Somewhere below, a muffled explosion shook the ground. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Y/n sat on the edge of her cot, bare feet dangling over the cold floor. Her hair pooled around her in waves—a seventy-foot river of dark silk that snaked through the room, coiled in corners, climbed the walls like living shadow.

The alarms hadn't sounded yet. That was wrong.

Usually, there were alarms.

Through the small reinforced window, light flared orange for a second. Then red. Then nothing.

Her fingers found the hem of her threadbare gray shirt and twisted.