Part 1: The Descent into the Ice
The silence that followed the click of the intercom was heavier than the freezing air settling into Grace’s lungs.
"Derek!" she screamed, her voice cracking against the reinforced steel door. She beat her fists against it until her knuckles bled, leaving faint, smeared crimson tracks on the silver metal. "Derek, please! The babies! Think of your children!"
There was no answer. The intercom had gone dead. The only sound left in the five-by-five-meter industrial freezer was the low, aggressive hum of the cooling units overhead, blasting air that felt like liquid nitrogen at $-50^\circ\text{F}$.
Grace staggered backward, her breath coming in rapid, ragged plumes of white mist. Her thin maternity dress offered zero protection. The cardigan her husband had affectionately draped over her shoulders that morning was nothing more than an expensive shroud. Within minutes, the frost began to bite. It nipped at her bare ankles, her fingers, and the tip of her nose.
She sank to the concrete floor, but the ground was so cold it felt like sitting on a bed of needles. She immediately forced herself up, remembering a documentary she had watched about hypothermia. If you sleep, you die. If you stop moving, you die.
"Okay," she whispered, her teeth chattering so violently she nearly bit her tongue. "Okay, think. Grace, think."
She looked around the room. It was an industrial walk-in freezer used by Derek’s struggling medical supply logistics company. It was supposed to hold temperature-sensitive pharmaceuticals, but currently, it held nothing but empty metal shelving units and her.
Her hand flew to her stomach. Beneath the fabric, her twins were moving frantically. They were kicking, rolling, reacting to the sudden, violent spike of adrenaline and cortisol flooding their mother’s bloodstream.
"I’m sorry," she sobbed, tears freezing instantly on her eyelashes, sticking them together. "I’m so sorry, my loves. Mommy is going to get you out. I promise. I promise."
She approached the shelving units. If she could find a heavy metal bar, maybe she could pry open the safety release valve on the inside of the door. She dragged herself to the furthest corner, her legs already feeling heavy, like they were filled with wet sand. Her fingers were losing sensation; they looked pale, a sickly shades-of-blue tint creeping under her fingernails.
She pulled at one of the steel grates. It was bolted down. She threw her weight against it, but her pregnant body lacked the leverage. She slipped, falling hard onto her side. A sharp, blinding pain shot through her lower abdomen.
Grace gasped, clutching her belly. It wasn't just the cold anymore.
A contraction.
The terror and extreme cold had triggered early labor. She was only thirty-two weeks along. Delivering twins in a sterile, modern hospital was risky enough; delivering them in a sub-zero tomb was a death sentence.
"No, no, no," she wept, curling into a fetal position on the freezing floor, trying to use her own body heat to shield her womb. "Not now. Please, God, not now."
As the hours began to tick away, the digital clock on the wall glowing an ominous, mocking red, Grace felt her consciousness slipping. Her body, in a desperate bid to protect her core, was shutting down circulation to her limbs. She could no longer feel her feet. Her hands were stiff claws.
Three buildings away.
She remembered Derek’s words from weeks ago, complaining about his landlord and main investor. “Ethan Vance thinks he owns this entire district. He’s always watching, always lingering in that glass tower of his.”
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Ethan Vance. The billionaire tech mogul and real estate tycoon. A man Derek hated with a passion, mostly because Ethan had seen right through Derek’s charming facade from day one, refusing to bail out Derek’s mounting gambling debts.
Grace closed her eyes, the darkness pulling her under. Ethan, she thought, a final, desperate prayer floating into the void. Please look out the window.
