Page 8 of Oliver

5

Emery

Something changed.

It was strange.

It was subtle at first.

A hum in the concrete.

A faintclinkof metal two rooms over.

Then—silence.

Not the kind I’d gotten used to.

Not the heavy, listening kind.

This was different.

It was tense.

Breaths held.

The whole building seemed to be holding its breath.

I moved to the center of the room, stood under the flickering bulb, and listened.

Again.

Nothing.

Then footsteps.

Not the ones I’d come to know—those heavy, cocky boots the guards wore like badges of control.

These were faster. Smoother.

Trained.

Military.

My heart kicked.

I didn’t let myselfhopeyet.

Hope got you killed.

But then I heard it—just one word, low and clipped, coming from beyond the door:

“Clear.”

American accent.

Sharp. Controlled. Familiar.

And then—

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