Night, Devils Tower, Crook County, WY… 

Crossing the Badlands and over the Black Hills into northeast Wyoming is setting foot into sacred lands covered in mysticism and spilled blood. This corner of America has a peculiar habit of making human beings feel smaller than they would prefer.  

The landscape rises from the earth with such unapologetic grandeur that even the most self-important among us are forced to confront an uncomfortable possibility that maybe the world wasn’t built with us in mind. Long before surveyors drew borders, politicians gave speeches, and bureaucrats erected informational placards explaining reality in conveniently digestible paragraphs, people came here searching for something they struggled to put into words. 

There are reasons this region remains one of the most protected stretches of land in the United States. The northern border between South Dakota and Wyoming sits at the intersection of sacred Indigenous geography, dramatic geological formations, prehistoric fossil beds, and some of the bloodiest cultural collisions in American history. The Black Hills alone have inspired spiritual reverence among numerous Indigenous nations for centuries. To many, they were not merely mountains but living places of power.

Then came westward expansion, prospectors, soldiers, treaties (or, better said, broken treaties) and the uniquely American tradition of discovering someone else’s sacred land directly on top of valuable resources. Even now the earth refuses to surrender all its secrets. Dinosaur bones emerge from ancient sediments. Fossils surface from forgotten oceans. Towering buttes rise from the plains like monuments built by forces uninterested in human architecture.  

Places such as Devils Tower have accumulated explanations the way old ships amass barnacles. Geologists have theirs. Historians have theirs. Tour guides are fed theirs. Yet none of those explanations fully account for why people standing beneath these formations often experience the persistent feeling that they are standing somewhere important. 

Maybe sacred places are not built at all. Maybe they are discovered. Maybe humanity simply stumbles across certain locations where the veil between the ordinary and the eternal has worn unusually thin and spends the next several thousand years arguing about what to call it. Seems fitting this would be the spot where Milo found himself rejoining his physical form in the natural world. For a brief moment, Milo wasn’t entirely convinced he had actually returned. 

The transition back into consciousness felt less like waking up and more like being wrangled back into existence. Sound arrived first. A low mechanical hum. Air moving through unseen vents. The distant muffled cadence of voices somewhere beyond a wall. Then came sensation. The softness of a mattress beneath him. The dull ache radiating from the side of his head. The stiffness in his neck. The feeling that his body had recently participated in activities it had not been properly consulted about beforehand.

His eyelids fluttered as the brightness of the overhead light greeted him. His bandaged hand shot upward reflexively as though Astra’s strike was still coming. Pain immediately answered the movement, a sharp sting racing through the wrapped wound.

Only then did he realize he was staring at a ceiling, but this wasn’t like any hospital ceiling he’d seen. Those he knew intimately enough to identify by appropriate stereotyping. This one belonged somewhere else entirely.

Wood and steel accents. Recessed lighting. Clean lines. Practical. Comfortable. The room looked less like a medical facility and more like someone had crossbred a military installation with a mountain lodge and allowed an architect to get involved before common sense intervened. Milo slowly sat up. The movement immediately rewarded him with dizziness.

“Easy.”

The voice stopped him cold. It was familiar but practically impossible to be true. He turned towards it. Professor Rahim al-Aleem sat comfortably in a chair beside the bed, a book resting upside down in his lap. His beard carried more gray than Milo remembered. The years had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes, but the warmth remained unchanged. Rahim smiled. Not the smile of someone surprised to see him awake, but the smile of someone who had been waiting. 

“I said you didn’t have to face this alone.” 

For a second Milo simply stared. The memories crashed back all at once like a tsunami. Lectures at Tulane. The stint in the Institution. The murders in New Orleans. The strange private conversations that somehow made less sense and more sense simultaneously every time they occurred. 

“You have to be kidding me?” 

Rahim found amusement in this question because, by now in his life, he’d come to embrace the whimsical folly that was chance and coincidence in this life. 

“Honestly, could it really have been anybody else?” 

Part of Milo had no clue what he meant by that statement, but the certainty with which he stated it made him feel like this was a cosmic joke whose punchline only time would reveal to him. Still, Milo was conflicted by his presence and needed to address at least one of the elephants in the room. 

“Professor?” 

Rahim winced. “Are you still calling me that?” 

“I guess so. Just a habit still.” Milo got lost in a thought. “Back at school, what happened?” 

Rahim contemplated the question. “What do you mean?” 

“From one day to the next you up and disappeared?” 

“That was a pivotal moment. Let’s go with I was pushed along.” 

“Who?” Milo pressed the issue. 

“Forces with greater pull than me?” 

“The university? The police? FBI? Someone else?” 

Rahim showed amusement at the concern but remained steady. 

“Yes.” 

Milo felt he was no closer to figuring it out and decided to drop it. Neither spoke for a moment. The silence felt strangely comfortable, like reconnecting with an old friend after years apart and immediately discovering the intervening time had somehow failed to matter. Rahim finally stood and handed him a bottle of water. 

“Drink.” 

Milo obeyed. “Where am I?” 

“Wyoming.” 

“That narrows it down tremendously.” 

“Near Devils Tower.” 

That got Milo’s attention. “Devils Tower?” 

“Technically.” 

“Technically?” 

Rahim sighed. “One of humanity’s most irritating habits is naming hallowed places after incorrect notions.” 

Milo laughed despite himself. The motion hurt. As a matter of fact, everything hurt, but that seemed reassuring somehow. Pain meant he was still alive. 

“So,” Milo said, lowering the bottle, “am I certifiably crazy?” 

Rahim smiled. “No.” 

Milo waited for more than a one-word response. Rahim waited to see how much he’d tolerate. 

“That’s it?” Milo fired back.

“That’s a fairly significant answer considering the circumstances.” 

Milo leaned back against the headboard. The room suddenly felt much smaller. The last few days replayed through his mind in fragments. Wisdom. The lights. Serpent Mound. Nicole. The attack. The Astral Realm. The watcher from far away. None of it felt unbelievable to him, yet it all seemed implausible. Which made all of it carry a burdensome weight. Rahim seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts. 

“You have questions.” 

“I have a world of fucking questions. Are you kidding me?”

“Good.” 

“Good?” Milo mocked. “Yeah, great, thanks.”

“The people who worry me are the ones who stop asking them.” 

Milo stared at him with a face of perplexity stirred up in a pile of resentment. Rahim sighed again like a father resolved to helping a bewildered child but without the desire to complete the task for them. 

“Fair enough. Let us start with something simpler.” He settled back into his chair. Milo mirrored him as he straightened up on the bed. “Do you remember the aftermath of the murders in New Orleans?” 

Milo nodded. “You got investigated and the blame fell to you.” 

“Partially.” Rahim smiled faintly. “Officially, I was never charged. Unofficially, my career was executed with extraordinary efficiency.” 

Milo frowned. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Correct.”

“Then why?” 

Rahim folded his hands. “Because I was stimulating the wrong conversations, asking the unsuitable questions, and garnering the attention of people unhampered by the purest pursuits.” 

The answer landed exactly how Rahim intended. Not enough information with just enough truth. 

“Who would do this to you?” Milo asked.

“A group with intentions to control situations just like this.” 

Milo felt a chill and then a sense of recognition cross his mind. “The Organization.” 

Rahim nodded. “Yes, the Organization.” 

Even now the word carried weight to him. 

“They go by many names and acronyms like the faces of evil often do, but in these halls, we typically refer to them as ORG.” The professor leaned back. “They’ve spent years cultivating influence inside governments, universities, corporations, intelligence agencies, research institutions. Anywhere knowledge exists, they seek to curate it.” 

“Do you mean control it?” 

“Exactly.” Rahim pointed at him. “You’ve always been a quick study. Sometimes intuitively.” 

Milo rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all professor-y with me.”

“I assure you, I am physically incapable of stopping.” Rahim continued. “They could not allow someone investigating certain historical patterns to remain visible, especially those that disagreed with their well-crafted narratives which have held their seats firm for so long. So they manufactured suspicion around me.” 

“The murders.”

“Exactly.”

Milo shook his head. “That destroyed your career.” 

“With reason.” Rahim paused, then flashed a wry wink. 

Milo groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t just wink.”

“I did.” 

“That was awful.” 

“I’ve had years to practice.” 

Despite everything, Milo laughed. Rahim’s expression softened in response. 

“The truth is, losing academia felt catastrophic at the time.” He gazed over to a charting panel. “Then I realized it was the most liberating thing that ever happened to me.” 

The humor faded from his voice. 

“For the first time in my life, I no longer had to spend half my energy convincing institutions to investigate truths they were determined not to find.” 

“What did you do?” 

Rahim smiled. “What I’ve always done.” 

“Which is?” 

“I read things people told me not to, but now my access and reach became unrestricted.” That sounded exactly like him. “I spent years gathering texts. Oral histories. Religious traditions. Indigenous accounts. Lost archives. Esoteric records. Archaeological anomalies. Anything pointing toward a larger picture.” 

Rahim’s eyes drifted somewhere distant. “Eventually I found others doing similar work with the energy drawn from the same intuitive drive.” 

Milo sensed the words as his mouth uttered them before fleshing out the whole message. “The Collective.” 

“Close,” chimed Rahim. “The Knowledge Collective.”

Milo noticed the subtle pride in his voice. There was no ego behind it. But there was belonging, and it felt like something greater than either one of them. 

“We call ourselves KNOC for short.” 

Milo raised an eyebrow. “That’s a terrible acronym.”

“It was not my choice. Besides, you’ll come to realize it doesn’t matter.”

“Who approved it?” 

“The committee, but you’re missing the point.” 

“You have a committee?” 

“We’re researchers, investigators and developers, Milo. Of course we have committees.” 

That answer somehow felt worse. Rahim stood and began pacing slowly. 

“The Organization believes knowledge should be controlled. Their henchmen, and obviously henchwomen known as the Seven, ensure they can enforce that control.” 

“And the Knowledge Collective?” 

“Quite the opposite.” Rahim hesitated. “Knowledge belongs, let me rephrase, it is the birthright of everyone.” 

The statement sounded deceptively simple to the point of almost coming off naïve. Except Rahim clearly believed it with every fiber of his being. 

“We preserve. We study. We protect.” 

“Protect what?”

Rahim looked directly at him. “The truth.” 

The room fell quiet. Outside, wind moved somewhere beyond the mountain. Milo thought about it all again. Wisdom. Light Within. Stars. Astral Realm. Impossible things. He witnessed them all. Rahim followed his gaze. 

“You are not the first person to reach a certain level of enlightenment.” 

Milo’s eyes narrowed. “Who am I... René Descartes?”

Rahim nodded carefully, then chose his words precisely. “There are people throughout history who remembered more than they were supposed to.” 

“Remembered what?” 

Rahim smiled. “A great question but better suited for another day.” 

Milo grumbled loudly. “You do realize that’s infuriating.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“I am.” The professor’s smile widened. “But only because there is a difference between learning information and coming to understand it.” 

Milo hated how much that sounded like something Rahim would say. The older man returned to his chair. 

“The important thing for now is this.” His voice became more serious. “The Organization knows you exist. The Seven knows who you are.” 

Milo’s stomach tightened. 

“And despite their best efforts…” A small smile returned. “…you are still alive.” 

That felt surprisingly encouraging. Rahim studied him carefully. The way a teacher watches a student solving an equation without realizing they’re being evaluated. It wasn’t suspicion driving the inquiry. It was hope. Though Milo couldn’t understand why. 

“Professor.” 

“Please, call me Rahim.” 

“Fine, Rahim.” The correction felt unnatural. Milo took a breath. “What happens now?” 

For the first time since Milo had woken, Rahim hesitated. Not because he lacked answers, but because he possessed too many. Eventually he stood. 

“I suspect we’ve reached the point where continuing this conversation would either enlighten you further or give you an aneurysm.” 

“It feels like these days it can be both.” 

“Almost certainly both.” Rahim mimicked the tone while moving towards the door. He looked back “There will be time for questions. And trust me, there will be many answers.” 

Milo shifted and stretched his legs like someone testing to see their level of functionality. His body still felt weak, but his curiosity was already sprinting ahead of his recovery. Rahim noticed immediately as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Perhaps, before we attempt to explain the nature of reality, secret societies, metaphysical warfare, and why several people recently tried to kill you…” he said as Milo raised an eyebrow. “…we start with something simpler.” 

“What have you got in mind?” 

Rahim gestured toward the hallway beyond the door.

“I could show you around the facility.” He paused. “But only if you’re feeling up to it.” 

Milo didn’t hesitate as he swung his legs off the bed. “Lead the way.”

KNOC Stronghold, Devils Tower, Crook County, WY…

Milo learned very quickly that standing up after nearly dying was an overrated human achievement. His first few steps out of the infirmary felt like negotiating with a body that had filed a formal complaint against consciousness. His head throbbed in slow, obnoxious pulses. His right hand ached beneath fresh bandaging. His ribs felt bruised in places he didn’t remember having.

Even the act of breathing was like navigating through uncharted waters. Nothing like trauma to introduce you to new anatomical real estate. Rahim walked beside him at a patient pace, hands folded behind his back, watching without hovering, which somehow made it worse. 

“You can say it,” Milo muttered. 

Rahim glanced over. “Say what?” 

“That I look like a bag of hammered shit.”

“I was going to say you look remarkably resilient.” 

“That’s just professor talk for a sack of shit.” 

“You have to admit it is more polite.” 

The hallway outside the infirmary stretched wider than Milo expected. Warm stone walls reinforced by steel framing. Soft recessed lighting. No sterile hospital aesthetic or depressing attempt to make recovery feel like a Holiday Inn Express.  

Whoever designed the place understood getting better needed more than machines and alcohol wipes. It required a gentler edge not found in most medical facilities. Though, to be fair, Milo had no idea what the true nature of this place was. This day had really gotten away from him. 

Rahim gestured around them. “This is Level One. Medical wing. Recovery rooms. General quarters. Intake, triage, observation, short-term stabilization.”

“Short-term stabilization,” Milo repeated. “Sounds comforting.”

“We like to avoid people dying before properly explaining why others are trying to kill them.” 

“That should be on your brochure.”

They passed a glass partition where a dimly lit hallway gave way to a common space. Beyond that, another hallway branched toward what looked like living quarters. Doors stood evenly spaced along the corridor, each marked by subtle symbols rather than names. 

They passed through another section of the infirmary where several recovery suites stood empty. One of them, though, was not. Milo noticed the reinforced door immediately and slowed some. There was something that felt familiar but distant behind this door. 

Rahim observed him noticing, but neither of them acknowledged it. Not yet at least. The silence lingered for several steps, but eventually Milo looked away. 

“So what is this place exactly?”

Rahim folded his hands behind his back. “Our Stronghold. Well, ‘ours’ is a loose term since it was built in phases over more years than any of us could ever know for sure. Some parts are modern, as you can see. While some are certainly not.” 

Milo stopped walking. “Define not.” 

Rahim continued as if he hadn’t heard the question, which was basically confirmation that Milo was not going to appreciate the answer at this time. 

“This facility was designed to exist around the sacred geography of Devils Tower without disturbing its natural resonance.” 

Milo blinked at him with reluctance. “Natural resonance.” 

“Yes.”

“Are we talking in terms of scientific words or mystical words right now?”

“Both, ideally.” 

“As always, wonderful.” 

Rahim led him through another security door that opened with a soft hydraulic sigh. The space beyond widened into a central atrium carved into stone and reinforced with dark metal ribs that curved overhead like the inside of some enormous sleeping beast.  

Multiple corridors extended outward from the central chamber. A transparent elevator shaft descended through the middle. Above, open walkways crossed between sections in geometric layers. 

Milo stared at the scale of it all. The place wasn’t a research institute, not exactly. It was closer to being a sanctuary pretending to be a fortification. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

“You built this under Devils Tower?” 

Rahim gave him a look. “Within it.” 

“How big is this place?” 

Rahim followed his gaze upward. “Depends how one measures it.” 

“That’s never a reassuring answer.” 

“No, it rarely is.” The professor pointed upward. “Six primary levels.” Then downward. “One level below.” 

“What’s below?” 

Rahim smiled. “The intriguing parts.” 

Milo groaned. “You’re doing that thing again.” 

“What thing?” 

“The professor thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.” 

Rahim’s smile widened, and there it was. The familiar expression Milo remembered from Tulane. The one that appeared whenever Rahim knew something his students didn’t. At the university, it had been charismatic, but now it was mildly infuriating. Which meant some things never changed even after attempted assassinations, secret organizations, and metaphysical awakenings. That thought comforted Milo more than he expected. They continued walking on. 

“So what exactly is your role here?” Milo asked. 

Rahim’s expression shifted slightly. “I advise.”

Milo laughed. “That’s the most inconspicuously suspicious answer possible.” 

“I research.” 

“I feel like we’re getting warmer.” 

“I teach.”

“That one I can believe.” 

“I coordinate.” 

“Starting to sound more like management duties.” 

Rahim visibly grimaced. “I understand your possible frustrations, but please try to refrain from mocking.”

This got a laugh out of Milo. For the first time since waking up, he dropped his guard. Rahim simply shook his head like a patient authority figure.  

“I spend most of my time studying historical records, religious traditions, archaeological discoveries, Indigenous oral histories, and anything else that might help us understand what is happening.” 

“And what is happening?” 

Rahim was quiet for a moment. When he finally answered, there was no humor in his voice. 

“We are trying to understand the oldest conflict in human history.” 

Milo felt a chill down his spine. Not so much from the words as from how casually Rahim said them. As nonchalantly as a man discussing weather patterns. Like a man who had spent years staring into an abyss and eventually become impatient with its silence. 

They reached a central point of the atrium. The Stronghold stretched around them in every direction. Levels disappearing into stone with people moving through them. A hidden community built beneath a sacred mountain. Milo got lost in the space. His life in Miami suddenly felt very far away. 

Rahim rested his hands in his pockets. For the first time since the tour began, the professor looked tired in every way a human could feel fatigued. He appeared like someone carrying a burden he had become too accustomed to bearing to even notice it.  

“You know,” Rahim said quietly, “when I was younger, I thought if I could simply gather enough information, I’d reach a point where eventually everything would make sense.” 

Milo glanced at him. The older man smiled faintly.  

“It turns out knowledge and wisdom are not the same thing.” 

The statement hung there as Milo studied him. For all his brilliance, all his confidence, all his certainty regarding the existence of hidden truths, there was something deeply human beneath it. Rahim still wanted answers. He chased them relentlessly. He adamantly believed the next discovery might finally complete the picture. A lifetime of searching had not cured him of seeking. Maybe that was his gift, or maybe that was his flaw. Could also be that it was both. 

Rahim pushed on. “Come. This way.” 

Milo followed. “Where are we going now?” 

The professor’s smile returned. “To meet someone who believes suffering is a valid form of education.” 

“That sounds concerning.” 

“It should.” A bit of satire in his tone. 

“And who would that be?” 

Rahim glanced toward one of the corridors. “The great and mighty Tomahawk Thorne.” 

The professor said it in the same manner one might use when introducing a freak occurrence or a force of nature or a national treasure. Milo wasn’t entirely certain which category applied. What he did know was that the moniker belonged to one of the most prolific pro football players of the last 25 years, but that guy was a recluse these days.  

They ascended on the elevator to the second level of the Stronghold. There was a tension to this level that was immediately palpable. Level One felt dedicated to healing and recovery. Level Two felt devoted to making sure healing was no longer necessary. 

The rhythmic sounds of striking impacts on heavy bags and wooden posts echoed through the chamber. The occasional grunt from someone discovering that gravity remained undefeated as the metallic clank of weights hit the floor or fell on racks. 

The training facility stretched across an enormous open space carved directly into the surrounding stone. Combat rings occupied one section. Weightlifting equipment filled another. Obstacle courses wound through reinforced support columns. Beyond that sat firing ranges, classrooms, and areas Milo couldn’t immediately identify. 

Several people were training in various disciplines. One man was sparring against three opponents simultaneously, and he was winning. Thorne stood nearby observing. Even at rest, he somehow managed to look intimidating.  

He had broad shoulders, thick forearms, and the posture of someone who had spent a lifetime solving problems through direct confrontation before gradually learning there were slightly more sophisticated methods available. He noticed them immediately. 

“Milo.” His voice sounded like it had been fused with a diesel engine. “Good to see you’re still breathing.” 

“It seems that way.” Milo was not sure how to address the Hall of Famer.  

Thorne nodded approvingly. “It’s a pretty good habit to have if you wanna stay alive.” 

Milo wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking, and Thorne wasn’t really giving him any hints if he was either. What Milo couldn’t ignore was the slight fanboy moment bubbling up in Thorne’s company.  

“You know who you are, right?” 

Thorne just shrugged off the comment slash question. He was used to this kind of reaction. Rahim clasped a hand on Milo’s shoulder.  

“I’ll leave him with you for a bit.” 

Then, without elaboration, he disappeared back toward the stairs. Milo watched him leave.  

“Did he just abandon me?” 

“Yup.” 

“That’s great.” 

“It means he likes you. Shows he has faith in you.” Thorne motioned for Milo to follow him. They walked slowly through the training area. “I assume Rahim has already overloaded your brain some.” 

“He was definitely working on it. Always the teacher, that guy.” 

“Good, that’s a good thing.” Thorne pointed toward the sparring ring. “Did he go over what you experienced at Serpent Mound?” 

Milo nodded. “Somewhat. The Light Within. The awakening. The energy.” 

Another nod. “At this point, you have no control over any of it.” 

Milo kind of cocked his head in agreement. “It sort of felt that way for sure.”

“It’s good to acknowledge it. It’s the right mindset to have.” Thorne stopped walking. “Because that’s where we start.” 

The simplicity of the statement carried more depth to it. It was intended to emphasize that the work of training was central to the space. The concept felt strangely reassuring. Thorne gestured toward the room around them. 

“People hear words like enlightenment and assume it means magical understanding. It doesn’t.” He pointed toward a woman practicing knife defense drills. “She trains six days a week.” 

Then toward a man running a balance course. 

“Him too.” Then toward himself. “Me especially.” 

Milo squinted his eyes and made a mocking face. “So, we’re talking about practice?” The homage in jest landed on deaf ears. 

“I’m saying if you tried to use what happened at Serpent Mound intentionally right now, you’d probably give yourself a stroke.” 

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” 

“I’m not here to candy-coat things or coddle you. I’m here to prepare you.” 

They continued walking. The farther they moved through the facility, the more Milo noticed subtle Indigenous influences woven into the architecture. Patterns carved into stone. Symbols integrated into support beams. Art pieces depicting animals, stars, and landscapes. It was intentionally respectful as a tribute to this place. Thorne noticed him studying them. 

“You know what many tribes called Devils Tower before settlers renamed it?” 

Milo shook his head as the intuition delivered the words to him again instinctively. “Bear Lodge.” 

The significance of those words conveyed an importance few truly understood. 

“Several nations have their own stories about this place. Lakota. Cheyenne. Arapaho. Kiowa. Crow. Different details but all have the same message.”

“What’s that?” 

Thorne looked upward. “That certain places deserve notice and command respect.” 

It was a simple and direct message in the same way Thorne seemed to prefer everything. 

“The Kiowa tell a story about children being chased by giant bears. The Great Spirit raised the earth beneath them and took them off to the sky to save them. The claw marks left behind became the grooves in the Tower.” 

Milo thought about the massive vertical striations covering Devils Tower. “I always assumed that was just myths and lore.” 

Thorne gave him a look. “Most people use the word mythology when they mean a story they don’t understand.” 

That sounded suspiciously like something Rahim would say. Maybe his influence was catching on in these parts. Milo realized the members of KNOC had probably been influencing one another with philosophical tendencies for years. It wasn’t the most relieving thought to have right now. 

“The Tower isn’t holy because of the stories,” Thorne continued. “The stories exist because people recognized something sacred.” 

Milo dug deep into his thoughts because that sounded too familiar. Almost like something he had already begun suspecting since Serpent Mound. Thorne studied him for a moment, then nodded. 

“You felt it too.” 

Milo looked around this hidden sanctuary facility. He surveyed these training grounds embedded in the mountain above them. He replayed all the impossible things he’d witnessed over the last week, and for the first time, the realization settled into place. 

This wasn’t a group of conspiracy theorists hiding in a bunker. This wasn’t some kind of odd cult. It wasn’t a support group for people who’d accidentally broken reality. These people believed they were preparing for something. And judging by the scars, bruises, and intensity surrounding them, they’d been preparing for a very long time.

Thorne started walking again. “Come on.” 

“Where now?” 

A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Somewhere quieter.” That alone sounded concerning coming from Thorne. “The next person I’d like to introduce you to is personally responsible for making sure people in this fight with us don’t break.”

Milo glanced around the training floor. “And you?”

Thorne looked back over his shoulder. “I just help them discover where they’re weakest.” 

The answer came so naturally that Milo wasn’t sure Thorne realized how much it revealed. For all his discipline, all his loyalty, all his protective instincts, there was a part of him that viewed the world through conflict first and understanding second. He was an axe which was forged into a shield. More useful and necessary for when the moment required it, but potentially lethal if he ever forgot the difference.

Ahead of them, a stairwell marked with simple symbols led deeper into the Stronghold. Toward quieter places where answers could be reached with more tranquility. Ironically sweet in its juxtaposition because it was also one of Thorne’s favorite places in the whole sanctuary.

The climb from Level Two to Level Three wasn’t long, but the atmosphere shifted dramatically. The fragrances of oils and incense hung in the air. It all mixed with a dynamism of deep contemplation which set the tone with an alluring approach. Milo noticed this immediately. 

“You don’t strike me as the meditation type.” 

Thorne glanced sideways at him. “You don’t strike me as someone who should’ve survived getting punched in the head by that sadist's psycho-psionics.” 

“Fair.” 

The larger man nodded once. “Yet here we are.” 

“What are psycho-psionics?” Milo probed. 

“A lesson for another place and time.” His tone coming into sync with the surroundings. 

The sounds of impact, exertion, and controlled violence had long faded behind them disappearing entirely. Silence and solace took their place. The sort of silence that felt honored rather than enforced like the respect offered when entering the vestibule of a sanctum.  

The corridor opened into a broad circular chamber carved directly into the stone of the Stronghold. Soft lighting illuminated the space indirectly. Small prayer alcoves occupied the outer walls. Meditation rooms branched off in different directions. A row of sensory deprivation tanks sat behind frosted glass. The scent of cedar and sage drifted faintly through the air. 

For the first time since arriving, Milo felt his shoulders relax. The sensation surprised him. Apparently being hunted by an ancient conspiracy spanning all of human civilization had been causing him some stress. Who knew?

Several people occupied the space quietly. One meditated. Another read. A third sat alone beneath a mural depicting constellations woven together with roots and tree branches. Nobody seemed eager to interrupt anyone else’s peace.

Milo liked that 

“Welcome to Level Three,” Thorne said. “"Better known as the Retreat."

“This is your favorite floor?” 

Thorne nodded. “It annoys Aubrey. You'll come to appreciate the satisfaction in that.” 

“That can’t be the only reason.” Milo sharing a side eye of skepticism. 

“No.” A rare smile appeared. “But it’s a nice bonus, among other things.” 

A woman’s voice emerged from nearby. “He’s lying.”

Milo turned towards the motherly voice. She stood near one of the prayer alcoves holding a mug in one hand and a tablet in the other. Small in stature. Dark hair tied back loosely. Intelligent eyes that immediately reminded him of someone who noticed things people wished remained unnoticed. 

"Allow me to introduce," A hint of pride beaming through Thorne's exterior, "the incomparable Elizabeth Nguyen-Kim."

She gave Thorne a coy smirk as if acquiescing to his coquetry. To this group, she was known by several other names. The Prudent according to Rahim, Mother Hen according to Aubrey, but to most she was simply Eli. She studied Milo for a moment, then smiled warmly. This wasn’t a professional courtesy, and it certainly wasn’t a cautionary action either. It was genuine and pure from the soul. 

“You’re taller than I expected.” 

Milo raised an eyebrow. “That’s your opening observation?” 

“It was either that, or welcome to the hidden sanctuary beneath a sacred mountain after a near-death experience.” 

“Honestly, that would’ve been pretty solid.”

Eli laughed. The sound carried genuine joy behind it. Thorne’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, but Milo certainly noticed. Then he noticed Eli noticing Thorne and he was stuck between a moment that left both of them realizing he noticed.  

Well, that was interesting was all Milo could process in his head. Neither attempted to acknowledge it, which made it significantly more obvious. Eli was the first to move the moment along.  

“Rahim told me he’d be bringing you through.”

“Am I being passed around like a shitty assignment?” 

“Basically, but not like an annoyance. More like a curiosity.” 

“That’s not so bad, I suppose.”

She pointed toward a seating area overlooking one of the meditation chambers. “Walk with me.” 

Milo followed, and Thorne lingered nearby. He was close enough to participate, but far enough to pretend he wasn’t there. Another thing Milo noticed.

“What’s your role here?” Milo asked.

Eli settled into a chair reaching for a tea pot to pour out three cups. “Officially?” 

“There’s an official version?”

“There’s always an official version.” She took a sip from her mug. “I’m responsible for psychological support, emotional development, conflict mediation, recovery oversight, interpersonal dynamics, onboarding, counseling, and approximately seventy-three other responsibilities nobody wants.” 

Milo stared. “That sounds exhausting.” 

“It can be.” 

“Why do it?” 

The answer came instantly. “Because somebody has to.”

There was no hesitation or rehearsed nature in her response. Just conviction in the importance of her role and the pride she took in it. Eli folded her hands.

“Most organizations spend tremendous amounts of effort preparing people for success.” She glanced toward Thorne. “We spend equal effort preparing them for failure.”

Thorne nodded once. “People will sometimes break.” 

Eli continued. “They experience loss and all that comes with it. Grief. Fear. Doubt. Betrayal. Regret.” 

Milo’s expression darkened slightly. His thoughts drifted to Nicole again. The thought appeared unannounced. Eli noticed, like she was supposed to. That was probably her superpower. A propensity towards observation that allowed her to generate opportunity for growth. In this moment, though, she didn’t press. It wasn’t what the occasion called for. Another one of her gifts. 

Instead she said quietly, “The difficult moments aren’t what define people.”

Milo looked up. “They’re not?” 

“No.” Her eyes held his. “It’s how people respond afterward that does.”

The statement sat there filling the space between them. For reasons he couldn’t fully articulate, it landed more directly than many of the stranger truths he’d heard over the last week. It held a personal bearing that felt like he’d earned this lesson. But there was something more behind it that made it sink in because it sounded like someone speaking from experience rather than theory. 

For the first time, Milo noticed something beneath Eli’s warmth. There was a sadness that fueled her compassion. It wasn’t a current feeling, though; it was older in its presence. A scar rather than a wound, but still present, living somewhere behind her smile. 

“You lost somebody.” 

The words escaped before he could stop them. Eli froze briefly, but long enough for it to show. The room became very quiet. Thorne shifted his weight as if to show the slightest unease. Eli looked down into her mug. When she finally smiled again, it carried a faint ache. 

“You’re perceptive.” 

Milo immediately regretted asking. “Sorry, I just...” 

“Don’t be. It’s a good thing.” She shook her head. “Loss is part of the admission price for caring about people.” 

The answer felt practiced in a repetitive way but not disingenuous. Like a truth she’d revisited many times, or perhaps too many. For the first time, Milo wondered if that was her burden or maybe even her flaw.  

She was attached to her pain. She carried the load of people she lost, even after they were long gone. That could be a dangerous quality for someone tasked with helping others to let go, but maybe this was part of her own therapy as well. Perhaps sensing she had ventured close enough to old wounds for one evening, Thorne stepped forward then.

“I gotta keep this show moving along.” 

Eli looked over at Thorne. A small smile passed between them. Subtle and comforting. The sort of thing that only existed between people who had quietly become important to one another. Again, neither of them acknowledged it, which made it retain an adorable quality to it even if it was incredibly obvious. Eli stood up, but before leaving, she placed a hand gently on Milo’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to understand everything right now.”

“It all still feels impossible.” 

“It is.” She smiled. “Fortunately, that’s not the assignment.” 

Then she stepped away, leaving Milo standing between uncertainty and possibility, between confusion and understanding, and between the person he’d been and the person everyone here seemed convinced he could become. Thorne motioned toward another staircase ascending deeper into the Stronghold.

“Come on.”

“Where now?” 

The commanding man looked upward as a faint announcement suddenly echoed through the facility’s speaker system. Milo froze because the voice sounded familiar even if he couldn’t place why. He only knew that he’d heard it before somewhere or somehow. Thorne smirked as the announcement continued overhead. 

“Level Four.” For the first time that evening, genuine amusement entered his voice as he nudged his head up towards the speakers. “Trust me. You’re definitely gonna want to meet her.”

The announcement ended with a short burst of static before the facility returned to its usual calm. Milo stood still for a moment.

“I know that voice.” 

Thorne nodded. “A lotta people do.” 

“No, seriously. I know that voice.” 

“You do.” 

“Are you going to elaborate?” 

“No.” 

Milo sighed. “Everybody in this place treats information like it’s an endangered species.” 

Thorne actually laughed at that. It was a short one, but still it got a laugh out of him. That’s progress in some people’s books. 

They climbed another flight of stairs toward Level Four. The atmosphere on this floor was nothing like the previous one. The prayer chambers below carried a sense of quiet reflection and inner peace. This level felt like it was standing at attention and ready to spring off at a moment’s notice. It was purposeful and alert. The drone of meditation was replaced by the hum of electronics.  

Large displays lined portions of the walls. Personnel moved between workstations with practiced efficiency. Maps were laid out with strategic placement. Surveillance feeds and security reports were scrutinized to ascertain pertinent information. Communications consoles were manned with diligent observation. Nobody looked panicked in this room, though poise was the word of the hour. Which was reassuring, to say the least. There was a beauty in knowing that people who knew danger intimately rarely wasted energy looking dramatic about it. 

The Command Center occupied the heart of the level. Floor-to-ceiling displays wrapped around the room in a semicircle. Some monitored the Stronghold itself. Others tracked regional weather, transportation routes, communications traffic, and things Milo suspected were significantly above his current security clearance. Standing in the center of it all was Aubrey Jackson. Her back was to them. One hand rested on the edge of a workstation while she reviewed information on a display. 

Without turning around, she said, “He’s walking better.” 

Milo looked at Thorne who shrugged. “She has a knack for noticing things.” 

Aubrey finally turned. Milo didn’t recognize her face, but it was not that which rang as familiar to him. It was the sense of her composed intensity and demeanor. Even her voice carried that tuned-in impression. Maybe that was the feeling of recognition that permeated through to him. 

The thing he appreciated the most about her command of the space was the temperature at which it ran. It wasn’t cold and distant, or even warm and inviting either. It was like she viewed every interaction through the lens of consequences first and emotions second.  

“Hello, Milo. My name is Special Agent Aubrey Jackson.”

The formality felt serious yet appropriate, so Milo obliged.  “Good evening, ma’am.” 

Aubrey realized how that came off even if it was more habit than intention and attempted to correct it. “Sorry, old habits. Just call me Aubrey.” 

“Okay, hi, Aubrey.” Milo obliged again. A brief pause ensued. 

“Glad you survived.” 

Aubrey’s statement carried enough sincerity to matter even if it also arrived disguised as professionalism. 

“You too.”

“That’s just and reasonable.”

That was apparently the extent of emotional vulnerability either of them was willing to display at this time. Aubrey gestured around the room. “Welcome to Level Four.” 

“Clearly the nerve center?” 

Aubrey flashed him a look of inquisition. “Essentially.” 

Milo slowly turned in place. The scale of it all surprised him. They were obviously not messing around here. 

“This is all for security?” 

“Yes. Security. Intelligence. Logistics. Communications. Threat assessment. Coordination.” She paused. “And contingency planning.” 

That last one sounded important.

“How many contingencies do you have?” 

Aubrey’s expression didn’t change. “We have to be ready for anything, so enough to assume everything will eventually go wrong.” 

Milo’s eyes widened. “That seems bleakly pessimistic.” 

“No.” She folded her arms as if her opinion required her to stand its ground. “It’s experience.” 

The answer felt tougher than she may have intended, or perhaps it hit with the exact intention she wanted. Aubrey led them toward one of the larger displays. It showed a layered topographical map surrounding Devils Tower fully equipped with sensors, cameras, and patrol routes. It even laid out emergency response positions and fallback locations. The amount of preparation was staggering. 

“It’s not about expecting to be attacked.” Aubrey looked at him. “We have to be prepared to be found.” 

It seemed like a subtle distinction, but it was an important one. 

“By ORG?”

“Sure, eventually.” 

The confidence in her voice was unsettling. She lived with a mindset that accepted that would be the ultimate outcome, but she refused to live in fear of it. She saw it as a certainty, like the seasons or taxes. There was no need to question it, just be ready. Milo studied the display.  

“So this entire place exists under the assumption someone is coming.” 

“Yes.” 

“And that feels normal to you?” 

“For us.” 

She said it so matter-of-factly that Milo almost laughed, but he knew better. Instead, he found himself oddly reassured. The threat of danger hadn’t vanished, but he was now keenly aware they had someone on guard who had clearly spent years preparing for it. The burden of it didn’t feel like his alone anymore.  

Aubrey noticed the realization settling in him and had a sense of pride fall over her because that was the point she hoped would be understood. “No one person is responsible for protecting this place.” 

Milo looked at her.

“We all are.” 

The quiet certainty of her statement arrived with the same intensity as any grand speech or dramatic declaration would have. She delivered it in the same way she wanted it given to her: with just the facts. Clean, concise, and direct. 

Aubrey glanced around the command center at the people working. She surveyed all the screens with their endless flow of information. For the first time, Milo noticed something beneath the confidence. 

It would fatigue and overload anyone. Even the most experienced and seasoned operator required to oversee this much responsibility. The kind accumulated over years of being the person expected to make the correct decision when no correct options existed. 

He had the impression that she had started carrying them all personally at some point even if she had preached division of burden earlier. And like most people who carried too much, she had become frighteningly good at pretending the weight wasn’t there. Classic example of do as I say, not as I do. 

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” 

The question slipped out again. He seemed to be having this problem with holding back these reflexive instincts all day. Aubrey briefly stood motionless, which was uncommon for one who was always on the lookout. It was nearly unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but it was long enough for someone who had gone to war with her to catch.  

It brought a slight grin to Thorne’s expression. Aubrey shot him a look, and the smile widened. He attempted to cover his face by crossing his arm and rubbing his chin, but his body language gave away his amusement. Finally, Aubrey sighed.  

“I sleep.” 

“That wasn’t my question.” 

Aubrey narrowed her eyes. “You’re spending too much time around certain individuals.” 

“Could be, but am I wrong?” 

She shook her head as her expression softened slightly.  “It’s an occupational hazard. The responsibility never really turns off.” 

There it was. The truth finally shone through, and a brief glimpse into her humanity came out even if it was slightly uncomfortable for her to share it. Before Milo could respond, Aubrey’s attention shifted toward a large display overlooking the upper portions of the Stronghold. On it sat something unexpected. Milo’s jaw dropped. 

“Hold on, is that a hangar . . .” He couldn’t conceal his astonishment. “With a private jet?”

Aubrey followed his gaze. “What?” 

“We have a plane.” 

“Yes, several.” 

Milo pointed. “Why do we have a plane?”

Aubrey looked genuinely confused by the question. “Because walking around the world would take too long.” 

Milo stared at her. Thorne couldn’t hold it in anymore and laughed outright. Aubrey just ignored them like their time here had become an annoyance to her, then nodded toward the upper levels.  

“If that interests you, there’s someone you should meet.” 

“The pilot?” 

“Exactly, the pilot.” She returned her attention to the displays, already halfway back into her work. “Tell Noah I said hello.” 

“You’re not coming?” 

Aubrey looked around the command center with a deadpan stare at all the monitors and security feeds. She obviously had her responsibilities to attend to.

“No.” Suddenly, a small smile appeared across her lips like the last five minutes just replayed in her head. “Somebody has to make sure we’re all still alive when you get back.”