The mess hall stayed frozen long after the screen cut away.
Someone sniffled. Someone else whispered, "Is it falling?" in a thin voice as the portal bled with slow crimson wisps . The steel plate that had clanged against the floor lay where it had landed, curry smearing in a slow slide.
Rael realised only then that he was still gripping the edge of the bench. His fingers had gone numb.
On the TV, the studio lights looked too bright. The newsreader's mouth moved, but his eyes kept darting to something off‑camera.
"—we, ah, apologise for the interruption," he was saying. "You just witnessed live footage from the anomaly site east of Sunview. We are now waiting for an official statement from the Municipal Safety Office and Defence Command. Please remain tuned to this channel."
Remain tuned, Rael thought. As if anyone could look away now.
Beside him, Miko's hand inched toward his sleeve, then stopped halfway. Teren's leg bounced against Rael's under the bench, a small, constant vibration.
At the front, Nyla put the ladle down very carefully.
"Everyone keep eating," she said. Her voice was steady, but she had to swallow once before it came out. "Sitting and staring at a blank screen won't help your stomach."
No one moved.
"Lian," she said quietly.
Lian seemed to wake up.
"spoon to mouths," she ordered, clapping twice. "We listen and we chew. No one faints from hunger while the sky makes drama."
That got a few weak laughs. It also got spoons moving again.
Rael forced his fingers to unclench. He picked up his plate, though the curry might as well have been cardboard now.
On the screen, the newsreader lifted his hand to his earpiece.
"We are now going live to Administrator Jera from the Sunview City Authority," he said. "Please listen carefully to the following advisory."
The logo flashed—SUNVIEW CITY AUTHORITY—and then Jera appeared.
She looked much the same as in posters: hair pulled back, pale jacket, straight shoulders. Only her eyes were different. They were sharper, as if someone had switched their focus from "campaign" to "fire."
"Citizens of Sunview," she said, and the mess hall fell silent again aside from the smaller kids still making ruckus.
"For the last three days, Defence Command and scientific personnel have monitored the spatial crack above the eastern agricultural belt. This morning, as you have seen, the anomaly underwent a change. It has stabilised into what experts are calling a portal."
She did not look like she enjoyed saying the word.
"The portal is currently stationary," she continued. "There has been no recorded change in local surrounding, pressure, or radiation levels. Instruments show no confirmed chemical release in the surrounding air."
No confirmed, Rael thought. Not none.
"However," Jera said, "as a precaution, we are implementing additional safety measures. Effective immediately: all schools in Sunview will remain closed until further notice. Citizens are advised to stay indoors as much as possible and avoid unnecessary travel, especially toward the eastern belt."
A murmur ran through the kids, then died under Lian's raised hand.
"Further," Jera said, "we request all residents to close windows, doors, and external vents. Where possible, seal gaps around windows with cloth, tape, or plastic. This is to minimise any unknown risk from air near the portal zone. Do not gather on rooftops or balconies to watch the phenomenon. Observations will be conducted by authorised personnel."
"Please treat this as a serious precaution, not as a reason to panic. Defence Command has established a secure perimeter around the portal. Our forces are trained; we have rehearsed for emergencies. We ask you to cooperate fully with instructions. In return, we will keep you informed."
Her gaze held steady on the camera for one heartbeat longer.
"Stay indoors. Stay calm. Look after each other. That is all."
The feed flipped back to the studio. The newsreader started repeating the advisory in slower, calmer words.
In the mess hall, the kids erupted into overlapping noise.
"What's a portal?"
"Can we see it from the roof?"
"She said not to go to roofs, stupid—"
"Will they show it again?"
Lian's whistle cut through all of it, a shrill, piercing note.
"Enough," she said. "Finish what's on your plates. Then we start taping."
"Taping?" someone echoed.
"Windows," she said. "In case you weren't listening. Cloth and plastic on all outside windows, vents, and gaps we can reach."
"But isn't that for dust storms?" Jarel said. "Or gas leaks?"
"Yes," Lian said. "And now for this. Mirra can give you detailed notes later. For now, you listen to me."
She looked over at Nyla. They exchanged a tight, wordless nod.
"Older boys, you're on plastic and tape upstairs," Nyla said. "Teren, Rael, Jarel to Havel's group. Younger ones stay downstairs, away from windows. Miko, you keep Nori and the others at the back. Anyone who goes near glass without permission gets washroom duty for a week."
That got more reaction than the portal.
Rael realised his plate was empty. He didn't remember finishing it.
He set it aside and wiped his hands mechanically on the edge of his shirt.
"Come," Lian said, beckoning to him and Teren. "Storeroom."
They followed her down the corridor.
The storeroom was narrow, packed with shelves of supplies: sacks of rice and flour, stacks of dented pots, boxes of soap. In one corner, rolls of plastic sheeting leaned against the wall, a little dusty at the edges. Tape sat in a basket beneath them.
"We saved these for bad dust days," Nyla said, already tugging one roll free. "Seems we get a different kind of bad instead."
She handed Rael a roll of tape and a folded length of plastic sheet.
"You know what to do?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Third floor first," she said. "Big windows in the corridor, then dorms. Do the best you can."
Teren took another roll, making a face.
"Why always me for boring jobs?" he muttered.
"Because you have hands," Nyla said. "Go. And don't race on the stairs."
The stairwell felt narrower than usual, the concrete pressing in. Rael's legs weighted heavier with each step.
By the time they reached the third floor, his thighs burned in anxiety, heart pounding a little too fast.
"Which one first?" Teren puffed.
"End window," Rael said. "Check latches before the tape."
The corridor was lit by three tall windows that opened outward. Morning light spilled over the floor in thick rectangles. Dust floated in the beams.
Rael set the plastic down, flipped the metal latch, and pulled the first window fully closed. The frame shuddered, glass rattling a little in its seat.
It was old glass—slightly warped, dotted with tiny bubbles. He pressed his palm against it for a second.
Through the distortion, he could see the slice of city between buildings: roofs, a few trees, and, if he craned just right, a pale line of sky near the horizon. The crack itself was out of sight from here. That felt unfairly merciful.
Teren hovered beside him, tape hanging from one hand.
"You think this helps?" Teren asked.
"Helps what?" Rael said.
"Keeping… whatever that is… out," Teren said.
He'd meant to say something brisk and confident, the way others did on news: it's just a precaution, nothing will come this far, the experts know. The words jammed in his throat.
Instead he said, "It can't hurt."
He tore a strip of tape free. The adhesive tugged at his skin as he pressed it down along the seam where glass met wall. Another strip went at an angle, then another, building a crude X.
"Like for earthquakes on TV," Teren said.
"Yeah," Rael said. "Except this one starts in the sky."
They worked in silence for a while.
At the second window, Kesh appeared, breathless.
"Lian said to give these," he said, dropping a bundle of folded cloth on the floor. "Extra stuffing."
"For what?" Teren asked.
"In case glass breaks," Kesh said. "She said we can tuck cloth in the bottom gaps."
He looked at the taped glass, then out at the thin slice of sky.
"Is it dangerous?" Kesh asked quietly. "The crack?"
"They wouldn't close schools if it was safe," Teren said before Rael could answer. "But it's far. And they have soldiers there now. You saw on TV."
Kesh chewed his lip.
"On the way back, Havel said it's just drama for the big cities," he said. "That nothing real happens in places like ours."
"Yeah, well," Teren said, tearing tape with unnecessary force, "then the sky picked a bad day to prove him wrong."
Rael taped another seam and weighed his words.
Kesh's eyes widened. "We're not going to die, right?"
Rael swallowed.
"If they thought the world was ending today," he said, "they wouldn't be bothering with tape and windows. They'd be running too."
It wasn't exactly comforting, but Kesh nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "I'll help with the cloth."
He knelt and started tucking folded pieces along the window sills, hands only shaking a little.
By the time they finished the third window, the corridor felt dimmer. The plastic took some shine off the light, muting the outside world.
"Next floor," Rael said.
His palms were sticky from tape. The residual smell of adhesive followed them down the stairs.
On the second floor, the younger dorms had smaller windows. Teren and Kesh worked on one side while Rael tackled the other. Voices floated up from the common room below: Nyla telling kids to sit away from glass, the TV's commentators repeating Jera's words with slower emphasis.
Back on the ground floor, Lian inspected their work with a critical eye.
"Good enough," she said. "We'll add more later if needed. Upstairs, no one opens these unless I say."
She raised her voice.
"That means you too, Haru!" she called toward the stairwell. "If I catch you peeling tape to peek, I will tape your mouth next."
"Yes, Lian!" came a faint protest.
She turned to Rael.
"Go wash your hands," she said more gently. "Then come to the common room."
By the time Rael reached the common room, almost every child old enough to sit upright had claimed a spot on the floor. The younger ones were corralled toward the back, Nori perched on Vira's lap with a thumb stuck steadfastly in her mouth.
The TV had been moved to a lower shelf so more could see. The volume was up just enough to be clear over the rustle of bodies.
"—these are live images from the eastern agricultural belt," the reporter was saying. It was the same one from the morning, now wearing a helmet and a fluorescent vest. Her voice wobbled once and then steadied. "As you can see behind me, Defence Command has established multiple lines of barricades and checkpoints."
The camera pulled back.
The portal hung in the sky, black and wrong.
Even through the TV's limited resolution, the shape made Rael's skin crawl. It wasn't quite oval, not quite any neat geometry. Edges jagged, rim glowing in a steady not‑sunlight that hurt his eyes if he stared too long.
Below it, the fields had turned into a grid of roads and makeshift walls. Metal barriers. Stacked concrete blocks. Vehicles parked in partial circles—trucks, armoured carriers, things with bigger guns mounted on top. Tiny figures in armour moved between them, setting up coils of wire, checking positions.
Text scrolled along the bottom of the screen:
SECURITY PERIMETER AROUND SUNVIEW PORTAL – LIVE
"Units from neighbouring sectors have been redeployed here," the reporter said. "Officials describe this as a precautionary measure to ensure nothing from the portal can approach populated areas."
"Nothing from the portal," someone repeated under their breath.
"Shh," Nyla said.
"At this time," the reporter continued, "experts still emphasise that there is no detectable radiation or chemical hazard from the portal. However, as Administrator Jera said, authorities prefer to remain on the side of caution."
The camera cut to a higher angle, likely from a drone or tall building.
From up there, the line of soldiers looked like beads on string. The portal, framed above them, looked big enough to swallow a stadium constantly spewing crimson wisps.
Behind Rael, a younger boy whispered, "Is it… sucking the sky?"
Another child hushed him.
"The portal has remained stable since the change you saw live earlier," the commentator in the studio said. "Defence Command states that, should any physical material emerge, they are prepared to respond immediately."
Prepared, Rael thought. Like the math test they gave without covering half the syllabus.
He watched the patterns.
Soldiers in the front line knelt or stood at regular intervals, rifles angled upward. Behind them, heavier guns sat on tripods, operators scanning the sky. Further back, armoured vehicles waited, engines idling like coiled insects.
Someone had thought about this. Had brought out every doctrine about perimeter defence and adapted it on the fly.,
His heart rate dropped a notch.
"See?" Teren muttered. "They're ready."
Rael was about to answer when something fell out of the portal.
It was small—no bigger than a person—and dropped fast. For a second it could have been debris, or a large rock, or a clump of soil torn from some other world.
Then it hit the ground.
Dust puffed up. The shape lay there, dark against the lighter earth.
"Hold your fire," someone shouted off‑screen.
The cameras zoomed in.
The shape moved.
What had looked like a formless mass split into limbs — too many joints, bending the wrong way. A wedge-shaped head uncurled, a seam cracking open to reveal rows of teeth, faint crimson wisps leaking from its body like steam.
Rael heard someone gag behind him.
The thing shook itself once like an animal waking.
Then it turned toward the nearest line of soldiers and ran.
"Open fire!" a voice yelled.
Rifles snapped in almost perfect unison.
The sound came through the television in stuttering bursts, popping against the thin walls of the common room. Bright flashes dotted the front line.
The creature jerked mid‑stride. Its forelimbs flailed; its back legs kept running two more steps on their own. It tumbled, rolled, and ended up a twisting knot.
For a heartbeat, everything held.
Then another shape dropped out of the portal.
And another.
And five at once, hitting like scattered stones.
"Multiple entities emerging," the reporter said, breathless. "Defence Command is—"
Her words blurred as heavier gunfire roared from the second line. Tracer rounds carved glowing paths through the air, arcing toward the cluster of wrong shapes now scrambling over each other.
Some fell and stayed down. One hit a coil of wire and got tangled, thrashing. Another slammed into a concrete block and used it as a stepping stone, launching itself toward the barrier.
The camera struggled to keep up.
"Stay behind the line!" someone shouted.
"Why are they so fast?" Miko whispered.
Rael didn't have an answer. His hands had found the fabric of his pants and twisted tight.
On screen, one of the things—a lean, long‑limbed one with plates along its sides—reached the barrier. Bullets punched into its torso, throwing shards. It still got a paw on the metal and hauled its front half up.
A soldier stepped forward, almost too close, and fired three rounds straight into the wedge‑head. The creature's body spasmed. It toppled backward, crashing onto its own kind.
A cheer went up in the orphanage room before anyone could stop it.
Nyla hissed, "Quiet," but she didn't sound angry.
The camera panned.
The field beneath the portal was a moving mess now—dark bodies leaping, falling, crawling. Smoke from grenades curled around them. The rim‑light painted everything in hard edges.
The commentator kept talking over it, saying words like "initial engagement" and "sector engagement" and "no breach reported." His voice came from far away.
Rael watched patterns again.
The things moved in sprints, no coordination beyond a single direction: out. The soldiers, for all their obvious fear, held lines. They shifted fire when needed. They dragged wounded back without collapsing completely.
Someone had rehearsed enough to keep panic from fracturing the whole wall.
"See?" Teren said again, softer this time. "They can kill them."
Rael nodded, but his throat felt tight.
The first time he had truly noticed a war on his old world's news, the footage had been shaky like this—cameras ducking, voices too loud or too soft. Back then, he had watched from a worn sofa, half interested, half numb. The explosions might as well have been sound effects.
Now, a portal that did not exist a few days ago hung over the same town that held his bed.
Distance had become much smaller.
The on‑screen fighting dragged on for long minutes, adrenaline stretching them thin. Gradually, the number of moving shapes dwindled. The pace of gunfire slowed. Smoke cleared enough to show bodies—some already dissolving into sludge, others broken in multiple places.
"Defence Command reports that all detected entities have been neutralised," the anchor said once they cut back to the studio. "There has been no movement beyond the established perimeter toward Sunview. Casualty numbers are being verified. Officials reiterate that citizens should remain indoors and follow safety advisories."
Neutralised, Rael thought.
A weight he hadn't noticed pressing on his shoulders let up slightly. Around him, kids began talking again, voices high and bright with the aftertaste of fear.
"They looked so weird!"
"Did you see that one jump?"
"The soldiers were cool—"
"Enough," Nyla said. She stepped forward and muted the TV. The room quieted almost out of habit.
"You saw what you needed to see," she said. "Now you listen to us."
Lian joined her, gaze sweeping the room.
"From today," Lian said, "we treat this building as if a bad storm is blowing outside. That means certain rules."
Groans rose automatically.
She raised a hand.
"One," she said. "No one opens a window without permission. Not to look, not to feel fresh air, not for anything. If you feel stuffy, you come tell me or Nyla ."
"Two. No one goes to the roof. At all. The roof is closed until further notice. Anyone who tries will find out how far my slipper can fly."
A few kids laughed weakly.
"Three," she went on. "At night we will sleep in the two inner common rooms. You may bring your pillow and one blanket. Not your whole trunk. We want everyone away from outer walls and from glass. Understood?"
A rumble of "Yes" swept the room.
"Say it louder," she said.
"Yes!"
"Good," Lian said. Some of the hardness left her face. "Now eat your food if you haven't finished. After that we move mattresses. If we must live with a hole in the sky, we will at least do it with proper bedding."
It wasn't much of a joke, but it earned a few smiles.
Rael felt his own lips twitch.
He glanced once more at the muted TV, where a still image of the portal hung above a scrolling line of text.
Then he stood up with the others, ready to turn Dawnrise into a place that could pretend to be safe for one more night
Mattresses turned Dawnrise into a maze.
The older boys hauled them out of dorms in pairs, grunting under the weight. Foam and cloth brushed doorframes, left faint streaks on walls already tired from years of kiddy torture.
"Careful with the edges," Nyla scolded. "If you tear the covers, you sew them yourself."
"Then give us needles now," Teren muttered as he and Rael rounded a corner with one lumpy mattress. "Save time."
Rael snorted despite himself.
They laid the mattresses side by side in the two inner common rooms—the ones without direct windows, only narrow vents high up near the ceiling. Lian pointed with a rolled‑up blanket like a general arranging troops.
"Little ones in the middle," she said. "Older ones along the walls. Leave a path for us to walk through. I don't want to step on anyone's head during the night."
"What if the monsters come here?" one tiny boy asked, clutching his pillow.
"What monsters?" Lian said briskly. "The only monsters here are those who don't bath properly"
A wave of giggles smoothed the jittery edge in the room.
Rael spread his own mattress against the far wall, near the door. Miko quickly dragged his smaller one over until their edges touched.
"You don't mind, right?" Miko asked, already half in place.
"No," Rael said. If anything, the warmth of another presence at his side made the room feel less cavernous.
Teren dropped his mattress on Rael's other side.
"Protection fee," Teren declared. "You get one fearless bodyguard for the low price of listening to my jokes."
"Refund," Rael said automatically.
"Too late. No returns."
They bickered lightly while Nyla walked between rows, checking that everyone had a blanket and at least a pillow.
By the time evening crept in, the outer rooms felt deserted. Only the occasional Mavel passing through to fetch something from a cupboard or check the taped windows.
The common room lights dimmed to a softer yellow. The TV stayed on in one corner, volume low enough that you had to listen to catch the words.
"…Defence Command spokesman says the situation is 'under control'…"
"…no sign of further emergence since the initial entities were neutralised…"
"…residents urged not to spread unverified rumours…"
Rumours didn't need help. They grew on their own.
"It was aliens," someone whispered. " i am telling you."
"Idiot, aliens don't look like that."
"How do you know? Have you met one?"
Rael let the familiar chatter wash over him. He lay on his side, propped on an elbow, watching Nori droop against Vira's chest in the next row. Even toddlers had stopped bouncing now. Exhaustion did what lectures couldn't.
His own tiredness lurked in the background, overshadowed by nerves.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the portal's black mouth hanging over bright fields.
Lian clapped once.
"All right," she said. "Quiet now. Little ones sleep. Older ones talk soft if you must. No shouting, no sudden running. If you need toilet, wake the person next to you so they know where you went. If anyone dreams loud enough to scare others, I'll make you tell us the dream in the morning while we laugh."
A few kids protested weakly.
She smiled, tired but real.
"We're inside," she said. "The roof is above us, the walls are around us, the windows are taped. The soldiers are out there doing their job. Ours is to rest and not make it harder. Got it?"
"Got it," the room echoed, uneven but sincere.
Lights clicked lower. The hum of the ceiling fan and the faint buzz of the TV settled into background noise. Outside, distant sirens rose and faded, more muted than earlier.
Rael lay back fully. The ceiling here had no long crack to trace, just a few smaller hairlines like spiderwebs.
Miko shifted closer until their shoulders touched.
"You awake?" Miko whispered.
"For now," Rael said.
"Do you think school will open again soon?"
Rael stared at the dark shape of the ceiling.
"I don't know," he said.
"They won't cancel the exams, right?"
Of all things to cling to, Rael thought.
"They'll probably delay them," he said. "Teachers love giving exams too much to throw them away."
Miko made a small distressed noise that might have been a laugh.
Silence stretched.
On TV, a panel of experts argued quietly about whether the cracks were "alien invasion" or " thousand rivers retribution ." The words chased each other in circles.
Rael's eyelids grew heavy.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been drifting when a weight landed on his chest.
He jerked, breath jolting out of him.
"Sorry," a tiny voice gasped.
He blinked down.
A small figure had scrambled half onto his mattress and then froze—one of the youngest boys, too big to be carried all day but still small enough that his head barely reached Rael's shoulder when standing.
"Ren?" Rael said, recognising him in the dimness.
Ren's lower lip trembled.
"I—I thought the floor opened," Ren whispered. "In my dream. And everyone fell, and the sky was underneath, and—"
His voice broke.
Rael's own chest tightened.
"It was a dream," he said, keeping his voice level. "Look. Floor's still here. Completely boring."
He thumped the concrete lightly with his heel. The solid sound seemed to reassure Ren a little.
"But the sky… it was wrong," Ren whispered. "It's wrong even when I close my eyes."
Rael understood that too well.
" come over," he said, scooting to make space. "lie with me."
Ren made a strangled half‑laugh and wriggled so he was lying between Rael and Miko, curled small. His hands still shook.
"Are you scared?" Ren asked after a moment.
"Yes," Rael said.
Ren blinked at him, wide‑eyed.
"You don't look scared," he said.
"That's because I'm older," Rael said. "Older people pretend better. It fools the little ones so they don't get more scared."
Ren considered this.
"So you pretend for us?"
"Something like that," Rael said. "Also for me."
"How?"
"By doing things," Rael said. "Like helping with tape. Carrying plates. Arguing about homework. If your hands are busy, your head has less time to make monsters bigger."
Ren mulled that over.
"What if there really are monsters?" he asked.
"Then the soldiers we saw will shoot them again," Rael said. "Did you see how fast they were? They're not going to pack up and go home because the portal looked at them funny."
Ren snorted a little.
"And we're here," Rael added. "Inside. With Lian and Nyla and everyone. If something bad happens, they'll shout at it until it runs away."
That actually made Ren smile in the dark.
"Lian's shout is very loud," he agreed.
"Exactly. Terrifying," Rael said.
Ren's breathing slowed. His weight settled more evenly between them.
On Rael's other side, Teren muttered, half asleep, "Tell the portal Lian's coming, it will close itself."
Miko stifled a laugh in her blanket.
The knot in Rael's chest loosened a little.
He lay there, staring at the patch of ceiling above them. Tiny cracks branched there too, thinner than the one in the dorm, like a map of roads leading nowhere.
The news droned on.
"…Defence Command reiterates that there has been no spread beyond the containment zone…"
"…international observers express concern over the world wide invasion of these creatures …"
In his old life, Rael would have watched such coverage in anime from a couch, phone in hand, while eating something half stale. He would have clucked his tongue at stupidity somewhere else and then gone back to worrying about rent.
This time, the place on the screen was the same town written on his school ID. The soldiers had walked on roads he might have taken on a school picnic, if the year had been normal.
The distance between "news" and "home" had collapsed like a bridge pulled in from both ends.
"Rael?" Miko whispered softly, so as not to wake Ren.
"Hm?"
"If… if it gets worse," Miko said, "will they move us?"
"Like the people on TV," she added hastily. "In buses."
Rael hesitated.
He pictured Dawnrise kids in a line with bags, climbing into buses with destination boards that just said SHELTER. He pictured the building standing empty, crack hanging in the distant sky.
"I don't know," he said.
"But if they do," he added, "we'll go together. You, me, Teren, everyone. They won't leave kids behind."
"You sure?" Miko asked.
"No," Rael said. "But I think Lian would bite anyone who tried."
That earned another muffled laugh.
Silence settled again, heavier but not crushing.
Ren's breathing had deepened into little huffs. On the other side, Teren had started his signature snore—oddly comforting, a stupid, human noise that no portal could erase.
Rael let his own attention drift.
He thought of his first life—the way he'd let days accumulate like dust, one on top of another, until they blurred. Nothing truly huge had ever cracked open above his city. There had been crises, yes, but always buffered by distance and screens.
Here, the sky had split like a fault line. The world had changed in four days so much that governments and wardens and children all had the same instruction: stay inside, wait, trust that someone knew what they were doing.
He didn't trust that, not completely.
But he trusted that people would keep trying, because most had no other choice.
He trusted that Lian would keep shouting, that Nyla would keep checking the TV and the stock room, that Mavel would hound whatever official he could reach if school stayed closed too long.
He trusted that soldiers who had already stood in a line under a bleeding sky would not simply walk away from it.
And, strangely, he trusted himself a little more than before.
Not with grand things. Not with saving the city or solving the portal. Just with noticing, with speaking when it mattered, with keeping one small corner of this building a little steadier.
It wasn't nothing.
The thought felt almost fragile.
He held onto it anyway as his eyelids finally grew too heavy to keep open.
Outside, somewhere beyond taped glass and concrete walls, the portals hung above fields and fortifications all over the world, black against a sky that no longer looked fully familiar. Engines idled. Guards took shifts. Scientists argued over readings that didn't fit their charts.
Later, the world would give this day a name — The Day of Cracked Ascension.
Inside Dawnrise, 40 something children slept in two crowded rooms, breaths rising and falling in a ragged chorus.
Rael drifted down into sleep with them, the weight of Ren's warmth on one side and the scratch of Teren's snore on the other, and a single, stubborn certainty in his chest:
The sky might have opened, but this was still his life.
Whatever came next, he would meet it from here, under this cracked ceiling, with these people.
For now, that would have to be enough.