The highway unfurled like a jagged scar across the darkening Romanian landscape, border lights twinkling ominously in the far distance as I pushed the car to its limits, the engine whining in protest. Miko sat rigid in the passenger seat, her sleek black cat ears twitching at every jolt and bump in the road, her tail coiled so tightly in her lap it looked like it might snap at any moment. We'd been driving for what felt like an eternity—hours bleeding into one another in tense silence, broken only by the radio's sporadic crackles of fragmented news reports: Russian armored advances grinding through contested villages, NATO airstrikes lighting up the night, civilians fleeing in droves amid the unrelenting hellfire of artillery barrages. Our babies—Caz and Ava—were out there somewhere in that madness. Lilly too, dragged into the abyss by Boris, that backstabbing son of a bitch who'd played us all like fools.
A city skyline loomed ahead—the ragged outskirts of Bucharest, signs battered by wind and shrapnel, half the streetlights flickering or dead under the weight of wartime blackouts. I veered off the main road at a deserted gas station, the car's tires crunching over broken glass and debris as I let the engine idle under the harsh, buzzing glow of the overhead fluorescents. The place was a ghost town—pumps dry, windows shattered, graffiti scrawled in hasty Romanian warning of curfews and evacuations.
"Miko—give me the gun," I said, voice low and steady despite the knot of fear twisting in my gut.
She blinked, her sharp golden eyes narrowing slightly in the dim light. "Why the swap now?"
"Front lines mean soldiers—up close and personal. I'm better with the pistol for distance. You take the knife—your claws and speed make you deadly in close quarters. We play to our strengths."
She nodded without hesitation, no room for debate in a situation like this. We swapped weapons: the compact pistol felt heavy and reassuring in my palm, its cold metal grip grounding me; she slid the knife into her belt with a soft click, her claws flexing instinctively as if testing their sharpness against an invisible enemy, the faint scrape of them against the sheath sending a shiver down my spine.
Back on the road, I floored the accelerator, the car surging forward as we wove through slow-moving refugee convoys—overloaded vans and trucks packed with families, their faces hollow with exhaustion, hybrids like Miko huddled in the backs with ears pinned and tails tucked. Checkpoints dotted the route, makeshift barriers manned by tense Romanian guards who waved us through with suspicious glares and barked questions in broken English. The air grew thicker with each mile, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke from distant fires, the low rumble of explosions vibrating through the chassis like approaching thunder.
"We're getting close," I muttered, voice barely above the engine's growl. "Eyes sharp—scan for Boris's truck. Black paint, that big dent on the left fender, scratched government plates. It'll stand out in a military lot."
Miko's tail flicked once, a quick snap of determination. "Got it. Let's end this."
We ditched the car at a ragged treeline about a mile out from the reported front—too risky to drive any closer, with patrols and anti-vehicle mines rumored along the approaches. The night air bit cold and sharp, laced with the metallic scent of gun oil and cordite. We hiked low and fast, crouching through underbrush and sticking to the deepest shadows, the ground turning to slick mud churned by tank tracks and boot prints. Gunfire popped sporadically in the distance—sharp cracks of rifles, the chatter of machine guns—while explosions bloomed on the horizon like angry flowers, painting the sky in fleeting oranges and reds.
The front line sprawled before us like a nightmare: jagged trenches snaking through the earth, coils of razor-sharp barbed wire glinting under sweeping floodlights, sandbag bunkers humming with activity. Soldiers in mismatched camo darted between positions, their harsh Russian commands cutting through the night air.
A Russian checkpoint loomed just ahead—soldiers clustered around a barrier of concrete blocks and wire, rifles slung casually but ready, barking orders into radios in their guttural tongue. Behind it, in a muddy impromptu lot crammed with jeeps, armored vans, and supply trucks: Boris's vehicle. Black paint chipped and scarred, that telltale dent on the fender, plates half-obscured by mud but unmistakably scratched. Unmistakable.
"There," I whispered, pointing with a steady hand despite the adrenaline surging through me. "Sneak around the side—use the shadows from those crates."
We crept forward, hearts pounding like war drums in our chests, weaving through the cover of abandoned vehicles and stacked supply crates. The mud sucked at our boots, the air alive with the low hum of generators and the distant wail of sirens. Closer… closer. We reached the truck—doors unlocked in the chaos, windows fogged with condensation from the humid night.
I wiped a quick streak clear with my sleeve and peered inside, breath catching in my throat.
Caz and Ava. Huddled under the back seats like tiny shadows, their little black cat ears perked in fear, golden eyes wide and reflecting the faint glow from outside. Alive. Unhurt. My chest exploded with a rush of relief so intense it nearly buckled my knees. "They're here—our babies—"
Bang. A sharp crack split the night, fire erupting in my shoulder as a bullet tore through muscle and cloth, blood blooming hot and wet down my arm. Pain lanced white-hot; I spun on instinct, pistol whipping up in my good hand, squeezing off two quick shots that cracked into the darkness. One hit a soldier's vest with a dull thud—he dropped like a stone—but the others swarmed from the shadows, rifles raised, shouts exploding in Russian like angry hornets.
"Run!" I bellowed to Miko, blood roaring in my ears, but it was already too late. They were on us in seconds—rough hands grabbing, slamming me face-first into the mud, the impact jarring my wounded shoulder into fresh agony. Miko fought like a demon possessed, her claws slashing out in vicious arcs that drew blood and curses, her knife flashing silver in the floodlights as she stabbed and twisted. But the numbers overwhelmed us—boots kicking, fists pounding until the fight drained out. They zip-tied our wrists with brutal efficiency, plastic biting into skin, and dragged us toward the cluster of tents, mud caking our clothes and faces.
The twins' cries pierced the night from the truck—high, terrified wails as soldiers yanked open the doors and pulled them free, their tiny bodies squirming in iron grips, ears pinned flat and tails thrashing.
In the chaotic distance, amid the swirl of soldiers and flashing lights, a lone figure slipped through the shadows at the edge of the camp—black cat ears silhouetted against a distant explosion, determined stride cutting through the mud. Akira. How the fuck was she here? The note—we'd left it clear as day. She must have woken up, read it, and grilled Victor for details. He folds easy under pressure, always has—probably spilled everything the second she flashed those claws.
They shoved us roughly into a holding tent—canvas walls flapping in the wind, the ground cold and damp—where the world narrowed to throbbing pain, bound wrists, and the gnawing dread of what came next. Our family dragged back together—at the absolute worst possible time.