Bloodline Of The Immortal Cage

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING & DISCLAIMER: This story contains violence, murder, captivity, human experimentation, psychological trauma, blood, death, grief, coercion, and romantic themes.

All names, characters, organizations, events, and locations mentioned in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, places, organizations, or events is purely coincidental. This book does not represent or refer to any real location or government program.

Reader discretion is advised.

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Grace's POV

I was late getting home that night. The library had stayed open longer than usual and I lost track of time reading the same page over and over.

My backpack felt heavier than it should have when I finally stepped off the bus. The street was quiet. Most of the houses had their lights off already.

Our porch light was on. That was the first thing that felt off. Mom always turned it off by ten unless she was waiting up for me. I pulled my key out and tried the door. It was unlocked.

I stepped inside and dropped my bag by the wall the way I always did. The house smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long. The kitchen light was on. I heard drawers opening and closing fast.

“Mom?” I called. “Dad?”

No answer at first. Then my mother’s voice came from the hallway.

“Grace. Come here. Now!.”

I walked toward the sound. Both of them were in their bedroom. Suitcases lay open on the bed. My father was shoving hard drives and folders into a duffel bag. His hands were shaking a little. My mother had a laptop open on the dresser and was typing like the keys might disappear if she slowed down.

I stopped in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

Dad looked up. His face was pale. “We need to leave. Tonight.”

“Leave? Where? Why?”

Mom forcefully closed the laptop. “We don’t have time to explain everything. Pack a bag. Clothes. Your phone charger. Nothing else.”

I stayed where I was. “You’re scaring me. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Dad zipped the duffel and swung it onto his shoulder. “There are people who want something from us. Something we worked on. We thought we had more time.”

“What people? What are you talking about?”

Mom came over and put both hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were red.

“Grace, listen to me. We love you. We did everything we could to keep you out of this. But they found us. We have to go right now.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but the sound of a car door slamming outside cut me off. Then another. Heavy footsteps on the porch.

Dad’s face changed. He pushed me toward the closet.

“Hide. Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”

Mom grabbed the laptop and the duffel. The front door burst open before either of them could move another step.

I froze in the hallway, heart slamming against my ribs, and watched the first man in black step into our house.

I couldn’t move.

My feet felt stuck to the floor. The man in the doorway was tall and muscular, dressed in black from head to toe. A black mask covered the lower half of his face. Behind him I saw more shapes, more boots, more guns.

Dad sent me stumbling toward the hall closet

“Go. Now.”

I stumbled inside and pulled the door almost shut. Through the thin crack I could still see the living room. Mom stood in front of Dad like she could block the whole group by herself.

The first man spoke. His voice was flat. “Dr. Sinclair. Dr. Elena Sinclair. You are coming with us.”

Dad’s voice came out steady, but I knew that tone. He used it when he was scared and trying not to show it.

“You’re in the wrong house.”

Another man stepped forward and held up a tablet. A photo of my parents filled the screen. Then a second photo. Me. Younger. Smiling at a science fair.

Mom’s breath hitched. “She’s just a child. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Everyone has something to do with this,” the first man said. “Where is the girl?”

I pressed my back against the coats. My heart was so loud I was sure they could hear it. Dad shifted his weight, angling his body to block the hallway.

“You want us,” he said. “Take us. Leave her out of it.”

The man with the tablet nodded once. Two others moved fast. One grabbed Mom by the arm. She twisted and kicked, but he was stronger.

The other one went for Dad. Dad swung the duffel bag like a weapon. It hit the man in the shoulder and bought maybe two seconds.

A third man raised a black device that looked like a thick remote. He pointed it at Dad. There was a sharp crack and Dad dropped to one knee, gasping.

I bit down on my own hand to keep from making a sound.

The first man walked closer. “Last chance. Where is Grace Sinclair?”

Mom’s eyes flicked toward the closet for half a second. Then she looked straight at the man and spat at his feet.

“She’s gone. She left an hour ago. You’ll never find her.”

The man stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded again.

What happened next was fast and ugly. They dragged both my parents toward the door. Mom fought the whole way.

Dad tried to stand and got hit again. I heard her voice, broken and fierce, calling my name one time before the front door slammed shut.

Then the house was quiet.

I stayed in the closet, shaking, until the only sound left was the fridge humming in the kitchen.

My legs finally gave out and I slid down to the floor between the winter coats and the vacuum cleaner.