The city pretended nothing had happened.
Morning traffic crawled, vendors shouted, coffee steamed from chipped cups. Somewhere, music played too loud and too cheerfully for a world that had almost cracked open the night before. Ash had settled into the gutters like fine gray snow, already trampled and forgotten.
But inside Matthew's compound, nothing felt normal.
Aiden woke to the sound of his own breathing.
Too loud. Too fast.
He lay still, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks he didn't remember being there. The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and burnt wiring—a scent that dragged him backward into smoke and hands and Kieran's voice sliding under his skin like a blade.
Come with me.
Aiden squeezed his eyes shut.
"No," he whispered, though no one was there.
