The map clearly marked the place as “safe,” which immediately made her suspicious. A bunker in the middle of a war zone wasn’t safe. It was strategic. Temporary. Fragile. Safe meant something else. Mara entered anyway. The door sealed behind her with a heavy clang, shutting out the distant echo of explosions. Inside, the bunker was pristine—clean walls, stocked shelves, working lights. Impossible. She checked her watch. 12:03. She walked deeper inside. A table had been set with food. Fresh food. Steam curled from a bowl of soup. Mara frowned. “Hello?” No answer. She sat, hesitated, then took a bite. Warm. Perfect. Relief washed over her. Maybe—just maybe—it really was safe. A loud bang shook the bunker. She flinched. Another explosion. She checked her watch. 12:03. Her breath caught. “No,” she whispered. The sound came again—the same explosion, the same vibration through the walls. She looked at the soup. Still steaming. Untouched. Her chair scraped the floor in the exact same way. The bunker wasn’t protecting her from the war. It was trapping her in a single moment of it. Forever. Safe. Unchanging. Unending. She staggered back toward the door, but it wouldn’t open. It didn’t need to. Nothing ever left. Nothing ever changed. In the end, the fire alarm worked perfectly; it just warned the wrong people.