AARON She had explained it many times before. The people in Silvergrove, Pacifica State who suffered the least were the ones who treated their cars like moving power plants. Vehicles were not just for travel anymore. They were lifelines. Without one neighbor’s electric car, Elena’s sister would never have been able to use her nebulizer. She would have struggled to breathe during the worst possible moment, with no help coming. That alone had justified years of preparation in Elena’s mind. Most of what we were packing depended on the car’s power. Medical gear. Chargers. Communication equipment. Even small comforts meant to keep panic at bay. A tightly rolled solar tarp sat near the door, compact and heavy. During the day it could be stretched over the car, drinking in sunlight and feeding it back into the batteries, slow but steady. Elena had thought of everything. She always had. This plan had been growing in her head for years. Still, there was not enough space. Supplies crowded the floor. Bags leaned against walls. Hard choices waited to be made. The world outside was tearing itself apart, and even now we could not carry everything we might need. The truck should have been bought when she asked. That mistake sat heavy in my chest. The deep vibration stopped. The distant thunder that had shaken the air for hours suddenly went silent. At first, nothing made sense. The artillery had been firing so long that it had faded into the background, like a constant noise the mind learns to ignore. Only when it ended did its absence feel wrong. Steps carried me back into the house.Elena stood still in front of a translucent storage container placed directly in her path, as if she had stopped mid-step. Her face glowed pale blue from her phone screen. Shoulders were tight. Breathing was shallow. “What is it?” The question felt pointless. The answer was already sitting in my gut. “Miriam just posted another video.” A knot tightened. “Oh God. What now?” Standing beside her, the screen came into view. Armed men and women filled the image. Black uniforms. Heavy weapons. They forced civilians down a Skywalk Arm and back into a Transit Hall. The sound was muted, but fear did not need audio. Faces told everything. People begged. Hands reached out. Bodies resisted and then gave in. Comments poured across the bottom of the screen, appearing and vanishing too fast to read. A few names stood out. Neighbors. People from our Residential Lanes. Of course they were watching. Miriam was not only our Ministering Sister. She was part of our lives. A sick feeling rolled through my stomach. “Is that Blackstone?” The words came out quiet and broken. Elena nodded. “Look at what they’re wearing.” Focus sharpened. Each attacker wore black from head to toe. Around every neck hung gold. Crucifixes swung from beaded chains, bright against the dark uniforms. The symbol stood out, bold and deliberate. Her voice dropped. “This next part is hard to watch.” Only then did it register. She had already seen all of it.One of the armed men raised a tablet and began reading. After a short time, he stopped. His eyes scanned the crowd. The tablet was lifted again. Every few seconds, a finger pointed. Each time it did, another armed figure pulled someone from the group. Men. Women. Children. They were forced to their knees in a line between the remaining passengers and the attackers. Silence made it worse. No screams to soften the horror. Only faces filled with terror and waiting pain. The man with the tablet strapped it to his wrist. He looked over the kneeling people and then toward the larger group still standing. A woman stepped forward with two small children pressed against her sides. Hands clasped together. Mouth open in a scream no one could hear. She pleaded. She pointed to the boy and the girl, one on each side of her.A pistol came out. The shot hit her forehead. Everything froze. Breath locked in my chest. Muscles went rigid. Elena lowered her head, unable to watch it happen again. The gun fired twice more. Both children fell the same way. Panic exploded. The kneeling men and women jumped to their feet and tried to run. Black-clad figures raised their weapons and shot them in the back. Some turned and charged instead. A few died facing their killers, refusing to fall like animals waiting for slaughter. Tears slid down my face without permission. Why the children? Of all the cruelty people could choose, why that? They were barely older than Lucas. What crime could they have committed? What threat could they have been? Hands curled into fists. Nails dug into skin. For a brief moment, the smell of Malton’s blood filled my nose. The memory was sharp and vivid. For the first time since ending his life, the feeling did not bring regret.