The shed sat at the far edge of the compound, away from the lights and traffic, placed where damage would spread outward instead of inward if something went wrong. Concrete still held the day’s heat, and the air around the building carried the dry smell of dust and cooling metal. Two guards stood outside the door, rifles slung, goggles pushed up onto their helmets. One of them wiped grit from his lenses with the heel of his palm as Michelle passed, the motion automatic and tired.

  Inside, the temperature dropped several degrees.

  An industrial fan hummed from the corner, its blades chopping the air into a steady, breath-like rhythm. Cameras mounted along the walls tracked slow arcs, lenses whispering as they adjusted. The light overhead stayed soft and even, chosen to avoid shadows and glare. Everything about the room spoke of containment through restraint.

  Eric lay on a simple cot in the center of it.

  No restraints. No IV. No monitors attached to his skin. Just a thin sheet pulled to his waist, his chest rising and falling in a slow, stubborn rhythm. The fan stirred his hair, lifting it from his forehead and letting it fall again, over and over, as if the room itself tried to coax him awake.

  Michelle stood at the foot of the cot with her arms crossed tight against her chest.

  She told herself she was here to observe. To keep watch. To be useful.

  The lie dissolved within seconds.

  Her boots scuffed against the concrete as she began to pace. Back and forth. Each turn sharpened the tension coiled beneath her ribs. The fan’s hum pressed against her ears. The cameras followed her movement, patient and unblinking.

  “This started with a liquor store,” she said aloud.

  Her voice sounded too loud in the room, as if the walls leaned in to listen. She dragged a hand through her hair, fingers catching briefly before pulling free. “A busted door. Some shelves knocked over. That’s it.”

  She stopped beside the cot and looked down at him.

  “I came to check on you because you didn’t answer your phone,” she said. “Because that’s what people do.”

  Her breath hitched. She turned away and resumed pacing, steps quickening.

  “I’ve watched you tear yourself apart,” she continued. “I’ve watched you heal like it meant nothing. I’ve watched the world bend around you while you acted like it was another bad night.”

  The fan pushed cold air across her face. Goosebumps rose along her arms.

  “All of it,” she said, “for her.”

  She stopped again, this time at his side. Close enough to see the faint shadow beneath his eyes. Close enough to count each rise of his chest.

  “What are you?” she asked.

  The words fell between them and stayed there.

  She swallowed and tried again. “Who are you?”

  Her throat tightened. She pressed her lips together and shook her head, as if the motion could dislodge the thoughts piling up inside her.

  “If we had gotten married,” she said quietly, “would this have been our life?”

  Her laugh broke and turned sharp. “Mystery after mystery. Pieces missing. Truths withheld.”

  She leaned closer, hands braced on the edge of the cot. “How much did you carry alone because you thought you had to?”

  Her fingers curled into the sheet. Knuckles went white.

  “How much of this,” she whispered, “is because I left?”

  The question cut deeper than the others. It echoed in the space between her and the walls, between the fan’s steady pulse and the camera’s silent attention.

  She straightened suddenly, the movement abrupt. Anger surged up, hot and wild, and for a moment it drowned everything else. She stepped forward and struck him across the face.

  The sound cracked through the room.

  Her hand stung immediately, pain blooming across her palm and fingers. She barely felt it. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable, blurring her vision until his face smeared into light and shadow.

  “How much of this,” she demanded, voice breaking, “comes from things you never fixed because you thought nobody was there for you?”

  Her shoulders shook. She dragged in a breath that came out ragged.

  “How would I even know how to be there for you,” she said, softer now, “when you never told me what you were fighting?”

  She reached out, hesitated, then let her hand rest against his shoulder. His skin felt warm beneath her fingers. Solid. Real.

  “You need to wake up,” she said. “We need answers.”

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  Her gaze dropped to his face. “The world needs answers.”

  Her voice fell to a whisper. “I need answers.”

  Silence reclaimed the room.

  The fan kept turning. The cameras kept watching. Eric’s breathing stayed slow and even, indifferent to confession and accusation alike.

  Outside the shed, Celeste leaned against the wall.

  The concrete pressed cool against her back through thin fabric. She kept her posture loose, arms folded, head tilted slightly as if she simply rested. The guards down the way paid her little mind now. Familiarity bred distance. Distance bred carelessness.

  Every word carried through the thin barrier.

  Michelle’s voice cut deeper than Celeste expected. Each sentence landed like a blade, sharp and precise, carving along places Celeste kept sealed. Guilt rose in her chest, tight and heavy, the familiar ache of hindsight pressing forward.

  She shared the questions. She shared the anger. She shared the bitter calculus of absence and consequence.

  Her jaw tightened as Michelle’s words spilled out inside.

  Ten days, Celeste thought.

  Ten days on this world, and already the weight pressed down on all of them.

  She pushed off the wall and paced a short line in the dust, boots crunching softly. Wind swept across the compound again, carrying grit that stung her eyes. She did not blink it away. She welcomed the sensation.

  Oryx needed to wake.

  Not for governments. Not for strategies or alliances. For this.

  For the people standing at the edges of his silence, drowning in questions and hope alike.

  Celeste closed her eyes and breathed through the ache. Somewhere inside the shed, Michelle’s voice fell quiet. The fan continued its steady rhythm, a mechanical heartbeat filling the space where words ran out.

  Celeste opened her eyes and stared at the darkened horizon.

  “How long,” she murmured under her breath, “will you make us wait?”

  The wind carried her words away, scattering them across the desert as the night deepened around the base.

  The sun had started its slow descent by the time Elena and her team returned to the temporary civilian housing wing. Evening light flattened the desert into long bands of amber and rust, dust drifting low across the compound as vehicles rolled past at reduced speed. Soldiers wiped grit from their goggles with practiced irritation, boots crunching against gravel that never stayed settled for long.

  Elena rolled her shoulders as she walked, tension sitting heavy between them. The conversations still rang in her ears.

  Derrick fell into step beside her first, helmet tucked under one arm. “They’re fed,” he said. “They’ve got water. Showers. Beds. Nobody’s being mistreated.”

  “That’s not the complaint,” Elena replied.

  Jamal joined them on her other side, jaw tight. “Families,” he said. “That’s the big one. Kids crying at night. Spouses asking when they can call home. People keep saying the same thing—three days is too long to disappear.”

  Elena nodded. She’d heard it herself. The way voices sharpened when reassurance stopped working. The way calm slid into agitation once routines collapsed.

  Raj caught up next, tablet tucked against his chest like a shield. “Tech’s the other half,” he said. “No phones. No internet. People can’t even send a text. They don’t care about news feeds—they just want to hear a familiar voice.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “We’re letting them play old handheld games like it’s summer camp. That novelty wore off yesterday.”

  They passed a line of prefabricated buildings, white and temporary, floodlights mounted high and glaring as dusk crept in. Inside, silhouettes moved behind drawn curtains. Elena could feel eyes tracking them. Measuring. Waiting.

  “The cover story’s holding,” Derrick added. “For now.”

  Elena stopped walking.

  She turned slowly, letting the team gather in front of her. Wind pushed dust across the pavement, coating boots and pant legs in a thin film that never quite brushed away.

  “A tornado explains damage,” she said. “It doesn’t explain silence.”

  No one argued.

  “They want to go home,” Jamal said quietly. “And they don’t believe anyone who says they can’t.”

  Elena looked back toward the heart of the base, where concrete buildings rose in clean, orderly lines. Somewhere beyond that, decisions were being made. Delays justified. Risks calculated.

  She understood the reasoning. She also understood people. She looked at her team, mind chugging away at the perspectives of her fellow American citizens. She knew the story wouldn't hold for long, and frankly it could be considered a miracle it held even now considering the massive influx of new tech in the world of audio and video.

  “This doesn’t stay contained,” she said. “Not like this.”

  Raj shifted his weight. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

  Elena watched the last edge of the sun slip below the horizon, the compound lights clicking on one by one.

  “Less than they think,” she said.

  The wind picked up again, carrying voices, movement, and impatience through the cooling air.

  The video opened with a wide shot of Primm, Nevada.

  Blattus Rex leaned forward in his chair, elbows planted on the desk, eyes already narrowed. The footage showed damaged storefronts and warped signage, all of it partially obscured beneath enormous white sheets that billowed slightly in the desert wind. Uniformed personnel moved along the edges of the frame, careful, efficient, faces turned away from the camera.

  He paused the video.

  “Alright,” he said, voice flat. “We’re already starting strong.”

  Chat scrolled fast along the side of the screen. He ignored it for the moment, eyes fixed on the frozen image. The sheets dominated the shot. Clean. Uniform. Tied down at regular intervals like someone had taken the time to do it right.

  “Here’s the thing,” he continued. “I’ve seen tornado damage. Everybody’s seen tornado damage. Tornadoes scatter stuff. They don’t tuck it in.”

  He hit play again, letting the clip run for a few seconds before stopping it once more. His finger jabbed toward the screen.

  “Why are the buildings covered?”

  He leaned back, arms spreading slightly. “Seriously. Why are they covered?”

  Chat started lighting up.

  “Don’t give me the ‘safety’ answer,” Blattus Rex said, waving a hand. “You don’t throw white sheets over half a block because of loose debris. You fence it off. You put up tape. You don’t make it look like a damn gallery exhibit.”

  He scrubbed the video backward and replayed a section where the camera lingered too long on a wrapped structure. The sheet fluttered, revealing a glimpse of something dark beneath before snapping back into place.

  “That,” he said, tapping the desk, “is evidence management behavior. That’s what that looks like. I’ve watched this movie enough times to know the genre.”

  He glanced briefly at chat, then back to the screen.

  “And here’s the part where people tell me I’m overthinking it,” he went on. “I’m not saying I know what happened. I’m saying the explanation on offer doesn’t match the presentation.”

  The news anchor’s voice droned on about emergency response and National Guard assistance. Blattus Rex muted it.

  “When the story is real,” he said, “it’s messy. It contradicts itself. Different agencies say different things. People screw up. This?” He gestured broadly. “This is clean. Too clean.”

  He leaned forward again, eyes sharp.

  “Whenever you see something like this, you should ask one question: who benefits from everyone calming down right now?”

  Chat slowed. Messages lingered longer on screen.

  “I don’t buy the tornado story,” Blattus Rex said. “I buy that it’s buying time.”

  He unpaused the video and let it run, watching the white sheets ripple in the desert wind as the camera pulled back.

  “Whatever happened in Primm,” he added quietly, “they don’t want you looking at it yet.”

  He nodded once, firm.

  “And that alone should tell you everything you need to know.”