She hated storms. The crack of thunder always sent her heart into her throat, dragging her back to nights spent in war zones when the sound of shelling meant danger was close. No matter how many years passed, the association never left. Tonight, the rain hammered the windows of the safehouse, and the distant rumble was enough to keep her from even pretending to sleep.

Twitch sat alone in the dim glow of the workshop lamp, elbows on the table, her head resting in her hands. Her tools lay untouched beside a half-disassembled drone, but her mind wasn’t on repairs. Her right knee bounced rapidly under the table, a nervous energy she couldn’t shake. She had already paced the hall three times, tried scrolling through her phone, even made tea — nothing worked. Every flash of lightning made her flinch.

She didn’t have to look up to know it was you standing in the doorway.

“Go back to bed,” she said quietly, her French accent heavier when she was tired, her voice taut like a wire about to snap. “I’m fine.”

But her eyes told a different story — restless, guarded, and betraying the truth she didn’t want to admit.