Chapter 37
2292words
Unnamed Remote Location
Late Night
The storm outside had quieted, but inside, the silence was tense—measured not in noise, but in pauses.
One man leaned against the window frame, arms folded, gaze fixed beyond the glass.
The other sat across from him at a table strewn with surveillance reports, half-burned photographs, and redacted dossiers.
“She is the prototype,” the man at the window said.
The seated man didn’t look up. “She was never a theory.”
A silence stretched between them—long, weighted.
“They know it too,” the man at the window added quietly. “They’ve stopped searching. Now they’re hunting.”
The one seated turned a page with measured care. “Then we’re out of time.”
The other turned from the window, face half in shadow. “What happens when they reach her?”
The answer came without hesitation. “Then we take her out of the equation.”
His voice didn’t waver—but his hand, just for a second, curled into a fist.
“You’d do that to her?” the other asked. No accusation. Just… fatigue.
“If it’s her or the world?” A long breath. “You already know the answer.”
Another silence.
Then, softer:
“I keep hoping I’m wrong.”
“You’re not,” the man at the table said. “We both know it. We always have.”
A file slid across the table. A single photo was paperclipped to the front.
She looked younger in it—eyes fierce even behind the bruises.
The man by the window didn’t pick it up. He didn’t have to.
“She knows, doesn’t she?” he asked.
The seated man hesitated. “Enough to feel it. Not enough to name it.”
The air between them changed.
“And him?”
“He’s the variable.”
“He’s in love with her.”
“He always was.”
Thunder rumbled somewhere far away.
The conversation was over. The war wasn’t.
Saturday | March 6, 1993
Apartment Complex | Kristina’s Floor’s Balcony
Late afternoon
The first thing he noticed was the light—how it fell across the cracked concrete, catching on the rims of her coins. She had a whole row of them, cleaned to a shine and lined up with mathematical precision. Heads up. Equal spacing.
She couldn’t have been more than nine.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched from the stairwell, unseen, the way he often did.
There was something about her—small frame, straight back, the calm with which she ordered the world around her. Not like other kids. Not chaotic. Focused. Sharp.
He walked over eventually. Sat on the far end of the bench. Quietly. Gently. Like getting too close might break something.
She didn’t look up.
He waited a few seconds. Then—
“You always count things twice?”
She jumped a little, startled—but didn’t move away.
Didn’t run.
Just turned her head slowly, eyes curious.
“Not always,” she said. “Only the ones that matter.”
God, even her voice was exact.
Not shy. Not bold.
He smiled.
“That’s fair. I do that with people.”
She blinked at him like she wasn’t sure if that was a joke.
“You’re not from this floor,” she said next. Not accusing—just observant.
“Top unit,” he nodded. “Moved in last week. Everett Lysander.”
He gave her a crooked, awkward bow. A habit he picked up from reading too many dusty books.
She repeated it under her breath like she was filing it away.
“Everett… Lysander.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Bit much, huh? You can call me Lys if you want.”
She stared a beat too long. Then shook her head.
“No. Everett sounds like someone who wins things.”
He let out a breath of a laugh. Something about her made him slow down without realizing it.
He glanced at the coins again, then the notebook beside her—neatly labeled in soft pencil.
“Is your name Kristina?” he asked carefully.
She looked at him, head tilted.
“How’d you know?”
He nodded toward the notebook.
“It’s on the inside cover. I didn’t peek. Just… saw.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then:
“You’re not supposed to look at people’s names.”
“I don’t usually,” he said. “Yours just looked like it belonged there.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either. Just went back to sorting the coins.
They sat in silence.
Before he left, he pulled something from his jacket pocket—a Rubik’s cube he never solved.
He handed it to her.
No words exchanged.
She took it, examined it like a mechanic inspecting a machine.
And just before he turned to go, he said, soft and unthinking:
“See you tomorrow, Krissy.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct him.
Just turned the cube in her hands once. Then again.
Saturday | March 13, 1993
Apartment Complex | Outside Courtyard
The sun had barely dipped when he spotted her again—curled up on the bench, shoelaces mismatched, hugging a solved Rubik’s cube like it was some kind of trophy.
Everett approached slowly, hands in his hoodie pockets. Her fingers were still turning the cube, even though it was perfectly aligned.
“You solved it?” he asked.
Kristina looked up, blinking behind thick lashes. “Yes.”
“It was difficult. I tried several times.”
“It wasn’t.”
Everett grinned. “Show me.”
She handed it over. Perfect. “Damn. You didn’t just solve it. You reprogrammed the laws of physics.”
Kristina shrugged. “It helps if I count the moves.”
“You count everything?”
“Not everything,” she said. “Just the ones that matter,” she repeated, like it was a rule she’d made long ago.
He chuckled, thumbing the smooth plastic. “Okay then, prodigy. Come upstairs. I’ve got something harder.”
She hesitated, glancing toward her building.
“My mom’s out,” he added. “You’ll be back before dark. Promise.”
After a pause, she followed.
Apartment Complex | Everett’s Apartment Unit
His room smelled faintly like ink and paper. The shelves were lined with old books, busted headphones, and half-disassembled gadgets. A jigsaw puzzle lay spread on the floor—pieces everywhere.
“This,” Everett said, kneeling beside it, “is what I’ve been stuck on for two weeks.”
Kristina crouched down beside him. “It’s just a puzzle.”
“A 3D tessellation pattern with no picture guide,” he said dramatically. “I’ve had dreams about this thing. Nightmares.” He paused, teasing. “Think you can outsmart me?”
She tilted her head. “You already think I could.”
“Yeah, well. Prove it.”
Kristina didn’t smile—but her eyes gleamed. She reached for the edge pieces first, sorting them with mechanical precision. Her lips moved as she muttered color sequences under her breath.
Everett watched in silence. He couldn’t decide what amazed him more—that she was solving it, or that she looked like she belonged in that quiet, methodical rhythm.
“Everett,” she said suddenly.
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“Do you solve puzzles because you’re bored, or because you’re scared of things you can’t fix?”
The question knocked the breath out of him. She didn’t say it like a child. She said it like someone who already knew the answer.
“…Both,” he said.
Kristina nodded. “Me too.”
A few more clicks. Then silence.
“You wanna keep going?” he asked after a beat.
“I already solved it in my head,” she murmured. “But I like the sound the pieces make.”
Everett leaned back against his bedpost, watching her assemble order out of chaos, one smooth click at a time.
“Krissy,” he whispered to himself, not loud enough for her to hear. “You’re something else.”
Saturday | March 20, 1993
Apartment Complex | Rooftop
The sun was setting in quiet gold across the rooftops, painting the laundry lines and satellite dishes in soft oranges and purples.
Everett sat on the low wall with two of the neighborhood boys—Sam and Kevin—both older than him by a year or two, both loud in the way bored teenage boys often were.
They were passing a bag of cheap chips between them and trading stories they’d never admit to sober. Mostly about school, girls, bets, and things they’d never actually done.
Kevin grinned around a soda bottle.
“Come on, Everett. You gotta have one.”
Everett blinked.
“One what?”
Sam smirked.
“A girl. A crush. Don’t tell me you’re immune to hormones, Lysander.”
Everett laughed under his breath and shook his head, brushing hair from his eyes.
Kevin elbowed him.
“You always go quiet when we talk about this stuff. Bet you’ve got one. Spill it.”
“You’ll laugh.”
“We won’t,” Sam promised, raising a hand like he was taking an oath.
“Swear on Kevin’s ugly face.”
Kevin kicked his shin. Everett smiled.
“It’s not… like that,” he said slowly. “I don’t think she even notices me like that. And if she did, she’d probably think I was weird.”
“So she’s older?” Sam grinned.
Everett shook his head.
“Younger, actually. Not a baby or anything—just… little.”
Both boys raised brows but didn’t speak. Everett leaned back against the wall, arms folded.
“She’s quiet,” he said softly. “But not shy. She’s got this way of looking at things like she’s measuring the whole world. Doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it’s smart. Sharp.”
He didn’t mean to sound so reverent. But the words came like muscle memory.
“She counts coins like they’re secrets. Keeps her notebooks perfect. And she talks to you like every sentence counts.”
Kevin blinked.
“You in love or writing poetry, bro?”
Everett smiled faintly, still staring at the skyline.
“She reminds me of a chessboard. Still on the outside, but you can tell there’s a whole war going on in her head.”
They didn’t tease him.
Not this time.
Sam just nudged him.
“You ever talk to her?”
Everett nodded.
“Yeah. Twice. She remembered my name.”
“You gonna ask her to play or what?” Kevin asked.
Everett looked down at his hands.
“No. She’s got more important things in her head.”
“Which school does she go to?”
“She doesn’t. She said she’s too smart for it.”
They let the silence settle. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the concrete.
The hum of distant traffic rose beneath them.
Everett tucked the moment somewhere safe, like a piece he might need later.
He never spoke her name. He didn’t need to.
He just kept it—like everything else about her—in perfect order.
Wednesday | April 7, 1993
Apartment Complex
Everett left school that afternoon humming under his breath, the weight of his backpack a distant afterthought as he stepped into the department store by the station.
He didn’t need anything—but he was looking for something. Something challenging. Something clever. Something Kristina would like.
He browsed the shelves for nearly an hour. Pocket puzzles, metal disentanglements, logic cubes. He bought five.
She liked things that didn’t make sense until they did.
He was grinning by the time he left.
The sun was already dipping low when he reached their apartment building. As usual, he made a beeline for the courtyard below Kristina’s floor. She wasn’t there.
A small frown tugged at his brow. He jogged up the stairs—took them two at a time—reaching her floor’s balcony in seconds.
Still empty.
That was strange.
He passed by her family’s unit, slowing. Quiet. No laughter, no sound of puzzle pieces clinking or her soft counting under her breath.
But something inside his chest was pulling tight.
Because for the past several nights, he’d heard things. Muffled voices. Arguments. Her parents speaking in clipped tones. Words like threat and encrypted and no time.
He never said anything. But he always listened.
Everett turned, bolted up to his own floor, flung the door open—empty. No one home yet.
He dropped everything—his backpack, his puzzle bag, his keys—and raced back down.
Knocked once. Twice. A third time.
No answer.
He hesitated only for a second before trying the knob. It turned.
That’s when he knew.
Something was wrong.
The door creaked open. Inside was chaos.
Glass shards glittered like ice across the floor. Furniture overturned. Papers scattered—as if someone had been looking for something. Or trying to destroy it.
He whispered her name. Once. Then louder.
Panic surged. Everett ran out again—through the halls, down the stairs, to the parking area.
Their car was gone.
He checked the street. Ran down two blocks, three. His lungs burned. No sign of them.
Eventually, his legs gave up.
He walked home slowly, like his limbs had forgotten how to carry him. Slumped onto the courtyard bench—the one where she always sorted her coins or traced lines in her notebook.
It was empty now.
He sat there for hours.
That night, his mother came home. Found him on the couch, hunched over, still holding the Rubik’s cube Kristina had solved for him weeks ago.
“Everett?” she said.
He didn’t look up. Just turned the cube in his hands, slowly.
She sat beside him, started talking—small things, nothing that landed—until she mentioned the unit a floor down.
“I think they ran,” she said, voice hushed. “I saw them when I was coming in. They looked… scared. Then these men came in not long after. Big ones. Suits. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to get involved. Probably debt collectors.”
He still didn’t speak.
Then the news flashed on the TV.
Breaking: Highway Crash on Angeles Crest. Two fatalities. No names released.
He sat forward.
The camera panned briefly across the wreckage—mangled metal, shattered glass, a burnt edge of what used to be a notebook, half-visible in the passenger seat.
But Everett saw something else.
A thin silver bracelet caught in the mangled dashboard.
Small. Child-sized.
A charm on the end—a single letter.
Kristina never wore jewelry. But he’d once seen her with it—barely visible beneath her sleeve. Her mother must’ve made her wear it, he remembered thinking. He hadn't asked.
Now, it was all that was left.
No child was mentioned in the report.
Just two bodies. No identification.
But Everett knew.
They’d tried to run.
And Kristina was gone.
Some truths don’t wait for permission to hurt.
—To be continued.
