The first thing Lyra noticed about the "Reset" London was the smell. It didn't smell of ozone, burnt data, or the copper tang of vampire blood. It smelled of damp pavement, cheap coffee, and exhaust fumes. It was a normal Tuesday morning, and for everyone else, the sky had never turned violet. The Palace of Agony was a dream she alone was cursed to carry.
She stood on the corner of a street she recognized the intersection near the Soho warehouse. But the warehouse wasn't a ruin; it was a functioning tech-startup office, its windows gleaming with corporate efficiency. Lyra felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
