Mira's POV
I don't remember the exact moment the car began moving too fast.
What I remember is the shift—the subtle, almost imperceptible change in the air inside the vehicle, as though something unseen had tilted the world a few degrees off balance and gravity had briefly forgotten which direction it was meant to pull us.
The road ahead unraveled into a narrow, winding ribbon of asphalt carved mercilessly into the side of the mountain, each curve sharper than the last, each turn exposing more of the endless drop beside us.
To my right, the ocean stretched in dark, restless expanse, its surface rolling and folding into itself like something alive and breathing, the swells heavy and patient, waiting far below.
There were no guardrails.
No barriers.
Nothing but open air separating us from the long, roaring plunge into water that looked almost black from that height.
The hum of the engine deepened gradually, stretching from a steady vibration into a strained, aggressive roar that reverberated through the floorboards and climbed up my legs, settling into my bones like a warning.
I felt the acceleration before I fully understood it, the forward pull pressing subtly against my spine as my father's foot pushed harder on the accelerator.
His posture shifted with it, his shoulders locking rigidly into place as though bracing for an impact only he could anticipate, his eyes fixed on the road ahead with a focus so absolute it looked less like concentration and more like defiance.
My mother stiffened beside him, her reaction so sudden that it drew my attention immediately. Her hand rose slowly from her lap, fingers curling as if reaching for the dashboard—or for him—but the movement faltered midway, suspended in the air as though whatever words she had intended to speak had evaporated before they could reach her mouth.
That was when something tightened in my chest.
"Mom?" I asked, leaning forward from the back seat, my fingers digging into the leather as the car surged again, the speed increasing enough to make the passing landscape blur at the edges.
The wind forced its way through a barely cracked window, its howl sharp and relentless, slicing through the confined space of the car. It carried the scent of salt and heat and something metallic that lingered faintly in the air.
"What's happening?"
Neither of them answered.
The silence that followed felt unnatural, heavy with an energy that pressed against my ears like the atmosphere before a storm breaks open.
Even the radio, which had been playing softly only minutes ago, now emitted nothing at all—no music, no static, no distraction to soften the growing tension. There was only the strained growl of the engine and the harsh rhythm of tires devouring asphalt at a speed that felt reckless against the narrowness of the road.
My father's jaw flexed, the muscle jumping sharply beneath his skin as his grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles blanching until they looked almost bloodless. The tendons in his hands stood out, taut and unforgiving.
Then his gaze shifted.
It was only for a fraction of a second, but I saw it clearly—the brief flick of his eyes toward the rearview mirror.
My mother followed the movement almost instinctively, her head turning with a slow, deliberate caution, as though she already feared what might be reflected there. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on something behind us, her expression tightening, the color draining gradually from her face.
Her lips parted slightly.
And for the first time in my life, I saw fear in her eyes.
--
Just an hour ago.
I had been lying on the cold tile floor of that abandoned service building, my lungs burning like they were filled with fire instead of air. It hadn't been smoke.
It wasn't anything dramatic like an explosion. It was worse—quiet, invisible, creeping into my body without warning.
A sedative gas.
Not strong enough to kill me. Not fast enough to knock me out immediately. Just enough to disorient, weaken, slow my reactions—designed to make me easy to take.
They wanted me alive.
I remembered the way my vision had tunneled, how the edges of the room blurred and pulsed. My limbs had felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else. Heavy and unresponsive.
My mother had been the first to realize something was wrong.
"Mira," she'd said sharply, catching me before I hit the ground.
"Mira, stay with me."
I hadn't been able to answer properly. My tongue had felt thick. My thoughts had slipped away from me like water through my fingers.
The gas hadn't been lethal, but it had been precise.
Neurodepressant. Fast-acting. It interfered with oxygen exchange just enough to cause dizziness, nausea, confusion. Long enough exposure could have dropped me into unconsciousness, maybe worse.
My father had dragged me out of that building while my mother covered the exits, firing at shadows, forcing whoever was watching to retreat.
They'd gotten me into the car, windows down, fresh air rushing in, my mother monitoring my breathing like a hawk.
"Don't close your eyes," she kept saying. "If you close them, I swear—"
I'd tried to smile. Failed.
Now, in the back seat, the aftereffects still clung to me.
My head throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache behind my eyes. My stomach twisted violently, every sharp turn of the road sending waves of nausea through me. My limbs trembled faintly, not with fear—but with exhaustion, like my nervous system was still trying to remember how to function properly.
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to be sick.
My mother suddenly twisted in her seat to face me, her hand reaching back blindly until she found mine. Her grip was tight—too tight.
"This is my fault," she said. Her voice cracked. "I knew better. I knew better, and I still brought you."
I frowned, forcing my eyes to focus on her. "Mom…"
"The intel was shaky," she continued, guilt spilling out of her like a wound. "I didn't trust it. Not fully. But they gave us proof—real proof. Coordinates. Names. Time stamps. Enough to look legitimate. And I still—" She swallowed hard. "I still took you with me."
Her hand trembled in mine.
"I should have left you behind," she whispered. "I should have secured you somewhere safe."
I shook my head weakly. "No."
She looked at me, eyes glistening.
"It's not your fault," I said, my voice thin but steady. "You didn't know."
"I should have known."
"You can't predict everything," I murmured. My chest hurt when I breathed too deeply. "You taught me that."
Her lips pressed together as if she was trying not to cry.
"I'm okay," I lied softly.
I wasn't. Not really. My body still felt wrong—like it was lagging behind my thoughts, like I was moving through water instead of air. My heartbeat fluttered uncomfortably, uneven in my ears.
But I squeezed her hand anyway.
"I'm here," I said. "That's what matters."
She exhaled shakily, turning back toward the windshield.
My father met her eyes briefly through the rearview mirror.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, his shoulders rigid, every muscle in his body coiled and alert. Whatever was coming, he already knew it wasn't going to be simple.
And that was when the car started to go even faster.
Then she moved.
The click of her seatbelt releasing was sharp and immediate, followed by the quick shift of weight as she climbed into the back seat in one swift, controlled motion that left no space for hesitation.
Before I could sit up or ask what was happening, she pulled me down against the leather seat, guiding my body with firm, deliberate pressure as she positioned herself between me and the rear window, angling her back toward the glass as though it were a threat rather than a boundary.
Her body shielded mine completely.
There was nothing frantic in her movements. No wasted motion. The urgency was real, but so was the control. She had done this before.
I felt the rustle of fabric as she reached into her bag, the zipper sliding open with trembling precision.
A moment later, something brushed my cheek, and she looped elastic around my ears, adjusting it carefully until the dark face mask covered most of my face. Her fingers shook, but her grip was steady as she pressed the fabric into place, ensuring no skin was left exposed.
Before I could ask why, she grabbed a thick jacket and pulled it over my shoulders, the weight of it sudden and suffocating as she tugged the hood up and forward, shadowing my eyes completely.
My protest barely formed before she pressed my head firmly against her chest, one hand cupping the back of my skull to keep me down while the other tugged the hood lower, sealing me into darkness even before the darkness came on its own.
Her heart was racing beneath my ear.
Her voice, however, was not.
"No one can see you," she whispered fiercely, her breath warm against my hair. "Do you understand me? No one."
Earlier, it had been easy to hide.
The shootout had happened in near darkness, the road barely lit, my black cap pulled low, my face swallowed by shadow.
No one had gotten a clear look at my face.
But that had been before.
Now we were being chased.
Now the road was fully lit by the pursuing vehicle's headlights, white and relentless, carving through the night like blades. The light spilled across the interior of the car each time we hit a curve, catching the edges of glass, reflecting in mirrors, threatening to expose anything not carefully concealed.
Now silhouettes could become faces.
And faces could become identities.
My mother knew it.
She knew that the people coming after us didn't just recognize her and my father—they knew them. Knew their history. Knew their patterns.
And if they saw me, really saw me, they would understand immediately who I was.
The missing piece.
The one they had been hunting for years.
Her breath shuddered against my hair as that realization seemed to crash into her all over again, not as new information but as confirmation of the fear she had been outrunning for most of my life. Her arms tightened instinctively, as though pressure alone could keep me from being seen.
"So they never stopped," she muttered, the words barely audible, slipping out as though she had not meant to speak them aloud. "All this time… they never stopped looking."
Her arms tightened around me.
She had believed, foolishly, that enough years had passed. That distance, silence, false trails, and careful erasure had finally buried us. That whatever ghosts followed our name had long since grown bored.
She had been wrong.
They had not forgotten.
They had waited.
And now they had finally found us.