The Safe House

The Miami night was heavy with heat, the air thick and oppressive, carrying the faint tang of salt and decay. ​ A lone figure moved through the shadows, his steps deliberate, his breathing steady. ​ Kent K. Fitchett had been here before—different city, different faces, but the same suffocating tension. ​ The same gnawing certainty that something was about to go wrong. ​

The safe house loomed ahead, indistinguishable from its neighbors, a cookie-cutter facade of stucco walls and Spanish tile. But Kent's trained eyes caught the details others would miss: the sprinkler pooling water at the porch steps, the door left slightly ajar, the faint metallic scent carried on the breeze. ​ He paused, his hand brushing the grip of his Glock, and took a slow, measured breath. ​
The door creaked open under the pressure of his shoe, revealing a house frozen in time. A bowl of cereal sat abandoned on the floor, milk congealing in a sticky puddle.

A child's backpack lay discarded, its contents spilling out like a silent cry for help. Upstairs, twin beds lay unmade, toothbrushes still wet in the bathroom. ​ The house was hollow, a shell of interrupted lives. ​

Kent's pulse quickened as he descended the stairs, his mind racing through possibilities. No signs of forced entry. ​ No blood. No bodies. ​ But the silence was deafening, and the air carried the weight of something unseen. ​ He thumbed his phone, his voice low and steady as he reported to his supervisor. ​ "Swinton safe house is empty. ​ No sign of the family. ​ Indicators of a hasty departure.

Requesting immediate response team and lockdown protocol." ​

The reply was curt, clipped. ​ "Do not engage local until backup arrives. ​ If the leak is local, you'll be compromised." ​

Kent pocketed the phone, his jaw tightening. He didn't like the feeling of being a step behind, of missing something vital. ​ He scanned the house again, cataloging every detail—the frozen TV screen, the pink sweatshirt, the scattered mail. The pieces didn't fit, but the picture they painted was clear: the Swintons were gone, and someone had made sure they wouldn't be found. ​

Outside, the night pressed in, the darkness alive with unseen threats. Kent paced the curb, his mind a storm of calculations and doubts. ​ He had failed before, lost people who trusted him to keep them safe. ​ He wouldn't let it happen again. ​ Not this time. ​

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him back to the present. ​ Two figures emerged from the shadows, their movements sharp and purposeful. ​ Kent's hand hovered near his holster as he watched them approach, their faces hard and unreadable. ​