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༻ Y/N'S  POV ༺

The sun hung low in the summer sky, its golden light stretching across the streets of Dallas. The warmth pressed against my skin, steady and familiar—the same as every morning since I was sent here, since I lost who I was. But today, the weight of it felt different. Heavier.

My brown boots moved with precision against the pavement, each step measured, each movement calculated. Around me, the town carried on as it always did. Families strolled, children ran past, their laughter sharp against my heightened hearing. Mothers pushed strollers, their soft voices blending with the hum of passing cars. Every sound, every shift in movement registered in my system, yet none of it mattered. None of it felt relevant.

I was retracing my steps, moving toward the one place that held the answers I needed—the alley where I first arrived. The place where my system had fractured, where my identity had slipped through the cracks. If I was going to find them—Five, Diego, Klaus, Allison, Luther, Vanya—I needed to start there.

A patrol car rolled by on the road beside me, its polished surface reflecting the rising sun. My eyes flicked to it briefly, scanning for any immediate threat before shifting forward.

Then, I was there.

I turned the corner into the alley, the walls closing in around me, narrowing my world. A single metal door stood against the back of an old building, rust creeping at its edges. The ground was littered with trash, evidence of a place forgotten.

My system initiated a scan. A red digital overlay flickered across my vision, assessing every crack in the pavement, every shifting shadow. No immediate threats detected.

But I felt it.

A presence.

My sensors picked up movement a fraction of a second before my eyes did. A shift. A weight behind the second-floor window. My head snapped up, tracking the figure beyond the thin curtain. A shadow. Someone was there.

Then—abrupt movement. The curtain snapped shut, as if they thought I hadn't seen them.

I tilted my head slightly.

They knew something.

I moved toward the door without hesitation, reaching for the knob. Locked.

I didn't pause. My system recalibrated, adjusting for impact. I lifted my leg and drove my boot into the wood just below the handle. The frame splintered as the door burst open, the sound ricocheting through the alley.

I stepped inside.

The stairwell stretched before me, a winding path leading upward into the unknown. The air inside was stale, heavy with dust and the scent of old paper. My system filtered through it, separating scents, analyzing particles. But beyond all that—

Movement.

Faint, but there.

I ascended the stairs, each step deliberate, controlled. My sensors tracked every shift behind the doors lining the hallway above. Someone was there, just beyond my reach.

Whoever they were, they had seen me.

Whoever they were, they knew something.

And I was going to find out what.

I reached the door, my sensors picking up the faint movement behind it. Footsteps. Shuffling. Hesitation.

I knocked.

Silence.

I knocked again, sharper this time. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open just enough for a face to peek through. My eyes scanned him instantly—mid-30s, disheveled hair, blood pressure slightly elevated, and his expression flickering between confusion and fear.

"Can I help you?" he asked, voice tight.

"Yes. You can," I said flatly. "I believe you know someone I need to find."

His gaze darted around, scanning the hallway behind me as if checking to see if I was alone. Then he leaned out just slightly, lowering his voice. "I don't know anyone. Please leave."

He tried to shut the door.

I caught it with my hand before it could close. His eyes flickered to my grip, his face paling slightly. He could tell—there was nothing normal about my strength.

I tilted my head. "I'll ask again. You know someone I need to find. Let me in."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fingers twitching against the doorframe. He was shaking. "Sorry. I'm not who you're looking for. Please leave and—"

He slammed the door cutting himself off.

I stared at it for half a second. Then I took a step back and kicked it open.

The force sent the door flying inward, crashing against the wall. I stepped inside as the man stumbled back, wide-eyed and breathless.

"My door," he muttered, half in shock, half in disbelief.

I glanced at it. It was still attached—barely. Not my problem.

I took a slow step forward. He flinched, scrambling for something near the table. My sensors picked up his erratic heartbeat, the spike in his adrenaline. He grabbed something—a small screwdriver—and pointed it at me like a weapon.

"Stay back!" he stammered. "I—I don't want to hurt a kid."

I didn't move.

Instead, I let my eyes drift around his small apartment, taking in the cluttered kitchen, the piles of mail on the table. My vision locked onto the name printed across several envelopes.

Elliot Gussman.

I looked back at him. "Elliot Gussman?"

His eyes widened. "Please. Just leave. I—I don't have anything."

"No," I said. "But you do know someone I need to find."

His grip tightened around the screwdriver. "I— I don't know anyone. I don't go out. I'm kind of an alone person. I don't even have friends."

I blinked at him, expression unreadable. Lying.

"Elliot," I said, voice sharper now. "I'm looking for a boy. Young. Green eyes. Dark hair. Last seen wearing a dark blue and red uniform."

His breath caught.

His body temperature spiked. Heart rate accelerated. A thin sheen of sweat formed along his temple.

He knew exactly who I was talking about.

"And don't lie to me," I added coldly.

Elliot took a shaky step back, gripping the tiny screwdriver like it was a lifeline. "L-l-like I said, I—I don't know any boy in a uniform. You must have the wrong guy."

I stared at him, my mind processing every microexpression, every nervous tick.

"I'm not someone you lie to, Elliot," I said smoothly. "Unlike most people, I can force the truth out of you."

I took a deliberate step forward. He flinched.

"You're nervous. Your body temperature is rising. Your heart rate is erratic." My voice was calm, detached. "You know exactly who I'm talking about. And now, you have two choices. You can either tell me what I need to know, or we can do this my way."

Elliot pressed himself against the counter. "I—I—"

"Your choice."

His eyes darted around, panicked. "Well... now that you mention the boy... he—"

He cut himself off.

Then he grabbed the nearest object—a book—and hurled it at my head.

It hit. My head turned slightly from the impact, but I didn't flinch.

When I looked back at him, he was already charging at me, screwdriver raised.

I moved faster.

I caught his wrist before the screwdriver could even come close, twisting his arm. He gasped in pain, his knees buckling.

"Ah!" Elliot yelped.

I kicked his leg out from under him, forcing him to collapse onto the floor. In one smooth motion, I slammed his face onto the table, scattering papers and knocking over an old computer.

He groaned, struggling beneath my grip, but I held his arm behind his back, applying just enough pressure to make him feel how easily I could break it.

"Wrong move, Elliot," I murmured, leaning down so my voice was right by his ear.

His breath came out ragged.

"I'll ask one more time," I said, voice steady, void of emotion. "Do you know a young boy? One who appeared here recently?"

He stayed silent, his body trembling against the table.

I twisted his arm slightly. He gasped.

"And if I find out you lied to me," I continued, my tone dropping even lower, "if I find out you let something happen to him... I have no hesitation in my system to snap your arm in half this very second."

Elliot let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a breath and a whimper.

"Talk," I ordered.

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༻ FIVE'S POV ༺

"This is the place," I said, eyes locked on the small ranch house as Diego pulled the car to a stop.

I'd spent the entire night putting the pieces together, combing through every lead, every scrap of information that could tell me where Y/N had ended up after she was stranded in this time period. Elliot had saved a newspaper article featuring a man named Johnny Matthews, a local rancher. He and his wife had been in the Dallas paper after winning some horseback riding competition.

Standing beside them in the photo was Y/N.

Smiling. Holding the reins of a horse.

She was here.

Diego leaned forward, arms on the wheel as he
scanned the house. "So, what? She's been living on some farm this whole time?"

"Looks that way."

Diego scoffed. "We're talking about the same Y/N, right? The one who used to wipe out entire squads of armed men in three seconds? And now she's what—milking cows?"

"Be nice," Lila chimed in from the back seat. "Barns are cool. Besides the cow shit and the mud."

I sighed, already irritated by her presence. Diego had insisted on bringing her, saying she'd be "useful" since she helped him escape the asylum. Personally, I thought she'd be more of a liability.

I turned back to the house. "Let's go."

We stepped out of the car. The morning air was thick with the scent of damp hay and animals, the only sound being the crunch of dead grass beneath our boots. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied.

Diego adjusted his jacket. "So, what's the plan? Just knock and ask if we can have our robot back?"

"She's not a robot," I muttered.

Diego rolled his eyes. "She's... half robot."

"She's more than that," I snapped.

Lila smirked. "Aww, is someone being protective over his little girlfriend?"

I shot her a look. "Would be easier without you tagging along."

She grinned. "Would be less fun, too."

I ignored her, stepping up onto the front porch. The wooden boards creaked under our weight as we reached the door. Diego pulled open the screen door with a loud squeak, and I knocked firmly on the main door.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

Diego peered through the window. "No movement inside."

"They're home," Lila said, nodding toward the red pickup truck parked outside. "Maybe they locked her up or something."

"Doubt it," I muttered, testing the doorknob. Locked.

Diego knocked harder. "Y/N!" he called out.

Still nothing.

Lila rapped on the wood one more time, and Diego—getting impatient—pounded on it with his fist.

Then—

The door shot open.

The barrel of a shotgun was suddenly in our faces.

Johnny Matthews stood in the doorway, old but solid, his grip on the gun steady and unwavering. His finger rested near the trigger, his sharp eyes scanning over the three of us like we were trespassers on his land.

"Who the hell are you," he said slowly, voice thick with a Southern drawl, "and why are you poundin' on my damn door?"

Diego immediately took a step back, hands raised slightly. "Whoa, alright, easy there, cowboy."

Johnny narrowed his eyes at him. "Ain't no cowboy, son. Ain't no reason for you to be bangin' on my door like that unless you're lookin' to get shot."

Lila leaned in toward me. "Gotta admit, I like him already."

I ignored her, keeping my gaze locked on Johnny. "We're looking for Y/N."

Something flickered in his expression—too fast for most people to catch, but I saw it. Recognition.

"Don't know anyone by that name," Johnny said flatly.

I clenched my jaw. "That's funny, considering she's in the newspaper with you. Smiling. Standing right next to you."

Johnny didn't react, but I could see his grip tighten on the shotgun.

The old man's shotgun stayed trained on us, unwavering, steady despite the years on him. His finger flexed near the trigger, ready to shoot at the first wrong move. I didn't flinch.

Then, the distant crunch of tires on gravel.

We all turned as a red truck pulled up, kicking dust into the air. The engine cut off, and a door creaked open. A boot hit the dirt. A teenage boy stepped out, pausing as soon as he saw the scene on the porch—Johnny standing firm with his gun aimed at us.

His brows furrowed. "Johnny, what's going on?"

Johnny didn't look back at him. "Billy, get on outta here," he ordered, his voice stern.

Billy.

That name clicked in my head.

"That's the kid," Diego muttered beside me.

"What kid?" Lila asked, tilting her head.

"The one I saw leaving the store with Y/n."

I turned sharply toward Billy.

He was the one with her. The last person Diego saw her with.

I didn't hesitate.

I moved, closing the distance between us in seconds. Before Billy could react, I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wooden wall of the porch.

"Ay!" Johnny barked, raising the shotgun higher.

Billy grunted, hands flying up in reflex. "The hell, man?"

Johnny's grip on the gun tightened. "Let go of him. Now, boy."

I ignored him. My grip on Billy's shirt didn't loosen.

"Where's Y/n?" I demanded.

Billy's eyes darted between me and Johnny, his confusion obvious—but there was something else, something cautious. He knew something.

"Who the hell are you?" Billy shot back, breath uneven.

Wrong answer.

I slammed him against the wood again. "Where's Y/n?" I repeated, voice sharp, controlled.

Johnny took a step forward, his gun still raised. "Young man, I will shoot you."

I didn't even glance his way.

Diego groaned. "Don't shoot him, alright? We just want Y/n."

Billy's eyes flickered at Diego's words. That hesitation told me everything.

"You know Y/n," I stated, my voice dropping. "So tell me—where is she?"

Billy's jaw tightened. "Who's askin'?"

"The person who's about to put a bullet in your skull," I said flatly.

Billy let out a dry scoff, but I could feel the tension in his body. He knew I wasn't bluffing.

Johnny, however, was done waiting.

"Not before I do," he growled.

Diego sighed. "For the love of—can we not shoot anyone?"

Billy suddenly twisted in my grip, shoving at my chest. I let go, only for a second, but it was enough for him to swing at me.

Big mistake.

I ducked, and before he could react, I lunged.

My fist connected with Billy's jaw, sending him stumbling back. He barely had time to recover before I grabbed him again, this time spinning him around and locking my arm around his throat in a chokehold.

Billy gasped, his hands clawing at my arm. His back was pressed against my chest, his breath coming short.

Then—

A gunshot.

The blast rang through the air, loud and sharp.

Wood splintered just beside me—Johnny had fired, but missed. The porch railing now had a fresh, gaping hole.

"Jesus," Lila muttered, eyes widening.

Diego stepped forward again, ready to push past Johnny, but the old man was already swinging.

The butt of the shotgun slammed into Diego's skull with a sickening crack.

Diego barely had time to react before his knees buckled and he hit the porch with a dull thud.

Everything stopped.

Billy froze in my grip.

Lila whistled lowly looking at Diego.

I barely registered her words, my mind calculating my next move.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from inside the house. A woman's voice, sharp with concern, rang out.

"Johnny! Who did you shoot?"

The screen door swung open, and she rushed outside. But the moment she took in the scene before her, she came to a dead stop.

Her eyes widened. One hand flew to her chest.

Johnny—her husband, I assumed—stood with a shotgun aimed at us. Diego lay unconscious on the porch. Lila, ever the picture of unbothered amusement, had her hands raised lazily in the air, smirking like this was all some inside joke.

And me? I had Billy in a tight headlock, his back pressed against my chest, my arm locked under his chin. He was struggling, gritting his teeth, but it was useless. His hands clawed at my sleeve, trying to pry me off, but my grip only tightened.

Lila, always one for comedic timing, gave the woman a small, amused wave. "Hey there. Lovely evening, huh?"

The woman ignored her, her gaze flicking between Johnny's raised gun and Billy's reddening face. "What the hell is going on?"

Johnny turned the shotgun on me, his breathing heavy. "Let. Him. Go," he said, his voice steady, warning.

I looked at Billy, then at Johnny. Then, slowly, I released him. Billy stumbled forward, coughing, his hand rubbing at his throat.

Billy stumbled forward, clutching his ribs as he gasped for breath. The older woman rushed to him, holding out her arms to steady him. His nose was bloodied, his face twisted in anger and pain. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, glaring at me with pure hatred.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as the tension between us thickened like a storm about to break.

"Johnny, what in God's name is goin' on?" the older woman demanded, her thick Southern drawl laced with worry. She clutched Billy's shoulders protectively, her eyes darting between her husband and me.

"They're crazy!" Billy spat. "Call the damn cops on these people!"

"Go ahead. And when they get here, I'll let them know you've been keeping someone locked up in your house."

The woman stiffened, glancing at Johnny. "Johnny? What's this boy talkin' about?"

Johnny's grip tightened around his gun, his jaw clenching. His posture didn't change, still steady as a rock, but there was hesitation in his eyes. He knew I wasn't bluffing.

"They know Y/N," Johnny muttered, his voice tight.

The woman gasped, turning to look at me with wide eyes.

I held up a crumpled newspaper, pointing to the faded image of Y/N standing beside them, smiling. "And this," I said coolly, "proves she was here. So, I'll ask again—where is she?"

"She ain't here," Billy sneered.

"Bullshit." I took a slow, measured step toward him.

The woman quickly stepped between us, holding out her hands. "Wait, now, hold on," she said, her voice firm yet cautious. "You... you really know Y/N?"

I exhaled through my nose, nodding. "Yeah. She's my—" I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. What was I supposed to say? She's my family? Too personal. My partner? Too misleading. My responsibility? Too clinical.

Instead, I settled for: "—a close friend."

The woman's face softened, but Johnny's remained hard as stone. She turned to her husband, clutching his arm. "Johnny... it's them. The people she was talkin' about last night."

My brows furrowed. "What people?"

The older couple exchanged glances before Johnny finally exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "Yesterday, Y/N got into an accident," he admitted. "Got thrown off Billy's damn horse and hit her head."

I snapped my gaze to Billy, my hands clenching into fists. He looked away, guilt flashing across his face for the briefest second before he covered it with indifference.

"She was shaken up real bad," the woman continued. "Later that night, she started actin'... different. Like she was rememberin' somethin' important. Kept mentionin' names. Said she needed to find 'em. We figured it was just the concussion talkin'."

No. It wasn't just the concussion.

"What names did she say?" I demanded.

The woman frowned, thinking hard. "Oh, let's see... there was a Luther. And a man named Diego. Another one... Klaus, I believe. And a woman—Allison? And... Vanya."

I felt something in my chest tighten.

She was remembering.

The woman snapped her fingers. "Oh! And there was one more. Somethin' strange. I can't quite remember it."

Johnny's voice cut through the silence.

"Five."

My head snapped toward him.

The woman gasped, turning to look at me again, realization dawning in her eyes. "Do... do you know where she's at?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"She's probably been kidnapped," Billy muttered under his breath.

I ignored him, my mind racing. When she first arrived here, her system had been wiped—she hadn't even recognized Diego. But if she was remembering now and had left in the middle of the night...

There was only one thing she'd be looking for.

Me.

"She's gone," Johnny said gruffly. "Checked on her in the middle of the night, and her room was empty. She ran off."

That confirmed it. She remembered enough to know she had to leave. The question was—where would she go?

I ran a hand over my face, exhaling sharply. My time was running out.

Johnny lifted his gun again, this time pointing it square at my chest. "I've answered your damn questions. Now get the hell off my property. Take your friend with you."

He motioned toward Diego, who was still lying unconscious on the porch.

I walked over to Diego and crouched beside him, reaching into his pocket. After a moment of searching, I found what I needed—the car keys.

"Grab his legs," I ordered Lila.

She rolled her eyes but obeyed, hoisting up his legs while I took his arms. The old couple and Billy watched us warily as we carried Diego off the porch, down the steps, and through the dead grass toward the car.

Lila let out an annoyed grunt, dropping Diego's legs with a loud thud so she could open the back door. She huffed, then grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into the seat beside her.

I slid into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel tightly as I stared out at the road.

"Where to next?" Lila asked, stretching her arms behind her head.

I twisted the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

"I know her better than anyone," I murmured. My voice was calm, but my mind was already racing ahead, piecing the puzzle together. I knew exactly where she was going.

I pressed my foot down on the gas.

In the rearview mirror, I caught one last glimpse of the old couple and Billy standing on the porch. Johnny gave one last hard look before pushing them inside and slamming the door shut.

I didn't look back again.

I was coming for her.

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WORDS WRITTEN:
3798
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