The message hit while Kael was counting seconds between sirens.
He leaned against a damp brick wall halfway down an alley, hood up, hands jammed in his pockets so the static in his fingers had fewer excuses.
Twelve‑Lower vibrated around him.
Not from power.
From nerves.
Sirens rose and fell somewhere toward the transit sector, short bursts like someone testing a throat.
He'd been timing them out of habit.
Seven minutes.
Nine.
Four.
Too irregular to be drills.
His band buzzed.
He didn't have to look to know who it was.
Only one contact used punctuation like tactical shrapnel.
If you're staying in Twelve‑Lower tonight, don't be alone.
Kael read it twice.
Staying.
Like Aiden already knew he wasn't going anywhere.
He huffed a breath that might, if you were generous, count as a laugh.
"Define alone," he muttered.
Technically, he was surrounded.
