RONAN The Outer Vehicle Court was packed beyond anything I had seen before. I sat in my seat and stared at the entrance to the Sanctum Complex my father used to drag us to, what felt like every single week. As a kid, it never made sense to me. I thought it was just another rule, another obligation forced on us. Understanding came later. We only came here when the family business was under pressure. When money tightened. When deals failed. In those early years, that meant we came often. We were not truly inside the court at all. The Compact Cruiser sat along the road that bordered it, forced into an awkward double park because every proper space had been taken. Cars crowded every inch of open ground. It felt unnatural, like traffic had abandoned the rest of the city just to gather here.End of the world movies always showed jammed highways. Endless lines of cars. People screaming, honking, trying to flee or find shelter wherever they could. That was not what today looked like. The roads had been mostly empty. Quiet. Too quiet. Maybe people were hiding in their homes. Maybe something worse had already swept through. Sitting there and staring at the mix of vehicles around the Sanctum Complex, my thoughts slipped into darker territory. “Drone doesn’t show anyone outside keeping watch. Not even at the Outer Watch Post,” Nguyen said. I gave a slow nod. No explanation was needed. Even people with no training knew the basics. You watched the approach. You met danger before it reached your door. There were no guards. No volunteers. No armed presence. No nervous greeters pretending everything was normal. There was only absence. That emptiness pressed against my chest and made it harder to breathe. My contacts lit up with yellow outlines. They traced the positions of my family’s vehicles inside the Outer Vehicle Court. My mother’s Utility Rover had been forced two rows back behind my sister’s roadster. She had still managed to park beside my oldest brother, Ainesh, and his heavy duty pickup. Concrete, steel, and bodies blocked my real vision, but the glowing silhouettes filled in the gaps. The onboard systems were already open through Bluetooth. Family access codes made it effortless. They had arrived four and a half hours earlier. Long enough for something to have gone very wrong. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to act. Fingers twitched with the urge to access the local network. One call. One message. One chance to hear my mother’s voice and push the fear away. Reason held me in place. If there was no threat, then I was only panicking. If I was right, touching the network would light my family up like a signal flare. Anyone hunting me would see it. Nguyen cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the silence. “You sure you want to do this?” No words came back. The door opened instead. I pulled the fallen soldier’s helmet over my head and lowered the dark visor until the world dimmed. My feet moved toward the Sanctum Complex before doubt could slow them. Grass whispered under my shoes as I crossed the narrow strip between curb and court. The wrought iron fence rose ahead, tall and cold, controlling access to the grounds. I followed it at a measured pace until the main roadway came into view. The Outer Watch Post stood empty beside its raised barricade. One step was soft soil. The next struck hard pavement. I passed the deserted building and continued toward the main entrance. The Sanctum Complex grew with every step. Intricate towers carved with impossible detail climbed into the sky. By the time I reached the front, the structure filled my entire field of view and made me feel small. Behind me, Nguyen’s combat boots hit the ground with a heavy, steady rhythm. He closed the distance and walked beside me as we passed row after row of parked vehicles. “You don’t have to come with me,” I said. The words were flat. My pace never changed. Nguyen shook his head. “I’d be dead if not for you. I don’t forget debts.” The double doors waited at the front. Thick wood. Cast iron handles. Heavy and unyielding. They felt less like an entrance and more like a barrier. Nguyen scanned the full length of the structure, eyes never resting. “Why does God care about buildings?” he muttered. The question barely touched me. Faith was not what held my thoughts together. Fear and responsibility did that. My hand reached for the handle. Nguyen’s grip closed around my forearm. Firm. Warning. I looked up at him, irritation cutting through the tension. “What?”