The next evening hung heavy over the motel, the air sticky and suffocating, like even the sky couldn't breathe right. The neon sign buzzed weakly outside, flickering like a pulse on the verge of flatlining.

Inside Room 8, Jade was pacing, her boots scuffing the stained carpet in endless, frustrated circles. But Cloe wasn't pacing. She sat frozen on the edge of the bed, fists tangled in the hem of her hoodie, twisting the fabric so hard her knuckles had gone pale.

Her phone sat in her lap, screen dark and useless, but her eyes kept flicking to it like sheer force of will could make it light up.

"They should've called," she whispered, her voice cracking at the edges. "They should've called by now, Jade. Cameron wouldn't just vanish. He knows better."

Jade stopped pacing, her own worry buried under a mask of forced calm. "They're with Kon. You know how he operates. No calls. No slip-ups. They're off the map until he says otherwise."

"That's bullshit!" Cloe snapped, the panic ripping through her composure like paper. Her eyes were wide, wild, brimming with tears she was trying hard not to let fall. "Cameron wouldn't leave me in the dark like this. Not for this long. Not unless something's wrong."

Her voice cracked on that last word — wrong — like it hurt to say it out loud.

Jade crossed her arms, trying to stay grounded for both their sakes. "Panicking isn't gonna help."

But Cloe was already too far gone, her breathing shallow, words tumbling out fast and frantic. "You didn't see him, Jade. The way he looked before they left — like he knew he wasn't coming back. Like he was trying to protect me by not saying it. I know that look. I know him."

A sharp knock at the door made her flinch so hard she nearly dropped the phone, breath catching in her throat.

Jade moved first, checking the peephole, jaw clenching when she saw Ben on the other side. She opened the door, only a crack.

"You better have news."

Ben stepped inside, and the second Cloe saw the look on his face — that calm, detached mask — the last sliver of hope cracked right through her.

"No news," he said flatly. "But no bodies, either."

Cloe was consumed by fear and anxiety for her friends, rejecting Ben's attempts at reassurance. Jade's touch offered little comfort as the oppressive silence and ticking clock amplified the tension. The screech of tires outside jolted them back to reality, Jade rushing to the window, their hopes hanging on the possibility of their friends' return.

"It's them," Jade breathed, barely able to believe it. "It's Kon's car."

Before the words even sank in, Cloe was already fumbling with the door, heart pounding so hard it rattled her ribs. "Cameron—" she choked out, voice breaking entirely now. "Dylan—"

Sasha and Yasmin, both in the hallway, had heard the screech of the car too. By the time Cloe had the door yanked open, the four girls were already stampeding out into the parking lot, feet slapping against the concrete, breath sharp and fast like they'd been holding it in for hours.

Kon's car rolled to a stop, engine coughing once before cutting off. The doors opened, and there they were — Cameron and Dylan, both looking pale, ragged, and worn the hell down. Cameron's hair was a mess, shirt wrinkled and damp with sweat; Dylan looked even worse, his usual playful grin long gone, replaced by a haunted stare.

Cloe didn't even wait. She bolted, nearly stumbling over her own feet, and crashed into Cameron's chest, arms locking around him tight like if she let go he'd disappear all over again.

"You idiot," she sobbed, fists hitting his chest in a weak, panicked flurry before clutching him harder. "You scared the hell out of me! I thought—I thought—!"

Cameron just wrapped his arms around her, holding her like a man who'd crawled out of a grave and was only just starting to feel alive again. His voice was soft, hoarse, but steady. "I'm here, Angel. I'm here."

Jade was right behind her, pulling Dylan into a tight, almost desperate hug, no teasing, no jokes — just raw relief. Dylan flinched at first, stiff and unsure, but then let himself sink into the contact, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, like he hadn't allowed himself to feel anything until that moment.

Sasha stood back for a moment, swallowing hard, her hands trembling at her sides as she looked them both over, cataloging every scrape, every bruise, every sign that they were back — but not unscathed. Yasmin reached for her hand, squeezing it tight, grounding her before she could spiral.

Kon climbed out of the driver's seat last, lit a cigarette like nothing had happened, and leaned against the hood, watching the tearful reunion without a word. His face gave nothing away.

Byron's boots hit the pavement with slow, careful steps — but his mind was racing, a storm behind his tired eyes. The moment he saw Cameron and Dylan, a sharp, suffocating wave of familiarity stabbed through his chest. That hollow look in their faces... he knew it too well. He'd worn it once. Hell, some days he still did.

He moved past the girls, silent and steady, stopping just a few feet away from the boys. Cameron's arm was still around Cloe, Dylan still clutching Jade's sleeve like a child who'd just woken from a nightmare. Neither of them looked right. Their bodies were here, but their heads... were somewhere else.

Byron tilted his head, squinting through the last of the fading sunlight, then quietly asked, "What did he do to you?"

Dylan's throat bobbed in a hard swallow, and Cameron didn't answer at first. Byron didn't push — he knew that kind of silence. It wasn't defiance. It was survival.

But he stepped in closer anyway, lowering his voice until it was stripped of all sharpness, leaving nothing but honesty.

"You don't have to tell me now," he said, eyes flicking between them. "But I've been where you are. I know what it feels like when someone rewrites you from the inside out. You start doubting if any piece of you is still yours."

That hit Cameron harder than he expected, his breath hitching as if Byron had peeled away the last shield he had left. For a second, the two men just stared at each other — no walls, no pretense, just two broken mirrors recognizing the same cracks.

Sasha had finally closed the distance too, standing just beside Byron. Her hand brushed against his arm, her way of reminding him she was still there, still real, still solid. He let out the softest breath, leaning into the anchor of her touch without a word.

She, voice rough but steady, broke the quiet. "They need to sit down. They look like they haven't eaten in days."

Byron nodded, glancing toward the motel. "Let's get them inside. Then we figure out what the hell happened."

Cloe still hadn't let go of Cameron, gripping his hand like it was the only thing stopping her from shattering. She guided him back toward Room 7 without waiting for anyone else, her other hand wiping at her face, furious with herself for crying.

Dylan walked beside Jade, slower, like his legs were remembering how to move. Byron trailed behind them all, the last line of defense — both knowing damn well this wasn't over, and whatever Kon had done... the real damage was still coming to the surface.

His eyes, staring at the distance, watching the group get away but not reacting. Kon and Ben's damage has been done.

As the motel door clicked shut behind him, Byron lit a cigarette with shaky fingers, exhaling toward the ceiling with a low, bitter chuckle. His feet circled the small but empty room as he collected himself. Whatever Kon wanted, he got it for sure. Cameron doesn't seem to be the type to reveal information, but Dylan? Then again, who knows?

Another click was heard.

Byron's body stiffened instantly, cigarette dangling precariously from his lip. The sound wasn't from the lighter this time — it came from the adjoining door between his room and Sasha's. He turned slowly, the kind of slow that meant don't panic yet, just assess — but he already knew. This wasn't paranoia. This was instinct sharpened by trauma.

"Who's there?" His voice was gravel-worn, tired, like it had been dragged through hell and back — because it had.

No answer.

He stepped closer, crushing the half-smoked cigarette into the cheap glass ashtray like he was extinguishing something alive. As he reached the door, the handle twitched once — then again. Byron didn't breathe.

Then it stopped.

He leaned in, ear to wood, and that's when he heard it — not movement, not breath. Something worse. A low, distorted whisper, like a voice fed through a broken radio. A vibration.

"…"

Byron's heart dropped.

He yanked the door open — but the other room was empty. No Sasha. No Jade. No Dylan. Just the low hum of a motel fridge and a dead-silent TV screen still glowing faint blue.

Then he saw it — on the bed. A folder.

Classic manila. Just sitting there like it belonged to someone. No dust, no label. Just waiting.

He closed the door behind him, slower this time. His fingers trembled as he picked it up and flipped it open.

Inside: photos. Surveillance-style. Blurry, but clear enough. Sasha in a parking lot. Cameron at a pharmacy. Jade looked over her shoulder in the van. All timestamped. All within the last 48 hours.

But the last photo? That one froze his blood.

It was Burdine.

Strapped to a chair, her head slumped forward, a stark light above her making her hair look ghost-white.

And scrawled under the photo in permanent black marker:
"YOUR THING? OURS NOW."

Byron's breath hitched. His knees nearly gave out.

He turned toward the mirror, blinking hard, like maybe if he looked fast enough he'd see something standing behind him.

But there was no one.

His throat let out such a loud scream it blood came out. Yasmin and Cloe ran in his room, confused by his reaction.

"They took Burdine, they took Burdine!", his voice rambled as the two millennials tried to connect him back to reality.

Yasmin reached him first, grabbing his face with both hands, trying to anchor him. "Byron! Byron, look at me—what do you mean they took Burdine? Who?!"

Cloe hovered close behind, eyes darting around the room until they landed on the open folder. Her hand shot out and grabbed it, flipping through the photos. The last one made her gasp audibly. "What the fuck is this?"

Byron was shaking, soaked in sweat, pupils blown wide like he'd just seen a ghost crawl out of his chest. "They—Kon, Ben, the ESA, whoever's running this fucking nightmare circus—they have her. That's her! Look at her! They tagged her like some test rat!"

He tried to stand, legs buckling as he reached for the wall. Yasmin didn't let go. "Byron, breathe—please. We're not gonna let them keep her. But we need you here with us. You can't spiral now. What. Do. You. Mean?"

But he already was. His fingernails clawed at the wall like he wanted to dig his way out of the motel room, out of his skin, out of the reality crashing down.

"She wanted to get better," he choked. "She was getting better. I saw it—I fucking saw it in her eyes. She was fighting."

Cloe gritted her teeth, pacing. "Yasmin, we need to move! We will be next."

Yasmin finally got Byron to the bed. He collapsed, shoulders convulsing with silent sobs. His voice cracked as he whispered, "They broke her once before. If they do it again, she might not come back."

Yasmin slapped him. "Stop. Breathe. We will find her," her voice, calmer than her action.

There was silence, heavy and full of rage, before Byron muttered low, venom curling on his tongue, "I'm gonna kill Kon. With my own two fucking hands."

Cloe nodded. "Did you really have to- nevermind, Pretty Princess. This seems serious…"

Jade was still tying her hair up, face flushed like she'd run straight from the van. "What the hell's going on? We heard screaming."

Sasha stormed in after, already scanning the room with hard, alert eyes. She saw Byron's posture, the open folder on the floor, Yasmin's trembling hand. "Someone better start explaining fast."

Cloe passed the folder silently to Sasha, who took one look at the last photo and visibly paled. "No… no, no, no. They took her?"

Byron sat upright with a jolt, his whole body trembling like something inside him was trying to rip its way out. "They strapped her down. Look at her! Look at her face—that's not sedation, that's dissociation. She's gone. And if we don't get her back soon, she might not remember who she is at all."

Jade starred, lips pressed tight, eyes wide and glassy. "Why her?"

"Because she knows something," Yasmin said, voice low, eyes locking with Byron's. "About him. Something they don't want getting out. Something even he doesn't fully remember."

Byron's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I-I may have revealed my folder to her… I was desperate and Darla was around I wanted to explain myself- "

"She was right," Sasha muttered, closing the folder like it was contaminated. "You are allowed to express yourself."

Byron lurched to his feet, fury shaking through his bones. "I'm going out there. I don't care if I die doing it. I'm not leaving her behind."

"Oh, no, you're not," Cloe said, stepping in front of him. "Because you're not going anywhere."

"What?" he snapped. "Don't try to stop me—"

"I'm not trying," she said, calm but unyielding. "I am. Byron, you step outside, and you're a target with a neon sign on your back. You're compromised, mentally and physically. If they're watching—and let's be honest, they are—they'll take you next or get the information straight from you."

"I refuse to stay here. You can't ask me to sit here and—"

"You're not sitting. You're being logical for a fucking minute," Sasha cut in. "You're the reason we know what we're up against. But right now? You're too close to the edge. You'll get caught or worse, and we need you alive when we get Burdine back. You are having a mental breakdown, dude."

Jade grabbed the keys off the dresser. "We'll go. Me, Sasha, Cloe, Yasmin. We'll track down leads, shake down whoever we need to. We'll find her."

Byron's breath shook in his chest. "She's all I have."

The girls looked at each other, confused on why the change of heart. Byron? Having only Burdine? Something definitely happened.

"And we're not letting you lose her," Yasmin promised. "But if you want her back whole, you have to stay whole too."

Byron didn't argue again. He just nodded, eyes glassy, hands trembling.

The girls turned toward the door—soldiers in stilettos, vengeance in every step.

Byron sat back on the bed as it clicked shut behind them.

And the silence left in their wake was deafening.