I woke to the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafting through the apartment, pulling me from a restless sleep laced with nightmares of gunshots and blood-soaked snow. My body ached like hell—the bullet wounds throbbing with every breath—but the smell was a welcome distraction. Blinking against the morning light filtering through the curtains, I sat up slowly on the mattress, wincing as pain lanced through my shoulder. Another day in this nightmare, but at least I was alive.
Sylvia was in the kitchenette, humming softly as she flipped something in a pan, her fox tail swishing in time with her movements. She glanced over, her amber eyes lighting up. "Morning, sleepyhead. Figured you'd wake up to food."
I rubbed my eyes, forcing a grin despite the haze of pain. "Smells delicious. Why didn't you cook like this when we were traveling from my old house? We could've used some gourmet roadside meals instead of jerky and energy bars."
She laughed, plating up whatever she was making. "Hey, back then we were on the run—cooking meant stopping, and stopping meant risk. Besides, you were the survival expert. Now? We've got time... sorta." She brought over two plates: scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, simple but heavenly. One for her, one for me. We ate sitting on the mattress, the warmth of the food chasing away some of the chill from the night before.
As I forked up the eggs, the flavors bursting on my tongue, I glanced at her. "Thanks, Sylvia. Seriously." She shrugged, but her tail flicked with quiet pride. We ate in companionable silence for a bit, the only sounds the distant hum of the TV news in the background—more reports on the escalating hybrid tensions, no doubt.
Once the plates were cleared, I set mine aside. "Could we check on Miko? I need to see her."
Sylvia nodded, standing and offering a hand to help me up. "Sure. After we're done here, though—you're still wobbly." She cleared the dishes quickly, then steadied me as I got to my feet, the pain sharpening but manageable. The old apartment wasn't far—just a short walk down the block, the snow from yesterday crunching under our boots, fresh flakes starting to fall again. Sylvia looped her arm through mine, her hybrid strength subtle but supportive. "Easy does it. Don't want you reopening those wounds."
We reached the door, and Sylvia knocked softly before entering. The place looked much like ours—sparse, but lived-in. My heart leaped as I spotted Miko on the couch, propped up with pillows, bandages wrapped around her torso and leg. She was awake, thank god, her cat ears perking up weakly at the sight of me. Her face was pale, but her amber eyes brightened. "You look like hell," she teased, her voice hoarse but steady.
I rushed to her side—well, hobbled, really—kneeling beside the couch and taking her hand. "You're one to talk. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a bus... and shot." She winced but managed a small purr. "So, what's the plan now, genius?"
I squeezed her hand, glancing around at Sylvia and Elena, who'd emerged from the kitchen with a mug of tea. "Still the same—Canada, then Europe. Unless anyone has a better one."
The room fell quiet as everyone mulled it over. Sylvia paced, her tail flicking thoughtfully. "Hide out longer? Wait for the heat to die down?" Elena shook her head. "No, with Trent types everywhere, staying's riskier." Miko nodded weakly. "Europe sounds safest—hybrids have rights there. But getting there..."
We brainstormed—alternate routes, disguises, even Mexico again—but nothing beat the original: passport from Kira, cross to Canada, boat to Europe. "It's the best shot," I said finally. "We heal up, then go."
The door burst open then, Elena—no, wait, she was already here. Wait, it was Elena entering? No—actually, Elena had been in the kitchen, but now she was coming back in from outside, her cheeks flushed from the cold, a small envelope in hand. She spotted me and froze for a second, then smiled. "You're up! Good. And... I picked this up this morning." She handed me the envelope—the passport from Kira, sleek and official-looking, Miko's photo inside with forged details.
"Perfect timing," I said, relief flooding me. "Thanks, Elena."
Miko flipped through it weakly. "Now we just need a car... or some way to Canada. Can't exactly hitchhike like this."
I nodded. "We'll figure it. Most likely after New Year's—give you time to heal, till you can get up without much pain."
We talked logistics a bit more—borrowing a car, maybe from a contact Kira knew—when suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from outside. Everyone froze. "What the—?" Sylvia muttered, tail lashing.
I hobbled to the window, peering out into the snowy street. A woman was running, coat flapping, pursued by... shadows? No, figures in the distance, shouts carrying on the wind. "Screaming... looks like trouble." My gut twisted—Trent? Or more anti-hybrid violence?
Before we could react, sirens wailed in the distance. Police cars screeched around the corner, lights flashing blue and red against the white snow. The screaming intensified— "He's got a gun!" someone yelled—and then chaos: officers piling out, shouts of "Freeze!" met with defiant curses. Gunshots cracked the air, sharp and final, the echoes bouncing off buildings.
We watched in tense silence as it unfolded—a shootout, quick and brutal. A few minutes later, it was over: silence blanketed the street again, broken only by the wail of approaching ambulances.
That night, before sleep, I checked the news on my phone, the screen's glow casting harsh shadows in the dim apartment. Headlines screamed: "Local Man Shot in Standoff with Police—Linked to Hybrid Massacre." Trent. He'd been cornered after attempting to shoot at officers during a routine stop, screaming about "cleaning the freaks." He'd opened fire first, they said, and paid the price. Responsible for a string of hybrid killings in town, including the bus massacre. Dead.
Relief mixed with grim satisfaction. One threat down—but the world was full of more.