**Caz's POV**
The truck lurched forward with a guttural roar, jolting me awake from the uneasy doze I'd fallen into. My tiny body bounced against the hard floor under the back seats, crammed in the shadows with Ava's warm weight pressed against me. The world outside was a dark blur—night had fallen fully, headlights cutting through fog and rain, the engine's rumble vibrating through my bones. How long had we been out? Hours? My tail ached from being tucked tight, and my claws itched to scratch something—anything—to release the pent-up fear.
I shifted carefully, peeking through the narrow gap between the seat and the floor. Up front: Boris at the wheel, one massive hand on the steering, the other… God. Lilly was huddled in the passenger seat, wrapped in a thin, stained blanket that barely covered her. No clothes underneath—I could tell from the way it slipped, exposing pale skin and the curve of her hip. Her black cat ears were pinned flat, tail limp between her legs, golden eyes hollow and distant. Humiliated. Broken. Boris's free hand was buried between her thighs, fingers moving in crude, invasive thrusts while she stared out the window, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. His other hand—wait, no, he switched—now groped her breast roughly, squeezing hard enough to make her wince, the blanket falling away further.
"Хубаво котенце," he muttered in Bulgarian, voice thick with sleaze. (Nice kitty.) "Ще те подготвя за доставката." (Gonna prep you for delivery.)
Lilly didn't fight. Didn't speak. Just sat there, body rigid, eyes glazed like she was already gone. Like she wanted to kill herself—jump out the door, end it on the asphalt. I swallowed bile, ducking back down. Ava was somehow still asleep beside me, tiny chest rising and falling steadily, ears twitching in dreams. Probably for the better. She didn't need to see this shit. Reincarnated or not, we were kids—her past-life lie about being thirty felt even flimsier now. She acted too innocent, too playful. Maybe she'd been young when she died. Whatever. I'd dragged her into this; I'd get us out.
The truck droned on, miles blurring. I kept watch through the gap—signs flashing by in the headlights. Bulgarian faded to Romanian: "Bine ați venit în România" on a border marker. We'd crossed into Romania. Shit. Not ideal. Whispers from the grown-ups back home, news snippets on TV—Russia's invasion had spilled over somehow in this messed-up world. Ukraine first, then pushes toward NATO borders. Escalation, refugees, skirmishes. Why head here? Boris's "payout" must be tied to the chaos—easier to vanish people in war zones.
I waited, brain churning plans. Jump at a stop? Too risky with Ava. Scream? He'd find us, and then… no. Best opportunity would come. Had to.
Then—distant pops. Gunshots. Followed by a low boom—explosion, like thunder too close. The truck swerved slightly; Boris cursed in Bulgarian. "По дяволите, фронтовата линия." (Damn, the front line.)
Ava stirred, golden eyes cracking open. Another explosion rattled the windows—closer this time, the sky flashing orange on the horizon. She whimpered, claws digging into my arm. "Boom?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "War stuff. Stay quiet."
Why the fuck were we driving toward the front lines? Boris's muttered Bulgarian gave clues—something about "meeting point," "package delivery." Lilly was the package. But war zones? Insane. Hiding in chaos, maybe. Or selling to worse people.
More gunshots cracked—automatic fire, shouts echoing faintly. The truck slowed, then stopped on a gravel shoulder, headlights illuminating a makeshift checkpoint: barbed wire, sandbags, figures in camo with rifles slung. Russian voices barked—harsh, unfamiliar. I didn't understand Russian in this life or the last; words blurred into threats. "У вас есть посылка?" (Do you have the package?)
Boris rolled down the window, replying in broken Bulgarian mixed with what sounded like pidgin Russian. "Да, имам пакета. Тя е тук." (Yes, I have the package. She's here.)
A pause. Then—bang. A single shot, sharp and final. Boris slumped against the wheel, blood spraying the dashboard. Lilly screamed, blanket clutched tight. Soldiers swarmed the truck—Russian uniforms, faces shadowed under helmets. Doors yanked open; they hauled Boris's body out like trash, then dragged Lilly from her seat. She stumbled, blanket slipping, exposing her humiliation further. One soldier—a young guy with a leer—reached out, fingers brushing her bare thigh, groping roughly.
"Не!" (No!) another barked, older, shoving him back. "Не докосвай стоката." (Don't touch the merchandise.) Scolded, the young one backed off, muttering.
They shoved Lilly toward a waiting van, her tail dragging in the dirt, ears flat in defeat. The truck doors slammed shut again—us still hidden underneath. Engines revved. We were moving again, but now with new drivers. Soldiers.
Ava's eyes met mine in the dark, wide with terror. "Home?"
"Soon," I lied, whispering. But how? Front lines. Russians. War.
We were fucked.
**[Reducted] POV**
The streets of town blurred into a frantic haze as Miko and I combed every corner, our footsteps pounding the pavement like a desperate heartbeat. Akira had stayed home, propped on the couch with ice on her temple and painkillers kicking in, her wound still seeping despite the bandages. She'd insisted on coming, but we'd overruled her—too injured, too risky. Now it was just us, Miko's black cat ears pinned flat against her hair, tail lashing with every dead-end question, her golden eyes scanning crowds like a predator on the hunt. I felt the same raw panic clawing at my chest: Caz and Ava, our babies, gone. Vanished in the chaos of Boris's betrayal.
We started at the bar where I worked—Victor hadn't seen Boris since the wedding, but he spread the word among the regulars. Then the market square, flashing a quick sketch of Boris's truck on my phone: black, dented fender, government plates half-scratched. "Seen this car? Big guy driving, maybe with a woman?" Faces blurred—shopkeepers shaking heads, pedestrians shrugging. No one had. Hours ticked by, the sun dipping low, frustration boiling into despair.
Until the gas station on the outskirts. The attendant—an older guy with a cigarette dangling—squinted at the photo. "Yeah… somethin' like that rolled through early evening. Headed east on the highway. Toward the border."
Miko's tail stiffened. "Romania?"
He nodded. "Matched the plates. Bulgarian, right? Didn't stop for gas, just blew through."
We stepped outside, the weight of it hitting like a brick. Miko's claws dug into her palms. "Romania. That's bad. Really bad."
I nodded, stomach twisting. "Russian invasion's turned it into a war zone. Refugees, checkpoints, God knows what else. But if that's where he went…"
"We have to go," she finished, voice fierce despite the fear in her eyes. "They're our kits. Lilly too, I guess. No choice."
Back home, we burst through the door, Akira dozing fitfully on the couch. We packed fast—backpacks with clothes, water, cash from the wedding gifts, a first-aid kit, Miko's claws sharpened just in case. I grabbed my old life from the drawer; Miko tucked a small pistol we'd kept hidden for emergencies.
"Don't tell Akira," Miko whispered, ears drooping. "She's hurt. She'd try to come."
"Agreed." I scribbled a note on the kitchen table: *Gone to Romania border. Chasing lead on twins and Lilly. Stay safe, call Victor if needed. Love you. Back soon.*
We slipped out, locking the door softly. The car engine hummed to life, and we hit the highway east, twilight swallowing the road. Miko stared out the window, tail curled in her lap.
"Romania's a bad place to go right now," I said, gripping the wheel tighter. "Russian forces pushed in last year—NATO's holding lines, but it's chaos. Invasions spilling over from Ukraine. Checkpoints, soldiers, hybrids caught in the crossfire."
She nodded, claws pricking the seat. "Doesn't matter. We drive. We find them."
The miles stretched, headlights piercing the dark. No turning back.
**Caz's POV**
The truck sat silent in the muddy lot, engine ticking as it cooled, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and diesel. Ava huddled against me under the back seats, her tiny body trembling from the cold and fear, golden eyes wide in the dim light filtering through the windows. Outside, soldiers milled around—Russian voices barking in clipped, guttural tones I didn't understand a word of. Reincarnated James hadn't spoken Russian; Caz the kit sure as hell didn't. Words like "пакет" (package?) floated in, but the rest was noise—orders, laughs, the clink of rifles.
Through the gap, I watched them drag Lilly toward a cluster of camouflage tents pitched under floodlights, the camp buzzing with activity: fires crackling, vehicles rumbling, distant explosions lighting the horizon like fireworks gone wrong. She stumbled in her blanket, ears flat, tail dragging in the dirt—still humiliated, still broken. They shoved her into a tent, a guard barking something sharp. Minutes later, someone tossed in a bundle—clothes, rough military fatigues by the look. Then a tray: bread, some stew, water. Lilly took it silently, huddling in the corner, ears twitching at every sound.
Ava whispered, breath hot against my ear. "Grandma okay?"
"Not sure," I muttered back. "We wait. Figure out how to get to her. No being seen—soldiers everywhere. Crawl low, stick to shadows."
She nodded, tail flicking nervously. The camp was a maze—tents, trucks, patrols with flashlights sweeping the ground. One wrong move, and we'd be spotted. Tiny kits in a war zone. Great.
A crunch of boots approached the truck—close, deliberate. A soldier, rifle slung over his shoulder, muttering in Russian as he circled the vehicle. Flashlight beam sliced through the windows, probing the interior.
"Hide!" I hissed, yanking Ava deeper under the seats, bodies pressed flat against the grimy floor. The door creaked open; the beam swept inside, inches from our hiding spot. Heart pounding, I held my breath, praying he wouldn't look down.
The light lingered. Then—nothing. Door slammed shut. Footsteps faded.
We exhaled together, trembling. Close. Too close.
But we weren't leaving without Lilly.