CHAPTER 42: QUIET PREPARATIONS

Lachlan didn’t go straight home after the briefing.

He stopped by the hardware store first—one of those oversized warehouse-style places with concrete floors and shelves stacked too high. The kind of place where men in flannel muttered over drill sets and retired preppers ran their fingers down rows of propane tanks like prayer beads.

He walked the aisles like a man on a mission, barely glancing at the prices. Rope, duct tape, collapsible water containers, heavy-duty tarps, solar lanterns. Every item went into the cart with the same quiet deliberation.

He didn’t even know what he was preparing for—not really. There was no official warning. No flashing alerts on the news. No government-issued pamphlets. Just Sera’s voice in his head, low and steady, as she spoke about winter.

Not with panic. Not with paranoia. But with a kind of resigned calm that unnerved him more than anything else.

People who panicked were usually wrong. They ran toward the fire or froze in place. But people like her—people who expected the worst, who planned for it, who studied it like religion?

They were the ones who survived.

He kept going. Bought a water filter, a fire starter kit, and a dozen packets of thermal blankets, thin and metallic like foil candy wrappers. He threw in a camp stove on instinct. And then—just as he was about to leave—he doubled back and grabbed a second one. One to keep. One to give.

By the time he reached the checkout line, his cart was overflowing. A second cart had been added along the way when he circled back for plastic bins, hand warmers, thick wool blankets, and extra batteries. He added cans of kerosene, lighters, and a crowbar. Not for defense, he told himself—but he wasn’t sure he believed that.

A cashier raised an eyebrow when he wheeled everything to the register.

"Prepping for the apocalypse?" she asked with a crooked grin.

Lachlan offered a faint smile in return. "Something like that."

She scanned the items without further comment, though her eyes lingered on the water barrels and the stack of long-life emergency rations.

When she gave him the total, Lachlan paid in cash.

As he loaded the haul into the back of his Hummer, a strange quiet settled over him. The sky was dull above the parking lot, grey and stretched thin, like it was holding its breath.

He wasn’t a paranoid man. He didn’t follow conspiracy theories or doom blogs. He had killed people for a living, crossed borders that didn’t exist on maps, and seen real threats—the kind that bled.

But something about the way Sera had looked at him in that office... the tension in her voice... the betrayal in her eyes...

It had rooted itself somewhere deep.

He paused before slamming the trunk shut and looked at the bins and bundles crammed inside. It still didn’t feel like enough.

On the way home, he stopped at a grocery store and grabbed canned goods—beans, stews, fruit in syrup. He added powdered milk, flour, and salt. He wandered down the baking aisle and, for some reason he couldn’t explain, tossed in three bars of dark chocolate and a bag of marshmallows.

It made him think of her. Not because she ate sugar—he’d barely seen her eat at all. But because it felt like something that didn’t make sense.

And still mattered.

By the time he finally got home, the sun had already dipped behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the front lawn. He parked, sat in the car for a minute longer than he needed to, then got out.

The moment he stepped through the threshold of his apartment, Lachlan moved differently.

He wasn’t his usual relaxed, joking self. The grin he wore around the team—the one that kept people from looking too closely—was gone. He dropped the bags near the door, grabbed a notebook from the kitchen drawer, and sat at the dining table.

His apartment was sparse but clean. No clutter. A couple of jackets hanging from wall hooks, boots lined neatly by the door, dishes already rinsed in the sink. The living room was dim, lit only by a warm lamp near the couch and the quiet flicker of the muted TV screen.

He opened the notebook and started writing:

Water filter

Portable stove

Canned fruit

Mylar blankets

Medical kit – upgrade

Painkillers, antibiotics

Fire starters, matches

Extra gloves, boots

Vitamin supplements

Two hours later, the kitchen floor was covered in gear.

Lachlan crouched and started organizing it into categories: warmth, water, food, tools. Everything had to serve a purpose. Everything had to fit in crates that could be grabbed and tossed into the back of a truck if needed. His movements were precise. Efficient.

He’d done this before.

Not here. Not in this country. But back when he was living in the field, part of long-term recon missions for a government that pretended not to know his name. When you lived in uncertainty long enough, preparedness became muscle memory. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the feeling of readiness. Of control.

His hand hovered over a package of freeze-dried stew, and for a brief moment, he imagined Sera’s face—cool, unimpressed, half-hidden beneath that hood she sometimes wore on colder days. She’d probably mock the packaging. Say something like, "That’s not food, that’s cardboard with a flavor packet."

And she wouldn’t be wrong.

Still, he kept it.

He didn’t know if she’d ever need this. Hell, he didn’t know if he would. But something inside him refused to ignore the warning. Not after the way she looked that night in the gym. Not after the way her voice cracked—not from fear, but from the pain of being dismissed.

That was what stuck with him most.

Not her logic. Not her predictions.

Her disappointment.

The way her shoulders had curled inward, as if bracing for the next blow. As if she already knew it was coming.

-----

At midnight, Lachlan stood barefoot in the kitchen, sipping lukewarm tea. The apartment was silent now, gear stacked neatly against one wall. The lists were updated. The bags were packed. The weapons were cleaned and checked. He’d even set reminders on his phone for when to rotate supplies and where to stash secondary kits.

He was ready.

Or as ready as a man like him could be.

But despite that... he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. The unease. Not fear. Not exactly.

Just a weight. Heavy and certain.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the screen for a long moment before finally opening his messages.

Lachlan: You were right. Just thought you should know.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, after a beat, he added:

Lachlan: If it gets bad, you don’t have to face it alone.

He didn’t expect a reply.

And none came.

But somehow, sending it made something settle in his chest.

-----

Across the city, in the silence of a small cabin surrounded by trees, Sera sat at her desk with a hunting knife in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other. The creature inside of her stirred, content. Alert. Watching the world through her eyes with interest now, not rage.

They had food. They were a weapon. They had a plan.

And apparently, they had someone else preparing too.

Someone who didn’t laugh. Someone who didn’t try to fix her.

Just someone who listened.

She didn’t reply to the message.

But she read it twice.

Then tucked it away—along with the warmth blooming somewhere deep inside her ribs—and let the darkness slip over her shoulders like a second skin.

Winter was coming.

And for the first time since she had been reborn, she wasn’t worried.