Dane walked the circuit, constantly checking his datapad for updates. The morning sun had barely cleared the edge of the eastern ridge when he stepped out of the sheriff's office, coat already catching dust on the breeze that whistled through the narrow streets. The town buzzed with tension, quieter than usual, but not calm. Storm prep always brought that edge of anxious stillness before the chaos.

  He moved past boarded windows and hand-painted storm warning signs nailed to doors, most of them still scuffed and faded from the st season's onsught. Families nailed down tarps and checked the reinforced rooftop netting while the wind moaned low across the rooftops, a mournful prelude. Loose fabric fpped, a hollow rhythm that grated on nerves already worn thin by months of relentless windstorms. Outdoor chairs and potted pnts were stacked and strapped down against the coming onsught.

  Drones flew overhead, broadcasting automated storm warnings every few minutes, their robotic voices warped and distorted by the rising gusts. The words, repeated so many times they'd lost meaning, only heightened the dread coiling in Dane's gut.

  Storm alert beacons blinked red along the main drag, a steady crimson pulse. A soft, repeating chime echoed from each unit—steady and annoying, but necessary. People knew what that sound meant. It was the town's curfew bell, the call to secure everything before the storm hit with its shrieking, punishing winds. Those caught outside risked being swept away.

  A mother knelt beside her child, fitting a cracked helmet over his tiny head before sending him inside with a gentle nudge. Across the path, a couple argued about whether to tape the windows or board them outright—each convinced the other was doing it wrong, their voices rising in frustration. A teenager pulled a hover-sled loaded with sandbags, straining under the weight, sweat beading on his brow, until an older man shuffled over to help, offering a nod and a calloused hand to ease the burden, though no words were exchanged.

  Dane nodded to the teen as he passed the town hall, his boots crunching against the dusty path. Across the way, two older miners lifted water barrels onto reinforced ptforms, their muscles straining with the effort. Even the kids were helping—tapping windows, hammering nails under the watchful guidance of grandparents who had seen more of these storms than they cared to count, their wrinkled faces etched with grim experience.

  An elderly gentleman sat on his porch, watching the frantic movement with a slow shake of his head, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the floorboards as he stared at the children darting between sandbags like it was a game. Oblivious to the storm's threat, they ughed, their joy jarring against the low-humming urgency in the air, a dissonant melody that made Dane's jaw clench.

  He ducked inside the bakery briefly, the scent of yeast and sugar enveloping him. Moozy was already boxing up rations—stale rolls, meat pies, and the st of the fruit tarts from a shipment that probably wouldn't make it through the next shuttle rotation. He nodded at Dane, his thick hands already in prep mode, movements deft and efficient.

  Hal, over in the tavern, was less cooperative. He hadn't closed yet, insisting his regurs needed a pce to ride out the pre-storm stress. "Storm ain't here yet," he grunted, polishing the same gss he'd been holding since Dane walked in, the dim lighting casting shadows across his weathered face. "I'll lock up when I smell sand."

  Dane didn't argue. Hal would lock up—just at the st possible second, as he always did.

  He checked his datapad again and groaned, the flickering numbers mocking him. The storm tracker had updated—again. Eight hours out, it said. A minute ter? Five. Then three. The uncertainty only amplified the dread coiled in his gut.

  "Make up your damn mind," he muttered, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

  Behind him, Hal leaned over his shoulder, the faint whir of his cybernetic limbs barely audible over the tavern's low murmur. "My knees say seven."

  Moozy, behind the counter, made a face, his bushy brows furrowing. "You don't have knees."

  Hal just shrugged, the motion smooth and practiced. "Exactly."

  Dane blinked and decided not to ask, turning on his heel to continue his rounds.

  Across town, Lena Hystien was already shouting, her shrill voice carrying over the wind. Her market stalls circled the square, half-covered in tarps and pstic that fpped angrily. She pointed at a busted sanitation filter throwing up sparks and demanded to know why Gavin hadn't fixed it already, her eyes narrowed in accusation.

  "You two are walking disasters!" she barked at Dane as he passed, her finger jabbing the air. "Storm's coming and I didn't get my emergency supply order from you. You trying to kill us all with your ck of preparedness?"

  Gavin, ever the diplomat, tried to pcate her, reminding her that leftover supplies from the st windfront were still stored in the civic celr, his tone even and patient.

  She didn't want to hear it. "Lies! You don't know what we'll need. You don't! And why are you even here, huh? Treading through my business and shutting down shuttle routes two days early?"

  "I don't control the shuttles," Gavin muttered as they walked off, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

  "She thinks you do," Dane added under his breath, shaking his head as the familiar squabble faded into the rising wind.

  The clinic was a flurry of activity. Cots were set up, medications inventoried, and organized. Dane offered to help, but Elian waved him off. "Unless you're going to sterilize these instruments, let me work." He didn't dismiss Dane entirely, though—the sheriff stepped aside but remained in the room, watchful, his presence a comforting constant.

  Dane's voice cut through the organized chaos. "Did you eat yet?"

  "In a bit," Elian replied absently, distracted by triaging supplies.

  "You say that all the time. Better go now."

  Finally, Elian looked up, dry but amused. A hint of fondness crept into his expression as he took in Dane's concerned frown. "Fine. But only because I was already pnning to check on Moozy and Hal." He gathered his bag, movements deft and practiced. Dane watched him go, feeling like he'd won a small battle. Elian rolled his eyes behind his back, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  Elian and Dane walked together to check on Lireya in her clothing shop. The air was heavy with the scent of fabric and dye, a familiar aroma tinged with mencholy. Lireya met them with the same quiet grief carved into her every feature. She showed Dane her meager storm supplies with stiff movements, her gaze downcast.

  Elian noticed the swollen knuckles and trembling hands. "How's the arthritis?" he asked gently.

  "It is what it is," Lireya rasped. Her voice was a dry whisper, like leaves scraping against pavement. "And this damn storm isn't making it better. Way my knuckles are aching, I'd call this one a Cat-4 for sure."

  Her attempt at humor fell ft, the words bitter on her tongue. Elian and Dane exchanged a gnce, silently vowing to check back again. All they could offer now was presence, a quiet reminder that she wasn't alone.

  Still pying their bottlecap game, the Nezien Brothers remained unmoved by the chaos swirling around them. Their eyes locked on faded caps, their movements steady and sure, as if the simple act of flicking bottle caps across a table was the only thing anchoring them to reality. Dane confirmed they had rations and water, his gaze lingering briefly. As he turned to go, Nezien 1 gave him a long look—too long, weighted with unspoken meaning. Dane held the stare, felt the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders, and walked away. The tap of bottlecaps marked time, steady as ever, a metronome counting down the moments until the storm broke.

  At the run-down motel, Commander Thane Vale stood on the porch, arms folded as Dane approached. Inside, the next rotation of terraforming workers paced or rested on thin mattresses. The pce was barely holding together, the roof patched with scrap metal, the vending machines long broken and coated in a yer of dust and grime.

  "They're going to get restless," Dane said, eyeing the workers with concern. "You've got two shifts stuck under one roof, Thane. That's a recipe for trouble."

  "They've got a roof. That's more than I had at their age," Thane replied gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of hard-earned experience.

  Dane sighed, knowing arguing was pointless. "We'll reroute some supplies over. Extra water, maybe some entertainment. If they get bored—"

  "They'll sleep," the shift leader cut in from the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. His face was etched with deep lines, a testament to the harsh conditions he and his crew endured. "We don't need cartoons and board games. Just give us quiet."

  Dane gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "You'll get it."

  Gavin's next assignment took him out to the perimeter. Dane had tasked him with checking in on the mining and terraforming camps along the outer ridge, a routine task but one that carried weight in this unforgiving environment.

  Gavin grumbled, not out of protest, but because it was part of the ritual now, a familiar dance they all knew well. "You know those guys prepped st week. They've lived through worse."

  "And you'll still check," Dane said, his voice ft and unyielding, leaving no room for argument.

  Gavin didn't mind the extra work; he just liked compining for the rhythm of it, a small comfort in the harsh reality they lived. He was a big guy—outside of Hal, probably the biggest in town—but among the terraformers, he always felt like a speck of grease in their gears. Not because they were physically imposing, but because they barely acknowledged him. His presence was just static while they kept things moving, focused on the task at hand with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

  The camps were always ready. Fortified, generators locked down, wind deflectors humming like a prayer. The workers didn't resent him—they just barely noticed him. A grizzled terraformer waved him off with a wrench, the calluses on his hand thick as armor pting. "Storm's just Sunday supper," he said gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand such storms, then turned back to his console, his focus already shifted to the next task.

  Gavin grunted, a small acknowledgment that passed for conversation. "Good talk."

  Gavin arrived back from the outer ridge patrols. His boots were dusty, face streaked with wind grit, but he moved with purpose, shoulders squared. He paused outside the clinic, intercepting the Kade twins who had just finished delivering storm bnkets to the shelter. Their eyes widened slightly at his approach.

  "You two," Gavin called out, voice firm but not unkind. A hint of authority edged his tone. "New orders."

  The twins straightened, wary but attentive, bodies tensing instinctively. Vik's jaw clenched while Sol's gaze dropped briefly before lifting to meet Gavin's stare.

  "You're helping Elian now. Inside the clinic. You committed to this, and he's counting on you." Gavin's words were clipped, leaving no room for argument. "No running off, no starting shit. Got it?"

  They nodded, not quite in sync, but close enough. A flicker of respect showed in their eyes—earned through Gavin's steady presence, not demanded by force.

  "Good," Gavin said with a slight nod. "Then get inside. And mind the sharp things." He held their gazes for a beat longer before turning on his heel, the faint whir of his cybernetic leg audible as he strode away.

  He turned and headed toward the sheriff's office, his boots scraping against the dusty path, already knowing Dane would be pacing, fretting about something he couldn't fix with his calloused hands or gruff reassurances.

  Dane avoided the st check on his list for as long as he could. The image of Mia out there with nothing, exposed to the elements, grated on him like an open wound. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, jaw clenched, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the worn armrest. The thought refused to grant him peace, a constant nagging in the back of his mind that he couldn't seem to shake off.

  And he was dragging his feet—not just because of the weather. He knew he needed to drag her back to town. He couldn't in good conscience leave her out there, vulnerable to the harsh conditions. But where the hell was he supposed to put her? The clinic? A bunk in the station? This was a town that actively hated her, their anger and resentment simmering just beneath the surface. Could he even keep her safe here? That weight pressed against his spine like a fresh burden, another headache he didn't need and hadn't asked for, but one he couldn't ignore.

  Gavin returned and remained quiet for a moment, studying Dane's tense posture and furrowed brow before speaking. "She's not sleeping under a tarp."

  Dane's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What?"

  "There's a fallout shelter. Built by her parents. Off-grid. Hidden." Gavin shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. "Deep in the mountain. Pretty impressive setup, actually."

  The news hit Dane like a punch to the gut. Relief flooded through him, quickly followed by a surge of anger that burned hot in his chest. His jaw clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache.

  "You should've told me." The words came out clipped, each sylble sharp as broken gss.

  "She deserved some peace," Gavin said, his tone calm but firm. He didn't flinch under Dane's gre, just stood there with his arms crossed, cybernetic fingers tapping against his flesh elbow. "After everything."

  Dane stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that set his teeth on edge. He reached for his jacket, movements stiff with barely contained frustration. "I need to see it. Now."

  He drove out, tires kicking up a plume of dust in his wake, sensors tripping as he approached the ruins. The old cruiser shuddered beneath him as it navigated the uneven terrain, suspension groaning in protest. Mia stood waiting at the edge of what had once been her family's property, arms crossed over her chest, calm but watchful. Her eyes tracked his approach with the wariness of someone who'd learned to anticipate trouble.

  "Do you or do you not have a shelter?" Dane demanded, his voice gruff as he climbed out, smming the cruiser door behind him with more force than necessary.

  "Yes." Her response was ft, giving away nothing.

  "Show me." He gestured impatiently, jaw tight with frustration.

  She didn't want to, that much was clear from the subtle stiffening of her shoulders and the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. But finally she relented, turning wordlessly toward the hillside. She led him along a path nearly invisible among the scrub and stone, stopping at what appeared to be solid rock. With practiced movements, she typed in a series of coded inputs on a hidden panel, fingers moving with the certainty of muscle memory.

  Inside, the shelter was temperature-controlled, stocked with food, tools, and even a bed. The bed was made with bnkets and pillows. A workshop was tucked behind a false shelf, tools and equipment neatly organized.

  "You've had power, food, safety this whole time," Dane growled, his jaw tightening until a muscle jumped beneath the stubbled skin. "While I've been losing sleep thinking you'd blow away with the trash." His eyes narrowed, frustration radiating from every tense line of his body.

  Mia met his gaze steadily, unflinching in the face of his anger. "I didn't ask you to."

  Those four words stung, cutting through his anger and leaving a twinge of guilt in their wake. They hit with precision, like a bde finding the gap in armor. Dane clenched his jaw, swallowing hard against the uncomfortable truth. He hadn't asked for her gratitude, but he'd expected... something.

  "I've been wasting time worrying about you when I should be worried about the perimeter shield barriers. Especially the North tower." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his exhaustion. "If that one goes down, the whole shield weakens. Sand's already biting through the outer edges. Town's exposed every time the wind picks up."

  Mia tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Something flickered behind her eyes—interest, perhaps, or calcution. Her fingers twitched at her sides, a mechanic's instinct. "What's wrong with the North tower?"

  "Not your concern," Dane snapped, his temper fring once more. The lines around his mouth tightened, jaw clenching as though physically restraining himself from saying more.

  "Check in before storms. And after. Don't make me drive back out here." He jabbed a finger toward the communications panel on the wall, its lights flickering weakly in the dimming afternoon light.

  She nodded, her face impassive, though her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin. The small pain kept her grounded, focused on something other than the sheriff's narrowed gaze.

  As he climbed back into the truck, the suspension groaning under his weight, Asrell's voice whispered in her mind. "This one runs on stress and salt. Are you sure he's fit to lead?" The symbiote's words carried a hint of amusement, but also genuine curiosity.

  Mia didn't answer. Her heart was still pounding, adrenaline coursing through her veins from the tense exchange. She watched the sheriff's truck, dust swirling in its wake as the engine growled to life.

  Outside, the storm loomed ever closer, dark clouds gathering on the horizon like bruises against the sky. The wind was starting to howl, a low, ominous sound that sent a shiver down her spine. Sand particles already scratched against the windows, tiny harbingers of the fury to come.