The silence of early morning wrapped the city in a hush that felt expectant. Mist clung low over the pavement, curling around streetlamps and half-lit signs like something alive. Zephany stood on the edge of the rooftop garden just above their unit, hoodie pulled over her head, a steaming mug of tea warming her hands. Kendrick hadn't woken yet. He'd fallen asleep beside her sometime after midnight, his head resting against her shoulder while she read aloud from a strange, outdated novel she found on the community bookshelf.
They'd been living like this—quietly, almost tenderly—for several days. There were no missions. No codes. No briefings. But under that quiet was a low, consistent thrum of tension neither dared name.
Zephany sipped her tea and watched the pale light spread over the skyline. She should've felt relaxed. Safe, even. But her instincts hadn't dulled. They'd sharpened. She could feel something moving on the periphery of their world. A presence. A shift.
