My body tensed, every muscle coiling as if ready to spring into action. The hairs on my arm bristled, standing on end like sentinels on alert, and those on the back of my neck tingled with a foreboding sense of anticipation. Was it merely coincidence? Or was there someone, or something, lurking within the supposed sanctuary of my home? The very thought sent a shiver down my spine. Given the recent upheavals in our world—where Portal Keys and Pirate technology blurred the lines between friend and foe—the idea of an intruder wasn't just paranoia; it was a plausible threat.

With a caution that felt more akin to the stealth of a cat, I poked my head into the hallway. The shadows seemed to dance at the edges of my vision, making the familiar feel unfamiliar. "Hello?" My voice, though intended to be firm, carried a tentative note as it echoed slightly off the walls. The silence that greeted me was almost more unnerving than any response could be.

"Hey, Luke," came the unexpectedly comforting voice of Beatrix, cutting through the tension like a beacon of normalcy.

A sigh of relief escaped me, so profound it seemed to uncoil the tightness in my chest. I let my body relax, feeling the adrenaline dissipate as quickly as it had surged. In an almost subconscious move, I found a t-shirt and pulled it over my head, covering my bare chest. It was a subtle act, but it was as if dressing could somehow restore a sense of order to the morning.

"You're up early," I announced, stepping into the convergence of the kitchen and living areas. The space felt too quiet, the air holding a stillness that was almost tangible.

Beatrix, looking more weary than I'd seen her in a long time, managed a yawn that seemed to embody exhaustion. "I didn't sleep very well," she confessed, her voice tinged with the strain of enduring pain. "I've already taken more pain killers than I probably should, and my head is still pounding." There was a vulnerability in her admission, a crack in her usually unbreakable façade.

As she spoke, I found my hand drifting to my left temple, mirroring her discomfort. "Tell me about it," I replied, a camaraderie in shared pain, even as I realised the growing ache in my own head that had gone unnoticed until now. It was a strange connection, one that underscored the undercurrents of unease that was becoming all too common.

Beatrix's frustration with the contents of our fridge—or the lack thereof—was palpable as she swung the door open and then shut it with a definitive huff. The sound echoed slightly in the quiet of the kitchen, a testament to her irritation.

"Alcohol already?" My question hung in the air, tinged with incredulity.

"Fuck off. I'm not Gladys," Beatrix snapped back, her voice sharp, cutting through the calm like a knife. There was a fire in her eyes, a spark that spoke of her fierce independence and stubborn pride.

"Sorry," I said, the corners of my mouth betraying me as I fought back a smile. There was something about her spirit, even in moments like these, that I couldn't help but admire. "There's muesli bars?" I offered, trying to shift the mood, as I opened the pantry and retrieved an unopened box. The mundane solution seemed almost comical given the earlier tension.

Beatrix's displeasure was evident, her face scrunching in a way that was both endearing and exasperating. I couldn't hold back any longer; a soft chuckle escaped me. "They're choc-chip," I added, a playful tease to lighten the atmosphere.

"Hmm. Fine," she conceded, extending her hand with a reluctance that was almost theatrical. Her pride was a fortress, but even fortresses have gates.

Ripping the box open, I tossed her several bars, each movement punctuated by the simple, unspoken connections that defined our relationship. "Thanks," she mumbled, the first package already being devoured. Muesli filled her mouth, a temporary peace offering that seemed to bridge the gap between frustration and the day's demands.

"Any plan for today?" Beatrix's voice, muffled by food, carried a note of curiosity as she began to navigate through the living room, her movements a dance of grace and purpose.

"You're going to visit Grant Ironbach and bring him to Clivilius," I replied, the words coming out more brusquely than I intended. My own muesli bar was torn open in a moment of distraction, my stomach betraying my hunger with a loud growl.

Beatrix stopped and turned, her scowl deepening, a storm brewing in her gaze. It was a look that could have made lesser men flinch.

"It'll be good practice for you," I encouraged, attempting to smooth over the abruptness of my earlier statement. There was a challenge in my voice, but also a belief in her capability, a faith in her strength.

"People aren't my thing," she declared, her tone matter-of-fact, as if that simple truth could excuse her from the task at hand.

"I already have to get Adrian," I replied, matching Beatrix's bluntness with my own. There was a certain gravity to my words, a recognition of the increasing complexity of our situation that seemed to hang heavily in the air between us.

"Who's Adrian?"

"He's a construction engineer. Runs his own company," I explained, feeling a sense of pride as I spoke of Adrian's expertise. "He did the building inspection for this place when Jamie and I bought it. Nial is great with fences, but I think the group needs more... professional help." It was an admission of the limitations of our current capabilities, a concession to the reality that the challenges we faced required a level of skill and knowledge that went beyond our makeshift solutions.

Beatrix, her attention momentarily captured by her muesli bar, bit into it before responding. "I suspect you're right there."

"I'm going to arrange to meet with him at the Collinsvale property tomorrow morning," I continued, outlining my plan with a sense of determination. The strategy was forming, piece by piece, in my mind, each step a move towards fortifying our position.

Suddenly, a long, loud honk shattered the morning's relative peace, its abruptness startling in the quiet of our surroundings. Beatrix reacted instantly, her movements quick and sharp as she poked her head through the blinds to investigate the source of the disruption, only to quickly withdraw.

"I wouldn't worry about it," I told her, trying to inject a note of reassurance into my voice. The brevity of her movements had not escaped my notice, and it concerned me that the tension of our circumstances might be pushing her towards paranoia. "There's always hoons on that road."

Beatrix shook her head, her expression one of conviction rather than reassurance. "No. I think the house is being watched." The certainty in her voice was unsettling.

I rubbed my brow, a gesture borne of a deep-seated need to remain patient and composed in the face of mounting pressures. "Did you recognise the person?" I asked, hoping for some clue, some indication of who might be taking such an interest in us.

"No," she replied, her head continuing to shake, her eyes reflecting the frustration of uncertainty. "It was too quick."

"Have another look then," I told her, my hand gesturing towards the window. It was an encouragement, a push to confront our fears directly rather than let them fester in the shadows of doubt.

Sliding her palm between the vertical blinds, Beatrix's movements were deliberate. She pulled one back slowly, her actions careful and measured as she peered out the window. "He's gone!" she hissed, a whisper filled with a mix of relief and lingering concern, as she let the blind snap back into place, restoring the veil of privacy between us and the outside world.

"Gone?" I echoed, my voice laced with confusion. Why was Beatrix still so concerned if the car had driven off? The small dirt pull-over area across the road was frequently a hub of minor commotion; it was hardly unusual to hear or see something odd there. Yet, the urgency in Beatrix's voice suggested this was no ordinary disturbance.

"Yeah. He's not in the car anymore," she continued, her voice still a hiss, barely above a whisper. The tension in her words was palpable, a clear signal that she perceived this as more than a fleeting threat. "We'd best get out of here for a while," she declared. Her decisiveness was characteristic, a reflection of her instinct to act swiftly in the face of danger. Without waiting for any reaction or response from me, Beatrix opened her Portal against the living room wall. The air seemed to ripple as if reality itself was bending, and then she stepped through, leaving me standing there, alone, in a room suddenly too quiet.

The wall soon returned to its original state, an ordinary, charcoal-coloured wall, as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. But the illusion of normalcy was shattered by a loud knock at the front door. "Shit!" I whispered under my breath, the sudden noise spiking my adrenaline. My fingers instinctively sought the cool surface of my Portal Key in my trouser pocket, a lifeline now seemingly useless with the immediacy of the threat at our doorstep.

There’s no time to activate it now, I realised with a surge of panic. If the person at the door decided to peer through the windows, they'd spot me for sure. Acting on impulse, I hastily crouched behind the kitchen's island bench, seeking the scant cover it provided. From my crouched position, I was acutely aware of how vulnerable I felt, hidden yet exposed, my heart racing as I contemplated my next move.

My breathing deepened, each inhale and exhale more deliberate than the last, as a whirlwind of questions raced through my mind. Who the hell is it? Is it someone I know? Am I in danger? The weight of the unknown pressed heavily upon me, the anticipation gnawing at my very core. Yet, amidst the swirling tide of anxiety, a spark of curiosity flared, urging me to uncover the truth behind the intrusion.

Moments later, the sound of the wooden gate rattling shattered the eerie silence, an unsettling breach of my sanctuary. The unwelcome visitor had effortlessly jumped over the barrier that was supposed to protect the backyard. Anger began to simmer within me, a slow boil of indignation at the audacity of the intrusion. Yet, I fought to keep my curiosity in check, channeling it into a focused determination to understand who dared to encroach upon my space.

Staying low, with the agility of a predator in its element, I stealthily moved into the hallway, each step measured and silent. My aim was clear: to catch a glimpse of the intruder without revealing my presence. I peered briefly into the bathroom doorway, hoping for a vantage point, but the frosted glass thwarted any chance of a clear view, offering nothing but blurred shadows.

Pushing along the hallway, the suspense tightened its grip with every step. I reached the end, where the corridor branched off, presenting a choice: the master bedroom to the right, or the small toilet and corner bedroom to the left. My heart pounded against my ribs, a drum of war echoing the tension that filled the air. Straining to hear any hint of movement, I was met with an unnerving silence that seemed to cloak the intruder's actions.

Slowly, cautiously, I edged my gaze around the bedroom's doorframe, the need for stealth paramount. And then, I saw him—a tall man standing outside the window, his presence casting a dark, ominous shadow across the venetian blinds. The sight of him, so unexpectedly close yet separated by the thin veil of glass, sent a jolt of shock through me. I gasped, the sound escaping before I could clamp down on the reaction, and yanked myself back, retreating into the shadows of the hallway.

The man's presence, a tangible threat now just metres away, sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The reality of the situation hit me with the force of a thunderclap—this was no mere curiosity. I was potentially in grave danger. My mind raced, considering the possibilities, the motivations for his intrusion, and the implications for my safety. In that moment, hidden yet exposed, I realised the delicate balance between curiosity and survival, each decision from here on out could determine a new fate.

Deciding to capture any memory of the intruder, a surge of resolve coursed through me as I pulled out my phone and activated the camera. My hands, albeit steady with intention, betrayed a slight tremor of adrenaline as I held the phone as low as possible, navigating its lens toward the doorway. Using the viewfinder as my eyes beyond the wall, I slid my finger across the smooth, cold surface of the screen toward the 'capture' button, preparing for a quick snap that might serve as crucial evidence later.

"Who the hell are you?" The sudden, gruff call of a man's voice from outside pierced the tense silence, startling me. My grip faltered, and the phone slipped through my sweaty fingers, crashing to the floor with a sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet of the moment. "Shit!" I hissed under my breath, the curse a whisper of frustration and panic. Quickly, I slammed myself onto the carpet, my heart pounding in my ears. Retrieving the phone, I cradled it close, hoping desperately that my clumsy movement had gone unnoticed.

A moment of silence ensued, thick with anticipation, before the intruder spoke again, his voice carrying through the still air. "I'm Karl Jenkins. Detective Karl Jenkins," he finally revealed.

Shit! Why the hell is a detective sneaking around my backyard? The question hammered in my mind, a whirlwind of confusion and suspicion. Was this a routine investigation, or had our activities attracted unwanted attention from the law?

Realising that there were two voices outside, a new wave of urgency coursed through my veins. I pressed my back against the closed toilet door in a desperate bid for concealment. The cool surface of the door offered a stark contrast to the heat of my racing thoughts.

"And who are you?" the detective inquired, his tone authoritative yet tinged with a hint of curiosity.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted you," the other man replied, his voice carrying a note of apologetic formality. "I'm Terry. I live across the street."

So, that's what the old guy actually sounds like. The realisation struck me with a mixture of surprise and intrigue. I had seen him frequently, tending to his front garden with a quiet dedication, yet our paths had never directly crossed, our interactions nothing more than distant acknowledgments.

Eager to hear more, to understand the unfolding dynamics outside my makeshift hideaway, I edged my head closer to the doorway, my curiosity now intertwined with a cautious calculation. Every snippet of conversation, every tone of voice, could offer insight into the situation at hand.

"I am looking for Luke Smith or Jamie Greyson," Karl's voice carried a professional edge, each word deliberate, hinting at the seriousness of his inquiry. "Have you seen either of them?" The question hung in the air, a tangible weight that seemed to press down on me from my concealed position.

Good question, I mused internally, my heart rate accelerating as I processed the implications of his visit. Saliva caught in my throat, a physical manifestation of my sudden anxiety. Was Terry, the seemingly innocuous neighbour, actually an overlooked liability for our Clivilius efforts?

"Not in the last few days," Terry's response came, his voice carrying a casualness that belied the gravity of the conversation. A moment of relief washed over me, fleeting and fragile. It seemed Terry might not be as astute or protective of his street as I initially thought. Or perhaps, I speculated, he is just feigning ignorance to protect his neighbours. The idea that nobody likes police poking their noses where it doesn’t belong floated through my mind, a sliver of hope clinging to the possibility of Terry's discretion.

"But their friend has been here a lot recently. She's made a few trips here in a small truck," Terry continued, and with those words, any semblance of relief I'd felt shattered. Fuck! Terry's observation skills were evidently neither lacking in astuteness nor inclined towards neighbourly protection.

"A small truck," Karl repeated, his tone reflecting a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "How odd. Do you have any idea what for? Are they moving?" The detective's questions probed deeper, each one a potential unravelling of the carefully constructed semblance of normalcy that I suddenly realised we probably hadn’t put as much effort into maintaining as we should have.

"Not sure. I don't think so. I think she's been making deliveries of some kind. I've not noticed anything leaving the house," Terry's reply came, his tone suggesting a blend of curiosity and neutrality. His observations, while accurate, painted a picture of our activities that I hadn't anticipated becoming public knowledge, least of all police knowledge.

"Very odd indeed. Well, do call me if you see anything else, sir," Karl instructed, the professional veneer firmly in place as he concluded his line of questioning.

"Of course," Terry replied with a promptness that felt like a betrayal, despite his earlier semblance of neutrality. "I'll make sure you're the first person I call." His assurance to the detective sent a chill down my spine.

Shit! The realisation hit me like a freight train: We definitely have to start using the Collinsvale property now. My house has been compromised. I sighed heavily, the weight of this revelation pressing down on me like a physical burden. The safety of our operations, once a given within the walls of my home, was now a gaping vulnerability. The thought of moving our base of operations wasn't just a tactical shift; it was a stark admission that the world outside was closing in on us, inch by inch.

"Brilliant!" The word, laced with sarcasm or perhaps genuine satisfaction, came from Karl. His tone was hard to pin down, a reflection of the complex dance of cat and mouse we found ourselves entangled in.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Terry's voice signalled a conclusion to their exchange, his departure perhaps a brief respite in the mounting tension.

"Terry," Karl called out, a moment before Terry could retreat into the ordinariness of his day. "Yes?" Terry's response was prompt, a signal of his readiness to assist further if needed.

"Have you seen anyone else around here? Last night or this morning?" Karl's question was pointed, a direct probe into the comings and goings in our neighbourhood. His inquiry hinted at a broader search, a net cast wider than just my immediate circle.

"No, sir. Only you," Terry replied. His answer, straightforward and seemingly innocuous, offered a temporary shield, a momentary veil of ignorance that I desperately hoped would be enough to deflect Karl's suspicions.

A thick, heavy silence enveloped the space again, the tension palpable. The only exception was the constant thumping of my heart, a relentless drumbeat echoing the fear and uncertainty coursing through me. Was Terry's interruption enough to make the detective leave? The question lingered, a hopeful thought amidst a sea of dread.

Unable to muster the courage for even a fleeting glance around the bedroom doorframe, I once again turned to the silent witness in my hand: my phone's camera. The digital eye became my proxy, a way to brave the world outside without exposing myself to further risk.

A soft, metallic scraping sound abruptly shattered the silence, snapping my attention upwards. It was quickly followed by the loud clatter of the bedroom window's fly-screen crashing to the concrete below—a sound of intrusion, of boundaries breached. A deliberate, "Shit!" from the detective punctuated the moment, a rare slip that revealed his own frustration or perhaps surprise.

I let out a soft "Shit!" of my own, the expletive a whisper of mirrored frustration and rising panic. Without hesitation, I leapt into action, propelling myself into the hallway and scrambling toward the kitchen. The thought was clear and urgent: I can't afford to get caught now. Especially not by a detective! The stakes were too high, the consequences too dire. My movements were a blend of fear and determination, a desperate bid for safety in a world where every shadow could hide a threat, and every knock could be the prelude to a downfall.

Returning my phone to my trouser pocket, I fumbled frantically to retrieve the Portal Key. My fingers, slick with a sheen of sweat and trembling with adrenaline, slid across its small button. "For fuck's sake! Why aren't you working?" I growled at the stubborn device, my voice laced with panic. Each failed attempt to activate the Portal Key and escape from the imminent danger sent a new wave of despair crashing over me.

The sound of shattering glass from the bedroom window reverberated down the hallway, a chilling reminder of the escalating situation. This Detective is insane! The thought screamed in my mind as I bolted onto the small landing, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum of war. I clambered down the stairs, each step a desperate bid for safety, my mind racing with the need to evade the unforeseen threat that had breached my sanctuary.

"Shit! I'm an idiot!" The self-rebuke came as I stumbled clumsily into the only downstairs room, the realisation of my hasty and ill-considered escape plan dawning on me. "Where the fuck am I supposed to go down here?" I tormented myself, casting a frantic glance around the room. My eyes settled on the door that guarded the small, dark space under the stairs. Taking that option would be my final move, I warned myself. There'd be no escape from such a confined space, a trap of my own making.

The large, glass sliding door that led to the grassy backyard beckoned to me, its presence offering a glimmer of hope, an obvious escape route that screamed both opportunity and danger. With a surge of determination, I reached for the deadbolt at the top of the door, pulling it down with such fervour that I felt the tip of my fingernail bend backward.

"Fuck!" The hiss escaped my lips, a sharp intake of breath following the acute pain. I shook my hand fiercely, trying to dispel the sting, before pausing to examine the damage. A moment of relief washed over me as I saw the nail remained intact, a small victory in the midst of evading a detective. Thankfully, I thought, my focus returning to the task at hand. The physical pain was a jarring reminder of the reality of my situation, a tangible anchor in the whirlwind of fear and desperation that threatened to overtake me.

Unlocking the second latch, I pulled the heavy door open with a determined tug, releasing the pent-up tension in my muscles. As the door glided open, a fresh, cool morning breeze greeted me, a brief moment of respite that caressed my face with its soothing touch. Standing in the doorway, I hesitated, caught between the urgency to flee and a momentary pause of relief. Then, abruptly, the tranquility was shattered by the roar of a car's engine coming to life, its tires screeching across gravel in a hasty departure.

Was that the Detective? The thought barely had time to form before instinct took over. I darted from the doorway, my body propelled by a mix of adrenaline and fear. It took almost no time to reach the back fence, my back slamming against the ageing wood with a thud that echoed the rapid beating of my heart. Desperate to catch a glimpse of the car before it vanished from view, I peered over the tall fence, stretching every muscle in my attempt to see.

My foot kicked against the fence involuntarily, a physical manifestation of the tumult of emotions swirling within me as I watched the silhouette of a dark car disappear in a cloud of dust. Bugger! The word was a silent scowl in my mind, a mix of frustration and resignation. I knew it hadn't been an official police car—its departure was too hurried, too lacking in the ceremoniousness of law enforcement. Yet, I didn't get a clear enough view of the vehicle to know what to watch out for in the future, a missed opportunity that gnawed at me.

Exhaling loudly, I allowed myself a moment to process the events. There was a relief, albeit a temporary one, in the realisation that today would not be the day I come face to face with the law—a law that I seem unable to keep myself from breaking. But it's not my fault, I reminded myself with a defiant inner voice. It's for Clivilius. This justification was a shield, a way to reconcile the actions I deemed necessary for a greater cause with the societal norms I found myself at odds with.

After confirming that Detective Jenkins had indeed vacated the premises, and witnessing the undeniable evidence of the bedroom window's violation, my heart sank. The shattered glass lay scattered like a crystal carpet, a stark reminder of the intrusion into my once secure haven. Ignoring the fragmented remains, I promptly exited the exposed room, pulling the door closed behind me with a finality that echoed my resolve. The house, already compromised, stood as a silent testament to the urgent necessity of vacating it. Cleaning up now seemed a futile gesture, an attempt to mend what had already been irrevocably broken.

Entering the study, a room once filled with the quiet hum of contemplation and strategy, I aimed the Portal Key at the far wall, the device in my hand my only ticket to a swift escape. I pressed the button, once, twice, several times, each press a desperate plea for action. But the Portal Key remained obstinately silent, its failure to activate sending a wave of frustration through me.

"Shit!" The exclamation burst from me. My temples throbbed with a pulsing rhythm, mirroring the panic that gripped me, paralysing and potent. The words that followed trailed off, leaving my mouth as a mumble, the intensity of my emotions rendering me incapable of the bold declaration I had intended. "Why the hell won't you work? Clivilius, what the fuck is going on?" My voice, laced with desperation and confusion, filled the study, a room that had once been a sanctuary of planning and progress now a witness to my moment of vulnerability.