JOSH.
The rooftop was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the greenhouse interior and the spill of moonlight over glass. The city was silent below — or maybe I'd just trained myself not to hear it anymore.
I sat on the edge of the planter, boots in the soil, hands braced on my knees. Houdini lay curled at my feet. Luna chased her own tail nearby, spinning herself into the edge of the herb bed with a dramatic flop.
Footsteps padded across the gravel.
Jessi.
No shoes. Hoodie. Hair down for the first time since she got here. She moved quietly, like she didn't want to wake the tension we'd all been pretending wasn't thickening by the hour.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Did I ever?"
She gave me a soft, crooked grin and dropped beside me without waiting for permission.
"You checked the feeds again, didn't you."
"West alley," I said. "Someone walked by. Didn't stop. Didn't look up. But…"
"It's starting."
I didn't answer. We both knew it had already started.
She pulled her knees to her chest, watching Luna zig-zag back and forth.
"I've been meaning to ask," she said after a long silence. "How long did the dreams last? Before you started listening to them."
"Too long."
"And you're sure? It's not stress, or trauma, or—"
"I watched my own death from three angles," I said. "Heard every word Rosie said before she stabbed me. Then I heard her say them in real life before she even knocked on my door."
She looked at me carefully, searching for cracks in my voice.
"You didn't tell me that part."
"I didn't want you to think I was crazy."
"Josh," she said, almost laughing, "you turned a condo into a bunker. I already thought you were crazy."
"Fair."
"But," she added, voice lower now, "you're not. You're... prepared. And maybe something more than that."
"Paranoid?"
"Precise."
We sat with that.
Wind brushed through the sunflower stalks. Below us, the reinforced glass held a mirrored reflection of the two of us — seated together, surrounded by life we'd carved out of panic and survival.
"Thank you for staying," I said quietly.
"Thank you for trusting me."
Another pause. Then, her voice more careful now:
"And when the dream ends—if you change it—what happens to us?"
I didn't have an answer.
But I looked at her like I wanted to find one.
--
ROSIE.
She waited in the ruins of the old gas station, crouched beneath the collapsed signage, half-eaten protein bar limp in her hand. The storm had passed, but the air still buzzed with static. That kind of charged quiet, like something watching.
Brent paced the broken curb, boots grinding gravel. Eric leaned against the rusted ice machine, carving something into the concrete with a piece of rebar.
Then the scout returned.
He wasn't much. Young. Wiry. Nervous. Hired for food and shelter and the promise of warmth if this all worked out.
"They've got eyes everywhere," he said, panting, wiping sweat off his lip. "Motion sensors. Feeds. Turrets mounted under the ledges. I counted at least four entry points, all sealed. It's a f***ing fortress."
Brent cursed.
"Told you."
"You didn't tell me they had solar shielding on the windows," the scout snapped back. "Or reinforced entrances. You said we were just bluffing a rich kid with trust issues."
Rosie stood.
Slowly. Quietly. Calm.
"What else did you see?"
The scout swallowed.
"People. Not many. But more than you said. A blonde woman. Some guy in a medical jacket. Dogs. A cow, I think? It's hard to tell—it's dark and the glass doesn't show anything unless you know where to look."
Eric let out a bitter laugh.
"He's watching us. Probably right now."
Rosie's jaw tensed.
"Good."
Brent turned to her, hands clenched.
"So what? We wait? You said he'd let you in."
"I said he used to."
"So what's the plan now?"
She looked at the scout, then back at the building — a shimmering black monolith under a sickle moon.
"We make him feel safe. Comfortable. Like it's over."
"Then?"
She smiled.
"Then we get inside."