The silence in the room was suffocating.

Mark. World President. The words didn't fully compute, like my brain was refusing to process what they meant.

"That's impossible," I said finally, my voice hoarse. "The UN doesn't just... they can't just appoint someone that quickly. There are procedures. Vetting. Political negotiations that take months."

"They bypassed all of it," Evelyn said, her tone clinical but I could hear the strain underneath. "Emergency powers. Crisis leadership. The argument was that the world needed stability immediately after Hugo Vale's exposure and death. Mark positioned himself as the natural successor—someone who'd exposed corruption, who represented the victims, who could unite people."

"And they bought it," Camille said, her voice hollow.

"Eighty-three percent of the world's population supports him," Evelyn confirmed, pulling up polling data on her tablet. "That's up from seventy percent two days ago. His approval rating, on a global scale, is higher than any known individual in recorded history."

The number hit like a physical blow. Eighty-three percent. Not just a majority—an overwhelming mandate. The kind of support that made opposition seem futile.

Sienna was the first to recover, her caring nature pushing through shock into practical concern. "What does this mean for us? Specifically?"

Evelyn switched to a different screen. "It means the world has mobilized. Interpol has issued red notices for all five of us. International warrants. Every law enforcement agency on the planet has our descriptions, our photos, predictive models of where we might go."

"Predictive models?" Alexis asked sharply.

"AI-assisted tracking," Evelyn explained. "They're using travel patterns, known associates, historical behavior to generate probability maps of our location. Europe is covered in coordinated search grids. Poland specifically has increased border security and random checkpoint inspections."

"We're in Poland," I said numbly. "We're sitting in the middle of one of those search grids right now."

"Yes," Evelyn confirmed.

Camille stood abruptly, panic breaking through her usual composure. "How long? How long before they find us here? Before they trace us to Elliot's farm?" She looked at Elliot, guilt and fear mixing in her expression. "Your family. God, we've put your entire family at risk. They're going to come here. They're going to—"

"Camille," Alexis interrupted, her voice firm. "Breathe. We don't know that yet."

"We don't need to know!" Camille shot back. "It's basic logic. They'll check associates. Past connections. Elliot helped Rey when he was Mr. Jester before. They'll find that connection and come here."

"Maybe," Alexis conceded. "But panicking doesn't help. We need to focus on what we can control."

"And what can we control?" Camille demanded. "We're hiding in a farmhouse while the entire world looks for us. The new World President—the man who killed Anthony—has more power than any person in history. What exactly can we control about that?"

"Our next move," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even though internally I was screaming. "Our response. Our—"

"Your condition," Alexis interrupted, looking directly at me with those analytical eyes that missed nothing. "Rey, you're exhausted. You've been working fields all day despite still recovering from multiple injuries, System burnout, and psychological trauma. Before we make any decisions, we need to stabilize you."

"I'm fine," I protested.

"You're not," she said flatly. "You're functional, which isn't the same thing. And we need you actually fine, not just pretending to be. No one recovers from a friend being killed in front of them in less than a week."

Before I could argue further, there was a knock at the door.

We all froze.

Elliot's expression shifted immediately—concern mixed with confusion. "We're not expecting anyone."

Another knock, more insistent this time. Voices outside. Multiple voices.

"That's weird," Elliot said quietly. "The nearest neighbors live about two kilometers away. They don't just show up unannounced."

"Get out of sight," Evelyn said immediately, her evaluator training taking over. "All of you. Now."

We moved quickly but quietly. Elliot directed us to a storage room off the main living area—cramped, filled with boxes and farm equipment, but with enough space for five people to hide if they squeezed together.

The door closed behind us, leaving us in darkness broken only by a thin line of light from the gap at the bottom.

Through the walls, I heard Elliot's family moving to answer the door. Zofia's voice, greeting whoever was outside with surprised warmth.

Then more voices. Many more voices.

"We brought food!" someone announced in Polish, the language barrier making it hard to understand details but the tone was clear—celebratory, excited.

"What's happening?" Camille whispered.

"Shh," Evelyn hissed back.

Through the door, we heard the neighbors explaining. More Polish, some translated by Elliot for his family members who spoke less of it. But enough English filtered through that I caught the key words.

"...celebrating... new World President... Mark... historic moment..."

My blood ran cold.

The neighbors had come to celebrate. To throw a spontaneous party for Mark's appointment. And they'd brought their families, their food, their enthusiasm.

I could practically feel Evelyn thinking through the same calculation I was: refusing would be suspicious. A farming family not celebrating would stand out. Would raise questions.

Elliot must have reached the same conclusion because I heard him respond with forced cheerfulness. "Of course! Come in, come in. We'd love to celebrate."

The sound of many people entering the house followed. Footsteps. Laughter. The party beginning to take shape.

"This is bad," Sienna whispered.

"Understatement," Camille agreed.

We stood in that cramped storage room, pressed against boxes and each other, listening as the celebration grew louder. More neighbors arrived. The farm family that had taken us in now hosting dozens—maybe hundreds—of people who'd come to celebrate the man who wanted us captured.

The irony was almost funny. Almost.

Time passed with agonizing slowness. We couldn't move. Couldn't make noise. Could barely breathe without worrying someone would hear.

Sienna eventually sat down, her back against the wall. Camille followed, exhaustion from days of travel and work finally catching up. Even Alexis, who usually maintained perfect composure, looked strained.

Hours passed. The party continued. Drinking. Cheering. Toasts to Mark. Songs in Polish that I didn't understand but whose celebratory nature was unmistakable.

Camille fell asleep first, her head resting against Sienna's shoulder. Then Sienna, her exhaustion from field work finally overwhelming her. Even Evelyn dozed off eventually, her usual vigilance succumbing to the sheer boredom and fatigue of standing still for so long.

Only Alexis and I remained awake, though I could feel myself fading.

Night fell. The party didn't die down. If anything, it seemed to intensify as alcohol flowed and inhibitions lowered.

I was becoming paranoid. Every footstep near our hiding spot made my heart race. Every voice that got too close triggered Instinct's warnings. Eventually, someone would need to use this storage room. Would open the door. Would find five fugitives squeezed together like sardines.

And then what? Would they report us immediately? Call the authorities? Or would some of them sympathize? Try to help?

I didn't know. Couldn't predict. Could only wait and hope.

I was starting to drift off myself—exhaustion finally claiming me despite the danger—when I heard footsteps approaching our door. Different from the others. Purposeful. Two sets.

Voices. Young. Male and female. Speaking Polish in low tones that suggested intimacy rather than celebration.

The door handle rattled.

I went rigid, every muscle tensing. Beside me, Alexis's hand found mine, squeezing in silent warning to stay still.

The door opened slightly. Light flooded in, momentarily blinding after hours of darkness.

Two figures stood in the doorway—young adults, maybe early twenties. I didn't recognize them, but from their body language and the way they were looking at each other, their intentions were clear. They weren't here for storage. They were looking for privacy. A quiet place away from the party.

The boy started to close the door behind them, and I made a split-second decision. I didn't care. I was an adult. I had bigger priorities than avoiding awkwardness. My life—our lives—were more important than not eavesdropping on whatever these two were about to do.

I turned my head to the side, focusing on the wall. Giving them whatever privacy I could while hoping they'd be too distracted to notice us in the shadows.

But when I turned, I had to shift my weight slightly to avoid cramping. The movement was tiny—barely perceptible.

But Alexis, pressed against me, had to adjust too. Which made Evelyn shift. Which made Sienna move in her sleep. Which made Camille stir.

A domino effect of tiny movements. Almost nothing.

Except our clothes rustled. Just slightly. Just enough.

The sound was barely audible over the party noise from the main house. But in the relative quiet of the storage room, it was enough.

The girl froze, her hand on the boy's arm. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" the boy asked, distracted.

"That sound. Like... clothes moving." She looked around the storage room, her eyes not quite adjusted to the darkness. "Check the closet."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not doing anything if there's a creep hiding in here," she said firmly. "Check it. Make sure there's no one there."

The boy sighed but moved toward the large closet where we were pressed together in the shadows.

My heart hammered against my ribs and I felt how Alexis' hand squeezed mine harder.

We were about to be discovered.

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