First-person POV — Phoebe Thorne
I woke to the worst kind of quiet.
The kind that feels staged.
The kind that comes after everything loud has stopped, but the world hasn't caught up yet.
When the alarms have died, the smoke has cleared, and the only sound is my own heartbeat—too loud, too hollow, like it's echoing inside a body that isn't sure it survived.
I'm not sure how long I lay there in the helicopter. My fingers were still curled around the crash harness strap, knuckles white, muscles locked in fight mode. Wind whipped strands of hair across my face from the open side panel, carrying the scent of burning metal and aviation fuel. My body ached from the impact—thigh bruised, shoulder throbbing, ribs stinging with every breath—but the pain felt background compared to the heaviness inside my chest.
Because when I opened my eyes, I knew the price had been paid.
And that someone had broken.
They told us we were safe once we landed.
