…what would she need?

That question became Sasha’s lifeline.

She no longer looked at the nursery as just her baby’s room. Now it was a puzzle—one Britt had left behind. Sasha combed through every detail. Behind the wallpaper near the crib, she found faint indentations—numbers. Coordinates, maybe? A date? She copied them down.

When she showed them to Michael, he blinked in surprise.
“Those look like GPS coordinates.”
He ran them through a map. The location? A remote cabin outside Port Charles—abandoned, supposedly burned in a fire years ago.

They left that night.

The drive was silent. Sasha clutched the stuffed giraffe in her lap like a talisman. Her instincts warred with fear, hope, and something deeper—a grim certainty that the nightmare hadn’t ended. It had just gone underground.

They reached the cabin by dawn. The air was dense with pine and tension. The structure was mostly intact, though its windows were boarded. Michael kicked the door open. Dust. Silence.

Then… a cry. Muffled. But unmistakable.

“Daisy,” Sasha whispered.

They ran toward the sound, following it to a hidden basement door. Sasha didn’t hesitate—she tore the boards away, and Michael forced it open.

The stairs creaked with each step into the dark. At the bottom, lit by a single overhead bulb, was a makeshift nursery. Clean. Stocked. And in the crib—was Daisy.

Alive.

Sasha collapsed to her knees, sobbing as she scooped her daughter into her arms. But the reunion was cut short. Behind them, a door clicked shut.

Michael spun around. A figure stood in the doorway.

Britt.

Or at least—someone who looked like Britt. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Not quite right.

“Don’t scream,” she said softly. “She’s safe.”

Sasha held Daisy tighter. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Britt blinked, confused. “I didn’t want to. But he made me.”

“Who?” Michael demanded. “Who made you?”

Britt shook her head slowly. “He’s been watching all of us for years. He wants Daisy. For something… I don’t know what. I couldn’t stop him. I tried.”

Michael stepped forward. “Where is he?”

Before Britt could answer, a voice crackled through a speaker overhead. Deep. Distorted.

“You’ve come far enough.”

Lights blared. A second door burst open. Men in masks rushed in.

Michael lunged, punching one. Sasha shielded Daisy. In the chaos, Britt shoved Sasha aside—protectively—and screamed, “GO!”

Sasha ran, clutching her baby, heart racing. She didn’t look back until she was outside. Michael followed seconds later, bloody but standing. Sirens echoed in the distance. Somehow, someone had called for help.

The men were gone when police arrived. The basement was empty—no Britt. No masked intruders. Just a crib, a camera rig, and a message scrawled on the wall in red:

“This is only the beginning.”

Back at the hospital, Daisy was declared healthy. Unharmed. But something in Sasha had changed. She was no longer just grieving. She was furious.

Michael held her hand in the waiting room. “We got her back,” he whispered.

But Sasha stared at the wall, jaw set.
“No,” she said. “We got her this time.”

And somewhere, in the shadows of Port Charles, someone watched the footage again. Smiling.