The lid slammed shut.
Something heavy scraped across the top of the dresser; they’d moved the dresser, and Tommy heard the click of a latch engaging. He was lying in a fetal position surrounded by stuffed animals and wooden blocks, his knees pressed against his chin, the clipboard digging into his ribs.
From outside, muffled and cheerful:
"Phase two complete."
"That was easy," Luna said.
"Tommy makes everything easy," Frost agreed. "He’s very predictable."
Tommy pressed his palms against the lid and pushed. Nothing. He pushed harder, summoning his water magic, feeling the familiar heat bloom in his muscles, and the toy box didn’t budge. They’d reinforced it. Of course, they’d reinforced it. These were the children of the most powerful woman in the settlement and maybe the world, and they’d turned a wooden chest into a vault.
He was trapped. Trapped in a toy box by children.
"Frost," Tommy called, his voice echoing in the cramped darkness. "Luna. Open this box right now."
"No," said Frost.
"We’re going to watch a movie," Luna added. "There’s popcorn in the living room."
"You can’t just leave me in here!"
"Watch us."
Footsteps, receding and growing fainter. Tommy heard the bedroom door open, then close, then the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.
Silence.
Tommy lay in the dark, surrounded by plush toys that smelled faintly of lavender and crayon, and stared at the sliver of light coming through the ventilation hole near his left foot. The clipboard was still digging into his side. He could feel the laminated edge of his Child-Care Drill pressing against his rib cage like a physical reminder of his failure.
He closed his eyes.
Four minutes, Frost had said. It had taken three.
Somewhere down the hall, he heard the microwave beep, and the distant sound of children’s laughter, and he knew with the absolute certainty of a man who had been thoroughly and completely defeated, that he was going to be in this box for a very, very long time.
Tommy shifted in the cramped space, trying to find a position where the clipboard wasn’t actively bruising his organs. The stuffed giraffe currently pressed against his forehead smelled like baby powder and broken dreams.
From beyond the toy box prison, the television clicked on. High-pitched theme music filtered through the wood.
"This one!" Luna’s voice carried down the hallway.
"We watched that yesterday," Frost protested.
"So? Tommy likes it when we watch the same thing. He says consistency builds structure."
Tommy’s jaw tightened. That was from his goddamn clipboard. They’d memorized his methodology and weaponized it.
He pushed against the lid again, channeling water magic into his arms. The wood creaked but held. Whatever they’d done, they had done it well.
The thing was, Tommy knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn’t chaos. This was a coordinated operation with clear objectives: neutralize the authority figure, secure recreational time, and establish dominance. He would’ve been proud if he weren’t currently trapped in what smelled like a lavender-scented coffin.
"Okay," he said to the darkness and the stuffed animals. "Okay. Think."
His radio was in his pocket. Tommy wiggled his hand down, fingers brushing the plastic edge. Victory surged through him, short-lived, because when he tried to pull it free, his elbow caught on the side of the box, and his wrist bent at an angle that sent pins and needles shooting up his forearm.
"Shit, shit."
He extracted his hand, shook feeling back into it, and tried again. This time, he got the radio halfway out before it slipped and clattered to the bottom of the box, landing somewhere near his feet in the stuffed animal graveyard.
Tommy closed his mouth and breathed through his nose. He counted to ten. Reminded himself that throttling children was frowned upon in most civilised societies.
From the living room, Frost laughed at whatever was happening on screen.
"Pass the popcorn," Luna said.
"Say please."
"You’re not the boss of me."
"Mum says we should be polite."
"Mum also says Tommy needs to relax more."
Apparently, Luna had excellent hearing.
Tommy held the radio up to the sliver of light coming through the ventilation hole. The battery indicator blinked red, then died completely.
Of course. Of course, the batteries were dead. When had he last checked them? Yesterday? Last week? The clipboard had a maintenance schedule, but he’d been so focused on the drill procedures he’d... he had forgotten to fix it.
The bedroom door opened.
Tommy froze. Footsteps crossed the floor heavy, deliberate, the kind of footsteps that moved with the slow, fluid certainty of something that had no need to rush.
Tommy knew that sound. He knew the particular cadence of scales sliding across hardwood, the faint hiss of muscle shifting beneath skin, and the unmistakable scent that followed eucalyptus and rosemary, cool and green and ancient.
Voss.
Relief hit Tommy so hard his throat tightened. The water magic he’d been suppressing surged involuntarily, and moisture beaded across his skin, dripping from his forearms into the plush fabric beneath him. A puddle was forming. He was going to drown in a toy box surrounded by stuffed animals.
The footsteps paused. Tommy heard the low, unhurried sound of Voss breathing that slow, measured intake that meant the wolf was processing, calculating, deciding.
From the living room, the unmistakable crunch of potato chips. Luna giggled at something on the television. Frost said something Tommy couldn’t make out, but the tone was relaxed, satisfied, the sound of a child who had successfully executed a mission and was enjoying the spoils.
Voss made a sound. It was quiet, almost inaudible, but Tommy recognized it, the faintest exhale through slightly parted lips that meant the wolf was amused.
The footsteps resumed, moving past the bedroom door toward the living room. Tommy’s heart sank. No. No, Voss was going to deal with the children first, and Tommy would be left here, marinating in his own failure, his own soup and increasingly damp stuffed animals.
But the footsteps stopped, then reversed and came back.
Tommy held his breath.