The next morning, no one had slept—how could they? The Winslow family had been accommodating and hospitable, letting the group stay as long as they needed out of gratitude for saving their daughters. Despite the tension and the lie that had happened the night before, a fragile sense of unity lingered.
Gray light filtered through the tall windows of the manor, dust drifting lazily in the air as if nothing had changed. But everything had.
Footsteps moved softly across the marble floors. Cups clinked once, twice—then stopped. Conversations, when they began at all, died quickly, like sparks smothered by damp ash.
Dylan entered moments later, hauling a crate of supplies he'd scavenged from the truck. He set it down near the wall, eyes already scanning the room.
"You seen Yve?" he asked.
Taylor looked up from where she stood. Her response came a second too late. "No," she said. Polite. Awkward.
Dylan nodded once and headed for the stairs.
The room Yve had slept in was empty.
The blankets were folded neatly. The pillow untouched. No sign she'd ever been there at all.
His jaw tightened.
He took the stairs two at a time on the way down. In the hallway, he nearly collided with Harlene.
"You seen Yve?" he asked again.
She shook her head. "No."
Dylan checked every room anyway. Guest rooms. Storage. The study. Even the back halls most people avoided. Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. No trace.
She was gone.
He stepped outside, the cool morning air hitting his face. In the front yard, Lucas, David, Ethan, Harrison, and Maurice stood near the trucks, talking low.
Dylan walked straight up to them. "You seen Yve?"
They exchanged looks. Lucas shook his head. Ethan followed. Maurice shrugged.
"No," Harrison said.
"She's not in the house," Dylan said. His voice stayed level, but there was an edge to it now.
A pause.
David exhaled and muttered, "Maybe she swam back to where she belongs."
Silence snapped tight.
Dylan turned slowly.
His jaw clenched, muscles flexing beneath his skin. "Watch your mouth," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Or we're gonna have problems."
David scoffed. "Like what?"
The air went taut.
Dylan took a step forward.
Lucas moved first, sliding between them with a sharp look. "Enough," he said. Firm. Final. "Not worth it."
Before either man could answer, metal creaked. The smaller gate beside the main entrance swung open.
All of them turned.
Yve stepped through. Her hair was wet, darker at the end. A woven basket hung from her arm, heavy with fish—silver bodies piled together, water still dripping onto the grass.
For half a second, no one moved.
Then Dylan crossed the yard in long strides. "Where you been?"
"Hunting," Yve said simply.
She tipped the basket slightly so he could see inside.
He glanced down. "Where?"
"There's a lake," she replied. "About an hour's walk from here."
Dylan nodded once. "Okay." Then, quieter, rougher, "I was worried."
Yve's grip tightened on the basket handle. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry. I just… needed some time alone."
They reached the others. No smiles. No greetings.
Lucas nodded once. Maurice followed. Ethan gave a short glance, then looked away. Harrison's expression stayed unreadable. David said nothing.
Yve swallowed. "I brought food."
A beat.
Lucas cleared his throat. "Okay," he said. "Thanks."
Silence settled again—thick, uncomfortable.
Yve shifted her weight. "I'll… head inside."
"Mm," someone muttered.
A few nods. Nothing more. She turned toward the manor, basket still in her hands, steps quiet against the gravel.
Behind her, the group remained where they were—watching, thinking, measuring.
And Dylan stood there a moment longer than the rest, eyes following her until the door closed behind her.
Inside, Yve set the basket down on the counter beside Taylor and Elena.
Fish shifted softly against the woven sides.
"Here," Yve said. "I brought food."
Taylor smiled. Polite. Careful. "Thanks."
Elena nodded once. "Appreciate it." Her tone was measured—civil, but guarded.
Yve didn't linger. Her eyes drifted to the kids at the table, bowls of cereal in front of them, spoons clinking softly.
"You guys doing okay?" she asked.
Lily paused. She looked up at Yve—then flicked her gaze to her mother, searching. Whatever passed between them was silent. Lily gave a small nod and turned back to her bowl.
Tyler looked up last. "Yeah," he said. After a beat, "It's… good."
Yve smiled, relief flickering across her face.
Before she could say anything else—
"Tyler," Taylor said gently, but firm. "Go get your father. He's outside."
Tyler hesitated. He glanced at Yve, offered her a small, earnest smile—then slid off his chair and headed for the door, shoulders slightly hunched.
The room settled again.
No hostility. No warmth.
Just space.
Yve shifted her weight, hands curling loosely at her sides. "Can I help cook?"
Elena didn't look up. "No. We've got it." A brief pause. "Thanks."
The words were polite. The meaning wasn't.
Yve nodded anyway. "Okay… I'll be around if you need me."
Neither woman answered.
She stepped out of the kitchen, the quiet following her like a shadow. Her shoulders sagged as soon as she cleared the doorway, a slow breath slipping out of her chest—heavy, unsteady.
Up the stairs. One step at a time.
The room the Winslows had given her was small but clean. A bed. A chair. A window that let in thin, gray light. Yve closed the door behind her and turned the lock, the click loud in the silence.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.
This was worse than anger. Worse than shouting.
She pressed her palms into her knees, breathing shallow, feeling the weight settle fully in her chest now—every look measured, every word careful. Accepted enough to stay. Not enough to belong.
Yve leaned back and let herself sink onto the mattress; eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Inside the kitchen, Elena and Taylor moved around each other in practiced silence, chopping, stirring, setting things to boil. Their motions were efficient—habit more than intention.
The basket of fish sat on the counter where Yve had left it.
Untouched.
Not forgotten. Just… avoided.
Elena glanced at it, then away. "Do you think we're being too harsh?"
Taylor didn't answer right away. She adjusted the flame under the pot, reached for a spatula, then stopped. "No," she said, then hesitated. "I don't know."
She exhaled and set the spatula down.
"I mean," Elena continued carefully, "if you think about it… she lied to protect herself. She didn't know us back then. Any of us."
Taylor turned to look at her. "She knew me," she said quietly. "Six months with us at the VIRA Complex. I told her things I've never said out loud. I trusted her with Tyler."
Her jaw tightened. "That's the part I can't shake."
She rubbed her temple, tired. "It's not even what she is that bothers me." A pause. "It's that she hid something that big. If she could hide that… what else didn't she tell us?"
Elena nodded slowly. "I trusted her with Lily too."
Another glance at the basket.
"But now?" Elena murmured. "I don't know either."
Taylor opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. "I—I—" Her voice faltered, frustration bleeding through. She shook her head once, defeated. "I don't know what I feel anymore."
The pot began to simmer, filling the kitchen with quiet noise.
The fish stayed where it was.
Outside, Dylan crouched by the truck, tightening the last bolt on the repaired tire. Ethan wiped his hands on his jeans, lingering nearby, restless.
Dylan didn't look up. "Didn't expect you to be the first one pointin' a gun at her."
Ethan stiffened. "I—I panicked," he said, accent catching slightly. "I'm sorry."
Dylan finally straightened, jaw set. "Still wasn't right."
Ethan hesitated, then exhaled. "With everything already happening—the dead, the world ending—finding out she's… not human?" He shook his head. "It was too much."
Dylan leaned against the truck. "She's still a person, kid." His voice was rough, steady. "Hell, she's more human than most folks I've met."
Ethan frowned, thinking. "I know she's kind. I do." He paused. "It's just… unsettling. If someone like her exists, then what else is out there?" A weak attempt at humor. "A dragon?"
Dylan snorted quietly. "Don't push it."
Then, more serious, "She's already drownin' in guilt. Doesn't need us stackin' more on top."
Ethan nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the ground. "Yeah… I get it."
Dylan hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth… sorry I didn't tell you sooner." He glanced sideways. "I know you care about her."
Ethan waved it off lightly. "I do," he said. "She reminds me of my sister." A pause. Then, quieter, almost embarrassed, "Just… my sis doesn't have a tail."
That earned a short chuckle from Dylan. "Yeah. Fair enough."
Dylan wiped his hands on a rag, tossing it into the back of the truck. "K, that's done," he muttered, glancing at Ethan, who was still crouched near the scattered tools.
Ethan stood, brushing dirt off his jeans. "Yeah… I'll put these back," he said, tucking the wrench and hammer into the toolbox.
Dylan nodded once, then stretched his shoulders. "We should eat before the others get hangry," he said, his voice low and rough.
Ethan gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "Hangry? Sounds like you."
They walked together across the yard, boots crunching over gravel, Dylan's gaze flicking toward the windows as he took in the quiet manor. A faint smell of cooked food drifted out the open door, mixing with the afternoon air.
Ethan paused at the doorway, peering inside. "Air feels so… heavy," he murmured.
"Yeah," Dylan said, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
Food was finally ready. They set it down on the long dining table and called everyone to eat. It wasn't much, but it was enough to fill their stomachs for the day.
Elena glanced toward the stairs. "Should I get Yve?"
"I'll get her," Ava said, heading upstairs. She knocked gently on Yve's door.
A few seconds later, it opened. Yve's eyes were puffy, the telltale sign of tears.
"Hey… food's ready," Ava said softly.
"Okay… I'll be there in a minute," Yve replied.
Ava opened her mouth as if to say something else, but then she simply nodded. "Okay," she said, leaving Yve alone.
The soft clatter of cutlery was the only sound at the dining table. Some exhaled softly, some sharply. Dylan stood at the doorway, plate in hand, glancing between the group and the stairs. No one spoke, but the silence was heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Yve finally descended. Dylan was the first to notice, giving her a small, reassuring smile. She returned it, weak but real.
"I'll get you a plate…" Dylan offered.
"No. I'll get it. You should finish your meal," Yve replied. She stepped into the dining room.
Lara quietly passed a plate to her. Yve glanced at the dishes—no fish. Her eyes asked the question silently.
Elena replied, "We didn't cook the fish… save it for later."
Yve nodded.
Mia snorted. "Thought you were afraid to offend her when you cook the fish."
Everyone froze. Mia, unfazed, continued eating.
"Why would I?" Yve said coolly. "I eat it myself."
"So… you're a cannibal?" Mia smirked.
Yve tilted her head, calm and composed. "Like how you're eating that rabbit?"
Mia snapped back. "How is that the same? They're animals."
"Well," Yve said, calm, "that's how we see fish too."
Mia crossed her arms, frowning. "How? You both have tails and scales."
Yve tilted her head, unbothered. "You and that rabbit both have legs and hair. Maybe I should call you a rabbit too."
A small snort and chuckle ran through the group, but the tension didn't break.
Mia rolled her eyes, clearly at a loss for words.
Harrison's voice cut through the tension. "That's enough, both of you."
A beat later, he added, firmer this time, "Sit here. You're with us. And Mia—stop being rude."
Mia huffed but reluctantly slid her chair over, muttering under her breath. Yve, meanwhile, merely nodded, keeping her composure, her expression neutral but her eyes observant.
The group let the moment pass without further comment, the quiet settling back over the table like a thin, fragile truce.
Joan glanced around, breaking the silence. "Where's Dr. Jenkins?"
Taylor, still stirring her food absentmindedly, replied softly, "In his room… he said he'd eat later."
Joan nodded, then carefully scooped some food into a bowl, setting another plate atop it. "K… I'll save some for him," she said, her movements precise, almost reverent.
Upstairs, in his study, Dr. Jenkins leaned over his desk, scribbling notes furiously. His handwriting was cramped, jagged, a reflection of the whirlwind in his mind.
The revelation answered the question why Yve's blood and biology act different, but it only brought up more questions than it can answer, and he scribbled them all one by one.
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Incredible," he muttered under his breath. "Could this… could this really be it?"
The possibility made his chest tighten with a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Maybe, just maybe, Yve was the cure he had been searching for all this time.
His pen scratched across the paper, jotting down every detail, every oddity he'd noticed since she'd joined them, his mind racing as his fatigue battled his excitement.