I woke to the faint buzz of my phone vibrating on the nightstand, the motel room in Espeja still dim with the early morning light seeping through the thin curtains. My body felt heavy from the hike yesterday, muscles sore but functional. Miko was curled against me, her breathing steady, her cat tail draped over my leg like a warm blanket. I reached for the phone, squinting at the screen—missed calls, three of them, all from Elena. My heart skipped, a cold dread settling in. Why so many? I glanced at Miko, still asleep, and slipped out of bed quietly, padding to the bathroom to call back without waking her.
The line rang twice before Elena answered, her voice shaky, barely above a whisper. "Finally... I was worried."
"Elena? What's wrong? You sound—"
"It's Kira," she cut in, her words cracking like glass under pressure. "She's dead. Shot. They came for the hideout—anti-hybrid goons, shooting everything up. She was trying to escape, got us out first... gave Sylvia the passport she'd prepared for her, just in case. But they caught her. Lucked out and handed it off before... before they killed her."
The world tilted violently, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles whitened. Kira—gone? The one who'd gotten us the passports, held the hideout together, laughed through the darkest days. A wave of nausea hit me, my chest constricting as if the bullet had struck me instead. Memories flooded: Kira's teasing grin when she'd handed us the docs, her fierce protectiveness, the way she'd always had a plan. "How... when?" I choked out, my voice breaking, tears burning at the edges of my eyes.
"Last night," Elena whispered, her own sobs muffled. "It was chaos—guns everywhere, people screaming. Kira... she pushed us through a back exit, turned to hold them off. We heard the shots. By the time we looked back..." She trailed off, the silence heavy with shared grief.
I sank to the bathroom floor, the cold tiles grounding me as hot tears spilled down my face. Kira, dead. Shot down like so many others, another victim in this endless cycle of hate. The pain was raw, a gaping wound in my chest—guilt for leaving, anger at the world, sorrow for the friend we'd lost. "She... she saved you," I managed, my voice thick. "She's a hero."
Elena's breath hitched. "Yeah. But it hurts. We're leaving for Europe too. Can't stay here."
We talked a bit more—plans, warnings—before hanging up, my mind reeling. Kira, dead. I sat there, head in my hands, silent sobs shaking me. How many more? When would it end?
Miko's voice pulled me back, soft and concerned from the doorway. "What's wrong? Who was that?" She was awake, sitting up on the bed, her amber eyes wide with worry.
I crossed to her, sitting on the edge, taking her hands as tears streamed down my face. "Elena. It's... Kira. She's dead. Shot during an attack on the hideout. She got Sylvia a passport before it happened— they're heading to Europe now too."
Miko's face crumpled instantly, her eyes filling with tears, a heartbroken wail escaping her lips. "Kira? No... not her." Sobs wracked her body, her shoulders heaving as she collapsed against me, her claws digging into my shirt like anchors in a storm. "She was my best friend... always there, back at the hideout. How could they...?" Her voice broke, tears soaking my shoulder, her purr turning to a ragged, mournful hum that vibrated through us both. I held her tight, my own grief mingling with hers, rocking her gently as we cried together—the loss a shared wound, raw and bleeding. Memories hit like waves: Kira's laughter during late-night talks, her fierce hugs, the way she'd tease Miko about her "cat naps." "She saved them," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Got the passport out. She's a hero." But the sobs continued, the pain too fresh, too deep.
We stayed like that for what felt like hours, comforting each other in the quiet room, the world outside indifferent to our loss. Eventually, the tears slowed, Miko pulling back with red-rimmed eyes. "We... we have to keep going. For her."
I nodded, wiping her cheeks. "Yeah. Let's get some food, then move."
We dressed in silence, the motel room feeling smaller, heavier. Breakfast was at a nearby cafe, a quaint spot with outdoor tables under awnings, the air scented with fresh bread and espresso. We ordered what we could understand—croissants and coffee again—but the flavors were lost on us, grief muting everything. Miko picked at her food, her tail limp.
After, I decided we needed wheels—walking was too slow, too exposed. At a nearby rental spot, I used cash to get a compact sedan, similar to our old one, with no intention of returning it. "Borrowing indefinitely," I muttered to myself as we loaded up.
We drove north, the Spanish countryside unfolding—rolling hills dotted with olive groves, ancient stone villages perched on ridges. Miko stared out the window, lost in thought, but as the miles passed, she softened. "Kira would want us to live," she said quietly.
By evening, we reached Genoa, the Italian city sprawling along the Ligurian coast, its harbor bustling with ships, the air alive with the cries of seagulls and the tang of salt. Narrow streets wound up hillsides, lined with colorful buildings and laundry flapping in the breeze. We ate at a small restaurant, the menu in Italian a mystery— "Pasta? Pizza?" I guessed, pointing randomly. The waiter rattled off explanations in rapid Italian, leaving us nodding blankly. I pulled out my phone, firing up a translator app, holding it up as he spoke. "Ah, turisti!" he laughed, switching to gestures and slow words. "This—pesto! Good! That—margherita!" We ended up with a plate of pesto pasta and margherita pizza, the flavors rich and garlicky—basil bursting on the tongue, cheese melting perfectly—but we ate mechanically, Miko forcing a smile as I tried cheering her with bad Italian accents. "Buongiorno, signora! Pasta al dente?" I joked, earning a weak laugh.
We checked into a hotel overlooking the harbor, the room cozy with a balcony view of twinkling lights on the water. Miko wanted to just cuddle, clinging to me as we lay on the bed, her body pressed close, her tail wrapping around my leg like a lifeline. I held her tight, stroking her hair as she buried her face in my chest, her purr soft and sad, interrupted by occasional sniffles. "I miss her already," she whispered, her claws gently kneading my shirt. We stayed like that for hours, the grief a shared weight, her warmth grounding me as sleep finally claimed her, her breathing evening out against me. I lay awake a bit longer, holding her close, the city's hum a distant lullaby.
Europe unfolded before us, a new chapter beginning, shadowed but hopeful.