The morning after Blackwell was exposed, the city woke up like it had slept through a storm and stepped outside to find half the world rearranged.
News vans still lined the streets around the government complex. Protest signs leaned against lamp posts, their cardboard edges softening in the sun. People walked slower than usual, eyes flicking to screens, to strangers, to anything that might explain what came next.
Mira stood at the window of Tamsin's café, watching it all with a cup of coffee she'd forgotten to drink.
It felt strange, being on the inside of something that now belonged to everyone.
Behind her, Leo snored softly in a chair, sprawled out like a man who had decided the revolution could continue without his conscious participation for a few hours. Moreno sat at the small table, hands wrapped around a mug, staring into the steam like it might reveal a version of the world where things were simpler.
