The night felt smaller.
That was the first thing Sarah noticed.
The metal structure seemed to shrink with every passing hour, the air heavier, closer, pressing in from all sides.
Jack had turned off the lantern early. Darkness swallowed the space except for a faint gray glow slipping through cracks in the siding.
She lay on the cot, staring into nothing.
Listening.
His breathing from across the room wasn't steady anymore.
It came in uneven waves.
Sometimes fast.
Sometimes held.
Sometimes sharp, like he'd remembered something he didn't want to.
He wasn't sleeping.
He was thinking.
And thinking was dangerous.
"You're cold," he said suddenly.
She hadn't moved.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
She wasn't.
But he needed to believe she was.
He stood.
She heard his boots cross the concrete floor.
He stopped beside her cot.
"This isn't working."
"What isn't?"
"This distance."
Her pulse quickened.
"You're not a prisoner," he said quietly. "You're with me."
She didn't respond.
He leaned closer.
"You shouldn't be isolated like that."
Her stomach tightened.
"I'm fine where I am."
"No."
The word was immediate.
He grabbed the edge of the cot and dragged it slightly, metal scraping loudly across concrete.
"You're not staying over here."
He stepped back toward his own bed — a larger cot pushed against the far wall.
"Bring your blanket."
She didn't move.
His jaw hardened.
"Now."
She stood slowly, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself.
Her mind raced.
Closer meant more danger.
More unpredictability.
But it also meant something else.
Opportunity.
She crossed the room slowly.
He watched every step.
"Lie down," he said.
She did — stiff, turned slightly away from him.
He climbed in beside her.
Not touching at first.
Just close.
Too close.
The warmth of his body radiated through the thin mattress.
He exhaled slowly.
"See?" he murmured. "Better."
She didn't answer.
Minutes passed.
Then he shifted.
His arm draped over her waist.
Not aggressively.
But possessively.
A claim.
"You're safer here," he whispered near her ear.
She felt the weight of his breath.
"I don't feel safe," she said quietly.
He stiffened.
"You are."
"That doesn't make it true."
His grip tightened slightly.
"You shouldn't contradict stability."
She forced her breathing to remain steady.
"You need to stop fighting the structure," he added softly.
Structure.
He used that word often now.
He was building a narrative.
One where he wasn't abducting her.
He was protecting her from chaos.
Back in Branson, the FBI had officially stepped in.
A federal command post was established beside local operations.
Maps were now digital overlays with satellite tracking and property ownership data layered across counties.
"Davis has ties to three shell corporations," the federal agent explained. "All purchased land within the last two years."
"He's been planning for escalation," Brian said.
"Yes."
"And he's compressing movement."
The agent nodded.
"Short relocations reduce tracking window."
The Chief folded his arms.
"He's still within range."
"Very likely."
Molly was discharged that afternoon.
She insisted on not returning to campus.
Instead, she stayed temporarily at her parents' home in Carbondale, though police recommended protective monitoring.
She sat at the kitchen table staring at a blank notebook.
She wasn't tactical.
She wasn't trained.
She didn't understand surveillance grids or property shells.
She just understood her sister.
And she knew one thing.
Sarah hated feeling powerless.
That thought stuck with her.
If Sarah had any chance—
She would be looking for control.
Back at Property Four — a smaller rural lot twenty miles east — tactical teams breached at dawn.
Inside, they found:
Sleeping bags.
Canned goods.
Portable generator.
A recent newspaper dated two days prior.
"Still warm," one officer muttered, touching the metal generator casing.
Brian stood in the doorway.
"We missed him by hours."
The FBI agent crouched beside tire tracks outside.
"Same tread pattern as Rock Hollow ramp."
Brian exhaled slowly.
"He's staging in advance."
"Yes."
"And abandoning quickly."
"Yes."
Back inside the metal structure, Sarah lay rigid in the dark.
Jack's arm was still draped across her.
He had fallen asleep finally.
His breathing is deeper now.
But even in sleep, his hand tightened occasionally.
Like he feared losing contact.
She stared at the ceiling.
Her mind is working.
She shifted slightly — just enough to test reaction.
His grip tightened immediately.
"Don't," he murmured half-awake.
She went still again.
Minutes passed.
Then she whispered softly.
"Jack."
No response.
She waited.
"Jack," she tried again.
He stirred.
"What?"
"You don't have to keep me this close."
"I do."
"Why?"
His eyes opened slowly in the dark.
"Because proximity prevents deviation."
Her pulse pounded.
"You think I'll run?"
"Yes."
"You're right."
His grip tightened again.
"I won't let you."
There it was.
Not love.
Not care.
Fear.
He was afraid.
Back at the command, Brian studied the pattern again.
Properties struck.
Properties abandoned.
Radius tightening.
"He's orbiting one central zone," Brian muttered.
"What zone?" the FBI agent asked.
Brian circled three properties close together on the digital map.
"All within fifteen miles."
"Why cluster?"
"Because he's not ready to leave."
"And why not?"
Brian's answer came quietly.
"Because leaving means admitting loss of control."
And Jack did not admit loss.
Inside the metal building, dawn crept through cracks in the siding.
Sarah hadn't slept.
Jack had, briefly.
He stirred as light touched the room.
His arm was still wrapped around her.
He looked at her face.
"You're staying here today," he said.
"Where else would I go?"
He didn't smile.
He didn't joke.
He studied her expression closely.
"You're calmer."
She forced herself to nod slightly.
"Good."
He brushed his fingers lightly along her arm — not aggressively, but with unsettling ownership.
"You'll adjust."
She swallowed.
"I don't belong to you."
His expression shifted.
Harder.
"You do."
Outside, the wind picked up.
A faint rumble of distant engines echoed miles away — too far to pinpoint.
Jack's head lifted slightly.
He listened.
Silence returned.
But paranoia had rooted deep now.
He didn't trust quiet.
He didn't trust distance.
And now—
He didn't trust the space between them.
Which was why he had eliminated it.
Back at the command, Brian looked at the three clustered properties again.
"He's narrowing his world," he said.
"Yes."
"That means he's preparing for something."
"What?"
Brian didn't answer.
Because the truth was this:
Jack wasn't planning indefinite survival.
He was building toward a final position.
And when that position locked—
Everything would accelerate.