Chosen to Survive (ONC2024)

Chapter 11

Note, at the start of the book the MCs were teens. Now they are 22/23 years old.

Zack's POV

In a world that feels perpetually cloaked in shadows, finding moments of normalcy isn't just rare; it's a precious sliver of resistance. Vanessa and I have been running and hiding for what seems like forever, the constant tension a heavy cloak we can't seem to shed. Tonight, I decide we need a break, however brief, to remember what we're fighting for.

I've scouted an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. It's not much, but it's away from prying eyes. I manage to find some old blankets and a couple of candles. It's not exactly romantic, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances.

When I tell Vanessa, her initial surprise gives way to a small, weary smile. "A date, huh?" she teases, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "In a warehouse? You really know how to charm a girl, Zack."

I grin back, feeling a lightness I haven't felt in a long time. "I promise it'll be a night to remember."

We make our way to the warehouse as dusk settles, the sky a canvas of deep blues and grays. Inside, I spread the blankets out in a corner, away from the dust and debris. I light the candles, their flickering glow casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Vanessa sets down a small bag she brought along. "I managed to scrounge up some food," she says, pulling out a couple of cans of soup and a surprisingly intact loaf of bread.

"Chef's special, I see," I joke as I help her open the cans with an old, rusty opener we keep in our pack.

We heat the soup over a small, makeshift stove—a few bricks and a bit of mesh. It's not gourmet, but the warmth of the food and the flicker of candlelight lend an almost magical quality to our makeshift date.

As we eat, the conversation turns from our immediate needs to memories of better times. "Remember that trip we took to the lake?" Vanessa asks, a wistful note in her voice.

"Yeah," I reply, the memory bittersweet. "The water was freezing, but you jumped in without hesitating."

She laughs, and the sound is like music in the oppressive silence of our hideout. "You took forever to get in. I thought you were going to bail."

"I was contemplating it," I admit, and we both laugh again, the sound echoing softly in the vast space of the warehouse.

After we eat, we talk for hours, about everything and nothing. It feels almost like old times, except every so often, the reality of our situation creeps back in, the laughter dying on our lips as we remember where we are, what's waiting for us outside the safety of our candlelit sanctuary.

Eventually, Vanessa grows quiet, her gaze distant. "Do you ever wonder if it's worth it?" she asks softly. "All this fighting, hiding... What if we can't change anything?"

I reach for her hand, squeezing it gently. "We have to believe it's worth it," I say, my voice firm despite the doubt that claws at my own heart. "For Zoe, for Oakley... for all of us who can't fight anymore. We owe it to them to keep going."

She nods, leaning her head against my shoulder. "I'm glad you're here, Zack. I don't think I could do this without you."

"And I wouldn't want to do this without you," I reply, pulling her closer.

We sit in silence for a while, just holding each other, finding comfort in the presence of someone who understands, who shares the same fears and hopes. Outside, the world may be falling apart, but for tonight, in this small, flickering circle of light, we have each other.

Eventually, we extinguish the candles and settle down under the blankets, the cold of the concrete floor seeping through despite our best efforts. But it doesn't matter. For tonight, we've managed to carve out a moment of peace, a memory to hold onto no matter what tomorrow brings.

As sleep claims us, I make a silent vow, both to myself and to Vanessa. No matter how dark the world gets, I'll keep fighting—not just to survive, but to live. For these moments, for these memories. For hope.

Lily's POV

In the stillness of our temporary hideout, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and damp earth, Oakley paces back and forth, his movements sharp and erratic. He's been free for a few days, but the shadows of his long captivity still cling to him, dark whispers that don't easily let go. I watch him, my heart aching at the sight. He needs this downtime as much as any of us, maybe more, yet peace seems a stranger to him.

"Oakley," I call softly, hoping to draw him out of his restless circling. "Come sit with me for a while."

He stops, looks at me with those deep-set eyes that have seen too much, and slowly, hesitantly, he joins me on the worn sofa that's become my thinking spot. The tension doesn't leave him, but at least he's no longer moving.

"I never asked," I start, my voice gentle, "why did you come here from England? There must have been a reason you ended up in Crestwood."

Oakley gives a half-smile, a brief glimmer of warmth in the cool darkness of the room. "I was sent here by The Institute," he explains, his accent thickening with the weight of his memories. "It's an organization that deals with... supernatural threats. They believed something was brewing here. They weren't wrong."

"The Institute," I repeat, intrigued. "Sounds like something out of a movie."

"It might as well be," he chuckles dryly. "But it's all too real. They train people like me to handle things that most people can't even imagine are real."

His eyes darken, and he looks away. "I left a lot behind to come here. Including my son."

"You have a son?" I ask, surprised, feeling a new layer of complexity added to the man beside me.

"Yes, he's a teenager now. Smart, too much like his old man for his own good," Oakley's face softens as he speaks of his son, a father's love breaking through the façade of the hardened agent.

"That must be hard, being away from him," I say, my voice low, not wanting to intrude too much into the pain I see flickering behind his eyes.

"It is. But it's necessary. To keep him safe, to make sure he doesn't have to face the things I do," he replies, his voice firm with conviction yet threaded with sorrow.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his life, his sacrifices, filling the space between us. Then, impulsively, I reach out and take his hand. He looks at me, surprised, but doesn't pull away.

"Lily, I—" he begins, but I shake my head.

"You don't have to say anything," I tell him. "Just know that you're not alone. Not anymore."

The air shifts, the space between us charged with something new, something fragile yet fierce. Slowly, as if drawn by a force neither of us can resist, I lean forward and kiss him. For a moment, he's still, caught off guard. But then, he kisses me back, a kiss full of all the things we can't say, a promise made without words.

When we part, there's a new understanding in his eyes, a new stillness in his posture. We don't speak; no words are needed. Instead, we sit together, the chaos of the world outside held at bay, finding comfort in the shared warmth of two souls brought together by the strangest of circumstances.

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