(Etienne's point of view)
He woke to the same small sound that had become a metronome these last days: the soft, almost apologetic buzz of Isobel's phone where it lay on the bedside table. It was a harmless sound, the sort that used to mean nothing more than a text about groceries or the delivery window for a new kettle. Now it carried the gravity of someone else's appetite for spectacle.
For a moment he let himself lie still and listen to it—Isobel breathing, the old house settling, a car passing on the street with tires that whispered over the tram tracks. He felt the weight of the suit Sophie had pushed into his hands the day before, as if fabric could be more than fabric: an object given the obligation of armor. He put his feet on the floor and the house took the small inventory of him, the familiar noise of belt buckles and the distant shuffle of paper from downstairs where Marcus was already awake and organizing.
