Chapter 8: The Interrogator's Mask Falls
The door opened with a hiss of pneumatics, and Nikita stepped through.
Shiv didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the table, on the grain of the obsidian surface, on the faint reflections of the sigil-plates that pulsed along the walls. She'd learned to read the rhythm of those lights over the past—how long had it been? Hours? Days? Time moved strangely in this place, thick and syrupy, like wading through honey.
The masked figure walked to the table. Shiv heard the soft rustle of robes, the faint mechanical whir of the voice modulator warming up.
Then nothing.
Nikita stood there, silent, and Shiv finally lifted her head.
The mask stared back at her—smooth, featureless, designed to erase everything human about the person wearing it. The robes hung loose, shapeless, hiding the body beneath. Everything about this figure was designed to intimidate. To dehumanize. To make the prisoner forget they were dealing with a person.
But Shiv had been dealing with people for seventy-three years. She'd raised three children. She'd buried a husband. She'd faced down magical threats that would make most people's minds crack. And she'd learned to read the small things—the tells that people couldn't hide no matter how hard they tried.
Nikita's hands were trembling.
Just slightly. Just enough that Shiv could see the fine vibration in her fingers where they hung at her sides.
The masked figure reached for the chair across from Shiv—the same chair she'd sat in during the previous interrogations, the same chair where she'd leaned forward and tried to intimidate a woman who'd survived more than she could imagine.
But she didn't sit.
She stood there, frozen, her hand hovering over the back of the chair.
Shiv waited.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The sigil-plates pulsed. The mountain breathed. Somewhere deep in the facility, something metal clanged—a door, a lock, a cage.
"You're not going to sit?" Shiv asked.
Her voice was casual. Conversational. Like she was chatting with a friend over tea.
Nikita didn't respond.
"Or are you going to stand there all day? Because I've got nothing but time, love. Well—" Shiv tilted her head, considering. "That's not entirely true. I've got a daughter and a grandson who are probably worried sick about me. And a granddaughter-in-law who's likely tearing this place apart looking for me. So maybe my time's a bit more limited than I'd like."
Still nothing.
Shiv sighed.
"Alright. I'll talk, then. You can listen." She shifted in her chair, the restraints around her wrists pulling tight. "I've been thinking about you. About that accent you're trying to hide behind that modulator. Ukrainian, isn't it? Or close enough. My ear's not what it used to be."
Nikita's hand dropped to her side. The tremor was worse now.
"I knew a Ukrainian woman once," Shiv continued. "Back in Dublin, before I moved to America. She ran a bakery on the corner of my street. Made the most incredible honey cake—medovik, she called it. Layers and layers of it, so thin you could see through them. She'd bring some to the neighbors every Christmas."
The masked figure took a step back.
"She had a grandmother," Shiv said. "A tiny old woman with white hair and hands like bird claws. She used to tell stories about the old country. About the gods her family used to worship, before the church came. About Perun, the storm-god, who rode across the sky in a chariot drawn by goats."
Nikita's breath hitched—a small sound, barely audible through the modulator, but Shiv caught it.
"She said her family was descended from him. The storm-god. That's what her grandmother always claimed, anyway. That the blood of Perun ran in their veins, and that's why they were always drawn to thunder. Why they could feel storms coming days before anyone else."
Shiv leaned forward.
"Is that what your grandmother told you, Nikita?"
The name hung in the air between them.
Nikita made a sound—something between a gasp and a sob—and her hands flew to her mask.
She tore it off.
The voice modulator came next, yanked from her throat and thrown to the floor. It sparked once, twice, then went dark.
And Shiv found herself looking at a girl.
A girl in her early twenties, with dark hair plastered to her forehead from sweat, with eyes the color of winter storms—grey and fierce and haunted. A girl whose hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold onto the mask she'd just removed.
A girl who was crying.
"Help me," she whispered.
The words were so soft, so broken, that Shiv almost didn't hear them.
But she did.
She heard them.
And something in her chest—something old and fierce and maternal—cracked open.
"Come here," Shiv said.
Not a command. An invitation.
Nikita stared at her. The mask fell from her fingers and clattered on the obsidian table.
"I can't," she said. "They'll—if they find out—"
"Come here."
"I—"
"Nikita." Shiv's voice was gentle but firm. "Come here."
The girl walked around the table. Her steps were unsteady, like she was learning to use her legs for the first time.
She stopped beside Shiv's chair.
Shiv reached out—her wrists still bound, but her fingers could stretch, could touch—and took Nikita's hand.
The girl's skin was cold. Clammy. Like she'd been standing in a freezer for hours.
"What's your grandmother's name?" Shiv asked.
"Oksana."
"Oksana." Shiv pronounced it carefully, the way the girl had—the Ukrainian way, with the stress on the second syllable. "What did she tell you? About the storm-god?"
Nikita's hand tightened around Shiv's.
"She said we were meant for more. That we had power in our blood. That one day—" She stopped. Swallowed. "That one day the thunder would call us home."
"And did it? Call you home?"
The girl didn't answer.
But she didn't have to.
Shiv could see it in her eyes—the fear, the loneliness, the desperate hunger for something she couldn't name. This girl had been raised on stories of greatness, of heritage, of power that ran through her veins like lightning. And then reality had crashed down on her, and she'd ended up here. In a prison. Wearing a mask. Pretending to be a monster so she could survive.
"I never felt it," Nikita whispered. "The thunder. The power. Nothing."
"That doesn't mean it's not there."
"It means I'm broken. Not good enough. A failure." A bitter laugh, wet with tears. "That's why I'm here. Because I couldn't be what my family wanted. Because I couldn't feel what they said I should feel. Because I was weak."
"You're not weak."
"You don't know me."
"I know you're standing here, crying, asking for help. That takes strength, love. The kind of strength most people don't have."
Nikita looked at her—really looked—and something in her expression shifted. The fear was still there. The pain. But under it was something else.
Hope.
Shiv squeezed her hand.
"But first," she said, "you're going to tell me everything you know about this place."
The hope flickered.
"I can't. If they find out—"
"They won't find out. Not unless you tell them." Shiv's voice was soft but unyielding. "You're going to tell me the layout of this facility. The patrol rotations. The other prisoners. Everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything that matters."
They stared at each other across the space between them. One woman old enough to be the other's grandmother, her wrists bound, her body aching. One girl with storm-grey eyes and trembling hands, her mask lying on the table between them.
The sigil-plates pulsed, and the mountain breathed, and something enormous shifted in the depths below.
"What if I tell you something that changes your mind?" Nikita whispered. "What if I tell you something that makes you hate me?"
"Try me."
The girl's breath caught. She looked away, at the walls, at the floor, at anything that wasn't Shiv's steady gaze.
"There's a prison," she said finally. "Deeper than this one. Lower than the deepest cells. There's a vault."
"What's in the vault?"
"I don't know." Nikita shook her head. "No one knows. Not really. But the leaders—the cell leaders, the ones who recruited me—they're afraid of it. I've seen it."
"Fear isn't the same as knowing."
"They're afraid, Shiv. These are people who've done terrible things. People who've killed. Who've tortured. Who've sold their souls a dozen times over. And they're afraid of what's down there."
Shiv was silent for a moment.
Then: "What do they call it?"
"The Shine."
The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
"The Shine," Shiv repeated.
"That's all anyone will say about it. 'Don't go near the Shine. Don't think about the Shine. Don't ask about the Shine.' But I've seen them, sometimes, when they think no one's looking. They just... stare at the floor. At the walls. At the ceiling, like they can feel it watching them."
"Does it watch?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Nikita shuddered. "The whole mountain feels like it's watching. You've noticed?"
Shiv had noticed. The pressure in the air, the taste of something ancient and awake, the way the stone seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at it.
"I've noticed."
"Everyone who stays here too long starts dreaming about it. I don't mean normal dreams. I mean... dreams that feel more real than waking." Nikita pulled her hand away from Shiv. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging tight. "I've had three of them since I got here. Three dreams where I'm standing in front of this door, and there's light—this beautiful light—and I just want to walk through it. I want to walk through and never come back."
"What's on the other side?"
"I don't know. That's the thing. I never get to see. I always wake up right before I step through."
Shiv studied her. The trembling. The haunted eyes. The desperation hiding under everything else.
"Thank you," she said.
Nikita blinked. "For what?"
"For telling me."
"You don't—you're not angry?"
"Why would I be angry, love?"
"You're a prisoner. I'm your interrogator. I've been helping keep you locked up."
Shiv laughed. It wasn't a cold laugh, not mocking. It was warm, amused, the kind of laugh she might have shared with her children over dinner.
"None of us are only one thing, Nikita. You're an interrogator. Yes. But you're also a girl who misses her grandmother. A girl who wanted to be something more. A girl who's been drowning in something she doesn't understand." She squeezed Nikita's hand. "That's not something I can be angry about. That's something I can help with."
"I don't deserve help."
"No one deserves help. That's the point. We help each other because we're all lost, and the only way through the darkness is to walk together."
Nikita was crying again. The tears streamed down her face, dripped off her chin, and she made no effort to wipe them away.
"There's more," she said. "More about the Consortium. The cell leaders. The patrols. I know things—things that could help you."
"Then tell me."
She did.
For the next hour—or what felt like an hour in that timeless place—Nikita talked. She described the layout of the facility: the entrance tunnels, the guard stations, the armory, the prisoner holding cells. She talked about the rotation schedules for the lights—when they dimmed, when they brightened, when most of the guards slept. She talked about the other prisoners—how many, where they were held, what they knew.
"There's one man," she said. "In the cell block below this one. An old mage—a wizard from the old world. They brought him in two weeks ago. He's dangerous—they say he killed a dozen of their people before they finally captured him—but he's hurt. Badly. They haven't healed him."
"What's his name?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. No one does. They just call him the Heretic."
"What does he want?"
"He wants what we all want." Nikita looked at Shiv, her storm-grey eyes clear for the first time since she'd entered the room. "To stop the darkness."
Shiv nodded slowly.
"Alright," she said. "Here's what we're going to do."
Nikita leaned closer.
"In about—" Shiv paused, estimating. "Three hours, maybe four—there's going to be a disruption. A distraction. I don't know exactly when or how, but someone is going to create a crack in this place. Something that will draw the guards' attention. When that happens, we move."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have people on the outside. People who are looking for me. People who are planning something."
"How can you be sure?"
Shiv smiled. It was a dangerous smile, the kind that reminded Nikita that this woman had survived things she couldn't imagine.
"Because I raised them right."
The door slammed open.
Nikita spun, her hand flying to the mask on the table, but she wasn't fast enough. Two Consortium soldiers filled the doorway—robed and masked like she was, but with weapons drawn, electricity crackling along their batons.
"Traitor," one of them hissed.
The voice was filtered through a modulator, but Shiv could hear the disgust underneath.
"Wait," Nikita started. "I can explain—"
"Don't bother."
They moved fast. Two against one, and Nikita wasn't a fighter—Shiv could see that in the way she held herself, the way she flinched when one of the soldiers grabbed her arm.
"No!" Nikita struggled. "Let me go!"
The soldier holding her twisted her arm, and she cried out.
Shiv surged to her feet. The chair toppled behind her, and she felt the restraints bite into her wrists, but she didn't care. She was moving, pushing forward, putting herself between the soldiers and the girl.
"Get away from her."
The soldiers looked at her. Even through the masks, she could feel their surprise. Prisoners didn't fight back. Prisoners didn't threaten.
Especially not seventy-three-year-old women with their hands bound.
"Stay back," the first soldier said. He raised his baton. "Or I'll—"
"You'll what?" Shiv's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Hurt me? I've been hurt before. I've been tortured by better men than you. I've been through dark places that would break your mind if you even glimpsed them. So go ahead. Try."
The baton wavered.
The second soldier tightened his hold on Nikita, but he was looking at his partner now, uncertainty in the tilt of his masked head.
"You don't know who I am," Shiv continued. "You don't know what I am. But I'll tell you this: if you take her, if you punish her for talking to me, you're going to make enemies that will tear this place apart stone by stone. Do you understand me?"
Silence.
"The choice is yours."
The first soldier took a step back.
Then another.
The second one glanced at his partner, then at Shiv, then at Nikita. He let go of her arm.
"This isn't over," he said.
"It never is."
They retreated, and the door slid shut behind them. The lock clicked into place.
Nikita sagged against the table, her face pale, her breath coming in short gasps.
"That was—that was—"
"Stupid?" Shiv offered. "Reckless? Probably. But I've never been one for playing it safe."
They'd been speaking too loud. The soldiers would be suspicious. They'd be back, and next time, they'd have more people.
But it didn't matter.
The connection had been made. The pieces were moving.
"Stay close," Shiv said to Nikita. "When the disruption hits, I want you ready to move."
The girl nodded.
Shiv reached out and took her hand one more time. The sigil-plates pulsed overhead, red and orange and gold, like a heartbeat. Like the mountain itself was alive and watching and waiting.
The storm was coming.
And when it broke, it would break everything.
Outside, somewhere in the depths of the compound, an alarm began to sound.
The alarm cut through the facility like a blade.
Shiv heard it first—a high, keening wail that vibrated through the obsidian walls and rattled her teeth. The sigil-plates overhead flickered, their steady pulse replaced by a frantic strobing that turned the room into a nightmare of light and shadow.
Nikita grabbed her arm. "What is that?"
"I don't know." Shiv was already moving, pulling the girl toward the door. "But it's our distraction."
The door was still locked—of course it was—but the panel beside it was blinking red, the electronic lock cycling through what looked like a system reset. Someone had done something to the facility's systems. Someone who knew what they were doing.
Brigid, Shiv thought. Or Johnny. Jan, maybe. Or all of them together.
The lock clicked. The door slid open.
"Come on."
They ran. Shiv's body protested—her joints ached, her muscles screamed, and the restraints still hung from her wrists, clanking against each other as she moved—but she didn't slow down. Nikita kept pace beside her, her bare face pale in the strobing light, her storm-grey eyes wide with fear and something else.
Hope.
The corridor stretched ahead of them, lined with doors identical to the one they'd just escaped. Shiv could hear shouting in the distance—guards, probably, trying to figure out what was happening. The alarm kept wailing, drowning out everything else.
"Left," Nikita gasped. "The main exit is to the left."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've walked these halls a hundred times. I know the layout."
Shiv didn't hesitate. She turned left.
The corridor sloped downward, deeper into the mountain. The walls here were rougher, less finished, like they'd been carved in a hurry. The lights were dimmer too—emergency lighting, maybe, running on a backup system.
"Where are we going?" Shiv asked.
"There's a maintenance shaft. It leads to the upper levels. If we can get there before they seal it off—"
A door opened ahead of them.
Two guards stepped out, weapons raised.
"Stop!"
Shiv didn't stop. She kept running, straight at them, and something inside her—something old and fierce that she'd kept buried for years—woke up.
The guards fired. Electricity crackled through the air, and Shiv felt the hair on her arms stand up, felt the charge building, felt the storm inside her chest answer.
She raised her hands. The restraints snapped open, falling away, and lightning arced from her fingers—not much, just enough to send the guards flying backward, their weapons clattering to the floor.
Nikita stared at her.
"You—you have magic?"
"Everyone has something." Shiv grabbed her hand and pulled her past the fallen guards. "Now move."
They ran. The corridor twisted and turned, and Shiv followed Nikita's directions without question. Another guard appeared, then another, and each time Shiv's lightning found them first. She was breathing hard now, her chest tight, her vision swimming at the edges.
Too old for this, she thought. Too damn old.
But she kept going.
The maintenance shaft was a narrow vertical tunnel with a ladder bolted to one wall. Nikita started climbing first, her movements quick and sure. Shiv followed, slower, her arms shaking with exertion.
Below them, the alarm changed pitch. The guards were organizing. It wouldn't take them long to figure out where their prisoners had gone.
"Faster," Shiv gasped.
"I'm trying—"
A sound above them. A clang of metal on metal. Someone was already in the shaft.
Nikita froze.
"Go," Shiv said. "Keep going."
"But—"
"Go!"
Nikita climbed. Shiv followed. The shaft narrowed, then opened into a wider space—a junction of some kind, with tunnels branching in three directions. A figure stood at the center, robed and masked like the guards, but smaller. Slimmer.
"Nikita?" The figure's voice was female, modulated but familiar. "What are you doing?"
"Letta." Nikita's voice cracked. "Please—"
"Don't." The figure—Letta—raised a hand. "Don't ask me to help you. You know what happens to traitors."
"I'm not a traitor. I'm—"
"You're helping the prisoner escape." Letta's hand dropped to her belt, where a weapon hung. "That makes you a traitor."
Shiv stepped forward. Her legs felt like jelly, her heart was pounding, and she was pretty sure she'd cracked a rib somewhere along the way, but she stepped forward anyway.
"Letta," she said. "Is that short for something?"
The masked figure turned toward her.
"Violetta," she said. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Violetta. That's a beautiful name. Italian?"
"Ukrainian."
"Ah." Shiv nodded. "Your grandmother was Ukrainian too?"
A pause.
"How do you know about my grandmother?"
"I know about a lot of things. I know you're afraid—afraid of what happens if you let us go, afraid of what happens if you don't. I know you've been having dreams. Dreams about a door. Dreams about light."
Letta's hand trembled on her weapon.
"How—"
"I know because Nikita told me. And I know because I've been having them too."
Silence. The alarm kept wailing, but it seemed distant now, muffled by the stone. Or maybe Shiv was just getting used to it.
"What do you want?" Letta asked finally.
"I want to get out of here. And I want to take Nikita with me. And I want—" Shiv paused. "I want you to come too."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you're afraid. Because you've seen something in those dreams that you can't explain. Because you know, deep down, that this place is wrong. That the Consortium is wrong. That the things they're planning—the Shine, the monsters, the destruction—aren't what you signed up for."
Letta's breath hitched.
"They told us you were dangerous," she whispered.
"I am dangerous. But not to you. Not unless you make me."
Another pause.
Then Letta reached up and removed her mask.
She was younger than Nikita—maybe nineteen, twenty at most—with dark hair pulled back in a tight braid and eyes that glowed with a faint, unnatural light. Storm-grey, like Nikita's. Like the sky before thunder.
"The dreams," she said. "They started two weeks ago. I thought I was going crazy."
"You're not crazy."
"The light—it's so beautiful. I want to walk into it. I want to see what's on the other side."
"Then help us." Shiv extended her hand. "Help us get out, and maybe we can find out together."
Letta stared at the offered hand. The alarm kept wailing. Somewhere behind them, footsteps echoed in the shaft—more guards, closing in.
"Please," Nikita whispered. "Please, Letta."
Letta took Shiv's hand.
From somewhere far above, a crack of thunder split the mountain—real thunder, not the mechanical kind, splitting the mountain air. The storm had followed them. Or maybe it lived here, in ways they couldn't understand, waiting for people like them to find it.
"Go," Shiv said. "I'll follow."
They ran.
---
The bathroom smelled of steam and lavender.
Mandy pushed open the door, the wood creaking under her palm. She'd meant to shower fast—get in, get out, get breakfast. There was too much to do today to waste time.
Mai stood under the spray, water streaming down her body, her dark hair plastered to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her face tilted up toward the faucet, and she didn't seem to hear Mandy enter.
Mandy paused in the doorway.
The air was thick with heat and the soft hiss of water. A gust of wind could have knocked her over. Steam curled around them like fingers. Through the fogged glass, Mai's silhouette was a backlit study in shadow—a swimmer who'd surfaced after a lifetime underwater, wearing nothing and bothering with no apologies.
Mandy's throat went dry.
Not just dry, she thought. Closed up entirely. Like that first time she'd realized she wanted to kiss girls as well as boys. Like that first time she'd realized she wanted to kiss Mai, specifically.
Mai turned. She opened her eyes.
"Oh," she said. "Hi."
Her voice was casual. Her body was not.
She didn't try to cover herself. Didn't make any move to hide, didn't apologize. She just stood there, water coursing over her hips, her breasts, the soft curve of her belly.
Mandy swallowed.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't." Mai smiled. It was a lazy smile, a warm smile, the kind that said she wasn't bothered by anything, ever. "There's room for two. I wouldn't mind sharing."
Mandy's face went hot.
"Sharing."
"The shower. You could share the shower." Mai's eyes glittered. "We could wash each other's backs. Or fronts. Whatever."
Mandy should have said no. She should have waited, or gone downstairs, or found another bathroom entirely.
She didn't.
"Fuck it," she said, and started unbuttoning her shirt.
The water was hot. Scalding hot, the kind of hot that made her skin tingle and her muscles relax and her mind go quiet. She stepped under the spray and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Mai pressed against her back.
"Hi," she murmured, her lips brushing Mandy's ear.
"Hi."
"You're tense."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. I can feel it." Mai's hands found Mandy's shoulders. "There's knots here. And here. And here." She worked her fingers into the muscles, pressing and kneading. "You're all wound up."
"I had a weird night."
"Weird how?"
"Did you hear anything?"
"Hear what?"
Mandy groaned.
"Don't play dumb. I know you heard something."
"Hmm." Mai's hands slid lower, tracing the curve of Mandy's spine. "Maybe I did. Maybe I heard you moaning. Moaning your mother's name."
Mandy's face burned.
"Oh god."
"And your father's name. And Jan's. And Calista's."
"Fuck."
"And maybe I heard the bed creaking. And maybe I heard you screaming when you came."
Mandy turned her head, looking over her shoulder. Mai's face was close, her eyes bright with mischief.
"The whole house heard, didn't they?"
"Half the house. The other half figured it out at breakfast." Mai shrugged. "They're not shocked. Jan's magic and Calista's Glamour do weird shit sometimes. Everyone knows that."
"Ben and Jess—"
"Heard it too. Jess thought it sounded hot." Mai's voice dropped to a whisper. "She and Ben fucked in the laundry room after."
Mandy groaned again, longer this time.
"So now everyone knows I'm a slut."
"You're not a slut. You're a Williamson." Mai's hand slid lower, fingers teasing the soft skin of Mandy's thigh. "And they already knew you were a slut. They love you anyway."
"Fuck you."
"Do you want me to?"
Mandy went still.
Mai's hand stilled too, resting on the inside of Mandy's thigh. The water streamed down between them, hot and relentless.
"That's not a no," Mai said.
"It's not a yes."
"It's not a no, though."
Mandy closed her eyes.
The steam wrapped around her like a blanket. The water pounded against her skin. Mai's hand was warm, so warm, and her body was pressed against Mandy's back, soft and solid and real.
"Your parents, " Mai said. "They're not my parents."
"What?"
"Mike and Casey. They're not my parents."
Mandy turned fully now, facing Mai. Water dripped from her hair, ran down her face, pooled in the hollow of her throat.
"I know they're not your parents."
"Then why does it matter that I fucked them?"
The question hung between them.
"When I lived here," Mai continued, "when I was an extended houseguest in Beth's old room, I walked around naked all the time. Nobody cared. I fucked your parents. More than once. They were good. They were kind. They made me feel welcome."
"Mike and Casey aren't—"
"They're not my parents. I know." Mai's hand found Mandy's hip, squeezed. "So why does it matter to you?"
Mandy didn't have an answer.
The water was fading from scalding to warm. The steam was thinning. Somewhere in the house, someone was laughing, and someone else was calling names.
"Come on," Mai said. "Breakfast is getting cold."
She turned off the water.
Mandy stood there, dripping, watching as Mai grabbed a towel and started drying off. She didn't wrap the towel around herself. She just used it to dry her hair, then discarded it, leaving her body bare and beaded with water.
"You're not getting dressed."
"No."
"Why?"
Mai laughed. "People aren't surprised when I walk around naked anymore. This is basically my house. I do what I want."
"You lived here for what, six months?"
"And they've seen everything I have to offer." Mai winked. "The only question is—are you going to do the same?"
Mandy stared at her.
"You're daring me to walk out there naked."
"I'm daring you to do whatever you want. If that's getting dressed, get dressed. If that's walking out there in nothing but your skin..." Mai shrugged. "I won't judge."
The challenge hovered in the air between them.
Mandy thought about her boyfriend. Her girlfriend. The night before with her parents and Calista and Jan. The astral projection with Beth and Rick. The fact that she was running from something she couldn't name and toward something she couldn't see.
She was already naked. She was already here.
What was one more thing?
She dropped her towel.
Mai's grin widened.
"Emily would be proud," she said.
"Don't push it."
They stepped out of the bathroom together. Naked. Wet. Unarmed.
And somewhere in the compound, the storm was building.