. Heavy clouds overhead. The city pressing in, even in daylight.
Elias was quiet as they walked.
And then, Ivy said to him, "Say it."
"What?"
"Whatever's in your chest?"
He stopped.
"I didn't think you were going to be you," he said in a flat tone. "I thought I was the one who could break things. Bend the story. Be the force. But you…"
He shook his head.
"You're the gravity, Ivy. I'm just what fell into it."
She was speechless.
So she held out her hand.
And for the first time, clasped his.
That night, Ivy opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet.
Typed. Clean.
A roll call of names.
She recognized four of them—men whose lives had quietly fallen apart over the last ten years. One had taken his own life. One vanished. Two were imprisoned on questionable charges.
The fifth name stilled her.
Elias Rourke.
Below it, in red:
"Has potential. But it will need breaking first."
Ivy stared at it.
Her stomach churned.
She looked over at Elias, on her couch, coat tossed over him like a shield.
Carradine had not only observed her.
He'd also observed Elias.
It was midnight, and Ivy snuck out for some air.
She walked three blocks. It rained lightly.
On a whim, she ran into a 24-hour corner store and got a small bottle of dish soap and a cloth.
Then she strolled on over to the historic museum down the street two blocks—the one that had the high glass front that faced the street.
She wiped a section of the window display clear, then reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a marker.
She wrote, in large letters:
"Ask what was buried. Ask who paid for it."
And underneath:
"Stillpoint lives."
And then she vanished.
By morning, photos of the sign were flooding social media.
#StillpointLives was trending.
Someone had filmed Ivy writing it. She had her hood up. Her face was barely visible. But the internet didn't care.
They were not looking for a perfect picture.
They were looking to follow somebody.