For eleven days, Baker Street held off the municipal machine through sheer stubborn silence, flour dust, and fresh sourdough.
Tessa counted every household still fed by the bakery before the council could call its closure an efficient adjustment.
The narrow cobblestone avenue was the last corner of the metropolis where bread was baked by human hands rather than central decree.
Now, the compulsory network marched down the avenue to crush the solitary rebellious street once and for all.
At the head of the four hundred puppet citizens stood the bakers' own relatives, shop assistants, and lifelong neighbors.
The hive mind selected familiar faces with clinical, bureaucratic cruelty, placing everyday family members at the forefront of the assault.
Tessa stood squarely before the roaring brick oven door, her forearms caked in white flour as she planted her stance.
