The city finally shut up.
Not all the way.
Distant sirens still grumbled.
Somewhere a drone sulked, humming low as it recalibrated.
But in the little room Tal called a "temporary safehouse" and Kael called "a closet with ambition," the noise dropped to a background murmur.
It was enough.
His head still rang.
His hands still hurt.
The grid's aftertaste coated his tongue—metallic, sharp, like he'd been chewing on coins.
He sat on a pile of folded blankets against the wall, back propped under a cracked window that didn't open.
Someone had shoved a crate into the space between his knees and the opposite wall.
On it: a chipped mug of water, an open med kit, and the glove Aiden hadn't given back yet.
Tal, Nia, and Rell had passed out in a tangle on the far side of the room.
Tal half on a mattress, half on the floor.
Nia sprawled with one arm over her face.
Rell curled protectively around the notebook, fingers still smeared with ink.
