The penthouse had settled into its late-morning rhythm. Autumn light came through the tall windows crisp and gold, turning the dust over the dining table into a slow galaxy. Below, the hoverlanes murmured. On the steel face of the oven, a sticky note sat like a formal decree in Reika's neat hand: Lunch at 13:00. Do not snack. —R. She'd gone to the market at nine and taken a basket the size of a small boat.
Stella had colonised the dining table. Schematics, sharpened pencils and stacks of printouts covered the oak from end to end, arranged in an order only she understood. She was swimming in one of my old Mythos Academy hoodies, grey with a faded crest, sleeves shoved past her elbows, two clips losing a slow war against her hair. Thirteen, and she had a focus that sometimes frightened me. She was hunched over a diagram, scribbling a line of working down the margin as easily as other children doodle.
