Dawn over Avalon arrived not as a gentle awakening, but as a silent, internal alarm clock ringing in the souls of eight individuals. The penthouse, usually alive with the cheerful chaos of Stella's morning projects and the comforting aroma of Reika's precisely brewed coffee, was hushed. A profound, almost solemn quiet had settled over the luxurious space, the calm before a self-imposed storm.
I stood on the balcony, the pre-dawn air a sharp, clean bite against my skin. Below, the city was a scattering of sleeping lights under a sky just beginning to bleed from black to bruised violet. The two-year clock had officially started ticking. The weight of that decision, made in the stark clarity of the Creighton conference room, felt heavier now in the quiet solitude of morning. There was no more planning, no more debating. Only the immense, daunting reality of the climb ahead.
