London was no longer just a city gripped by the supernatural tyranny of a single Enforcer. It had become a palimpsest, a chaotic scroll where history was bleeding through the thin vellum of the present. The black, thorny vines of Tyranny still choked the streets, but now they snaked around flickering, half-substantial phantoms.
James, the banker who had witnessed the initial fall from his skyscraper, now huddled in the shell of a Starbucks, watching the street through a cracked window. The scene outside defied logic. A double-decker bus, frozen dead on the street since the event began, was now transparent. Through its ghostly form, James could see a regiment of Roman soldiers marching down the same thoroughfare, their sandaled feet making no sound on the modern asphalt, their spectral forms passing through the frozen vehicles. The air thrummed with the disjointed echoes of Latin commands and the distant, ever-present hum of the Enforcer's power.
