The explosion didn't sound like a bomb. It felt like a choir taking a sudden, collective breath.
From the roof of the crumbling Old Main Post Office, a pillar of multicolored light shot straight into the clouds. It punched a hole in the overcast night sky, and for the first time in a decade, the stars over Chicago were hidden. They were overshadowed by the magic falling back down.
Silas, Isobel, and Jax stumbled out of the service tunnel near Clinton Street. They were covered in concrete dust, hydraulic fluid, and ectoplasm.
Jax collapsed onto a bench, gasping for breath. He looked up.
"It's snowing," Jax wheezed.
It wasn't snow. It was sparks. Tiny blue, green, and gold lights drifted down from the sky, swirling in the wind, searching for something to cling to.
"The containment field is shattered," Silas said, checking a cracked gauge on his wrist. "The energy readings are increasing. 300% above normal levels. The city is hyper-saturated."
Isobel leaned against a brick wall, watching a flake of green light land on the pavement. Instead of melting, it caused a dandelion to spring up from a crack in the concrete, bloom, wither, and die in three seconds.
"The balance is gone," Isobel whispered. "We didn't just open the cage, Silas. We broke the zoo."
Belmont Station, "The Third Rail" Arcade
Leo Calzone sat on the floor, staring at the blank screen of a pinball machine. He felt nothing. He just waited for the shop to close so he could go home and sit in a dark room until morning.
Then, a blue mote of light drifted through the open door.
It bobbed in the air like a firefly, buzzing with a sound Leo hadn't heard in days.
Zzzzt.
Leo looked up. His eyes widened.
The mote zipped toward him. It didn't ask for permission. It crashed into his chest.
Leo gasped, arching his back. It felt like being revived. The cold, grey silence in his head shattered. The static rushed back—the hum of the refrigerator, the vibration of the Red Line trains overhead, the friction of his sneakers on the carpet.
"Whoa," Leo said.
He looked at his hand and snapped his fingers.
CRACK.
A bolt of blue lightning, the size of a flare, shot from his thumb, arcing across the room and striking the pinball machine. The machine lit up, every bumper and flipper going wild. MULTI-BALL! it screamed.
Leo laughed. He jumped to his feet, feeling the energy flow through him. He ran to the door and looked out at the street.
All up and down Belmont Avenue, lights flickered. People stumbled out of bars and apartments, examining their hands and gazing at the sky. A woman near the bus stop sneezed, and the streetlamp above her exploded into a cloud of butterflies. A construction worker touched a pothole, and the asphalt mended itself with a groan.
The city wasn't just awake. It was alive.
The Old Main Post Office, Sub-Basement
The fires still burned. The building was unstable.
Agent Thorne walked through the wreckage of the Archive. The floor was littered with broken glass and pools of inert Nullifier fluid.
Sonder crawled out from under a collapsed desk, bleeding from a cut on his forehead.
"Sir," Sonder coughed. "The Asset is destroyed. The Archive is vented. We failed. The infection is airborne. It's a pandemic."
Thorne stopped at the edge of the hole where the Asset had been. He looked up at the column of light shooting into the sky.
He took his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked, but it worked.
"We did not fail, Sonder," Thorne said, his voice unnervingly calm. "We simply completed Phase One."
"Phase One?"
"Identification," Thorne said. "We forced them to reveal themselves. We forced them to escalate. Now we have proof."
Thorne dialed a number.
"This is Director Thorne. Authorization Code: Zero-Zero-Silence."
He paused to listen to the voice on the other end.
"Yes. The containment at the Chicago facility has been breached by domestic terrorists using paranatural weapons. The city is compromised. The local government is involved."
Thorne looked at Sonder. His eyes were cold and hard.
"Initiate Protocol: Quarantine," Thorne ordered into the phone. "I want the National Guard ready to move. I want the bridges raised. I want the highways closed. No one comes in. No one goes out."
He hung up.
"Sir?" Sonder asked. "What are we doing?"
"We aren't monitoring them anymore, Agent," Thorne said, stepping over a piece of shattered white polymer. "We are declaring war. If we cannot save the city, we will cut it off from the world. Let them choke on their magic."
The Water Tower, The Council Chamber
The three leaders stood on the catwalk, watching the chaos unfold.
The city was both beautiful and frightening. Sirens wailed in the distance, mixing with the random bangs of fireworks and surges of uncontrolled magic. The "Masquerade," the rule that kept magic hidden, was gone. You couldn't cover up a sky full of glowing rain.
"They know," Jax said, cradling his broken arm. "The whole world knows."
"The Bureau won't back down," Silas predicted. "They are logical extremists. If they cannot control something, they isolate it. They will lay siege to us."
Isobel nodded. "I can feel the borders closing. The spirits at the city limits are turning back. They are afraid."
Silas turned to the map table. The three seals—Foundry, Hollows, Current—still burned on the surface.
"The Chicago Accords aren't enough anymore," Silas said. "We are no longer managing a secret society. We are governing a city-state."
He looked at Jax. "Your trains must carry supplies, not just passengers. We will need food. Weapons."
He looked at Isobel. "Your ghosts must become spies. We need eyes on every route into the city."
"And the Foundry?" Jax asked.
"The Foundry will build the walls," Silas said. "If Thorne wants a war, we will give him a fortress."
Jax walked to the edge of the tower. He looked down at the Magnificent Mile. He saw kids running in the street, chasing sparks. He saw fear, but also wonder.
"We started this," Jax said softly.
"No," Silas corrected, placing a heavy hand on Jax's good shoulder. "We simply refused to end."
The three of them stood together—The Alchemist, The Necromancer, and The Kinetic—watching the sun rise over a city that would never be normal again.
Below them, on the street, a graffiti artist sprayed a new tag on the side of the Water Tower. It wasn't a gang sign. It was a simple message in glowing neon paint:
MAGIC IS REAL. CHICAGO IS OURS.