"Recess," Ava said. "Nearlight is taking this to Orchard. Lane stays open."
Sofia was already moving - headset lit, fingers flying. "Riverlight call sent - Silver Harbor call sent - advocate line pinned."
Security filled the doorway with calm, not bulk. "Lane on your left, Ms. Chen," the lead said. "Keep to your line."
Ava took the hand mic down from her mouth and set it in Sofia's palm. "Plain-text stays up," she said. "If anything else tries to post, it dies."
Marcus lifted his chin a degree. "Board wants five minutes before you go downstairs."
"You'll get minutes on paper," Ava said, stepping into the hall. "We're fixing customers first."
Noah rose when she moved. He touched the red at his lapel, then her left shoulder with his gaze, as if there were a horizon drawn there only he could see.
They walked. Not a parade - route. Comms staff peeled off to phones. Two security peeled on, one off. The elevator bank took them with a soft chime.
Inside the car, the world turned to brushed steel and their reflections in thin bands. Sofia held the doors with a thumb so no one else could slide in a shoulder and a smile.
"Riverlight picked up," she said, palm over her mic. "Confirmed contact - on record. Silver Harbor - on record. Both thanked us for the calls before we left the floor."
"Good," Ava said.
Marcus stepped up at the last blink and spoke through the gap. "Legal insists we delay street statements until counsel is present."
Sofia let the doors go. They closed on his patience.
Ava pressed the button for Lobby. "Counsel can meet us on Orchard," she said.
Noah stood at her right. "Spine when asked," he said, almost to himself.
"Spine when asked," she said.
The elevator slid through floors that smelled like carpet and coffee. Ava's phone buzzed. She didn't look. Not now. Walk the rule. Sofia's screen flashed - she read as if she were reading a tide chart.
"Landlord portal registered the letter," Sofia said. "Auto-reply: 'Received.' No human yet."
"We'll get the human on the sidewalk," Ava said.
The doors opened to Lobby. Air and noise rose at them like heat. Security formed a C that looked like a parenthesis. The crack in the glass held like a white thread someone had decided not to cut.
The protest chanted in a tired chorus - not ugly, not kind. FIX ASTERIA in black letters, FACES, NOT NUMBERS in red. A woman with a stroller rocked in place and didn't chant at all.
Ava lifted her palm a little - not a speech, a shape. One sentence for the room that wasn't a room.
"We froze automation at 08:17," she said. "Measure us on Orchard."
It wasn't eloquent. It didn't need to be. The sound found the phones. A chant near the doors faltered, then reassembled on the word measure, like a thing trying on a coat that fit.
They moved to the revolving doors. Security fed them through two by two - Ava and Noah, then Sofia with a runner, then a comms tech with a hand printer, then a guard with a bag that had a first aid kit and, for reasons that belonged to people who plan for weather, a roll of blue tape.
Outside, the street had decided to be a stage. Vans idled with satellites on their backs. A cyclist shouted something about billionaires and then apologized when he saw the stroller. A plain black sedan waited at the curb, back door open, driver's hands visible on the wheel like the world was a class and he'd done his homework.
Ava slid into the back seat and angled so Noah could keep eyes on her left shoulder. Sofia took the front. Security closed the door with an audible click that sounded like a choice.
"Orchard," the driver said. "Fifteen if the lights bless us."
"No one believes in blessing today," Ava said. "Take the lane that exists."
They pulled into the flow. Two press vans tailed. A third tried to leapfrog and got boxed by a bus that wasn't on anyone's payroll.
Sofia's phone did three things at once. "Customer advocate queue page live. Case ID 11-016 displayed. Plain-text pin up across channels." She twisted to look at Ava. "Do we republish when we hit Orchard?"
"We republish when the letter is read and signed," Ava said. "Not before."
Her phone buzzed again. She let it. Not now.
"Riverlight follow-up finished," Sofia said. "Silver Harbor's engineer slot booked at 14:00. Luis at Ivy Square says the flag cleared on his dashboard and he's paying his team by lunch."
"Say thank you," Ava said. "Not 'great news' - 'thank you for telling us'."
"Sent," Sofia said. "Landlord portal - still just auto 'Received'."
"Send a second message," Ava said. "Plain text. 'This is Nearlight. We rescinded the flag. Letter attached. We are arriving at the premises within the hour to confirm in person.'"
"Sent," Sofia said.
Noah watched the city go past like lines of code. He didn't look at faces. He never looked at faces. The red at his lapel was a dot against black.
"Spine on arrival," he said.
"Yes," Ava said. "Then paper. Then measure."
The sedan turned. Traffic coughed them onto a narrower street with trees that tried, a barber pole that had been spinning for fifteen years, a bodega with hand-lettered oranges at 3 for 1. The press vans slid in behind, then one in front, then behind again when the driver decided he liked his paint.
Sofia's headset clicked. "We have two more reporters already on Orchard," she said. "They're posting shots of the notice on the glass."
"Good," Ava said. "Let the notice be the villain. Not the door, not the person."
Security on the radio murmured to a partner in a second car they hadn't seen get behind them. "Curb spot open," came back. "Crowd light. Two cameras only. No barricade."
"Doorway only," Ava said. "No one inside unless Ms. Chen says. We do not close a shop to fix a shop."
Sofia turned halfway in the seat. "Procedure on the sidewalk," she said, ticking with a finger. "One - read the letter. Two - verify landlord receipt. Three - sign. Four - republish pin with the signed letter attached. Five - confirm queue stays by receipt time."
"Six," Ava said. "Riverlight and Silver Harbor update on the hour."
"Six," Sofia echoed.
Noah adjusted his cuffs as if they were gauges. "Who holds the paper?" he said.
"I do until you sign," Sofia said, glancing at the mobile printer that had made a warm rectangle of company letterhead in her lap. "Pen?"
The guard in the passenger seat of the follow car had anticipated them. At the next red, he jogged up and tapped the glass with two fingers. Sofia lowered her window the smallest legal amount. A fine-point pen slid in like a baton in a race that had been going on a long time before they joined it.
The light changed. They rolled.
Ava's phone buzzed. She let it - and then didn't. She thumbed it awake with a movement that looked like a blink and saw the top line of a text she couldn't unread if she wanted to.
Landlord: "We see the letter."
She breathed once. "Landlord sees the letter," she said. "They're on the property now."
"Good," Sofia said. "We'll read it to them anyway."
The sedan took the last left. Orchard opened - a brief line of old brick that had learned to be new without losing its accent. Fable & Thread stood halfway down, its window dressed with three dresses on unassuming forms and a scarf that turned light into warmth. A paper notice sat taped to the glass - red underline loud as a siren.
Two cameras waited. A third trotted up, backpack bouncing. Across the street, a pair of teen girls held iced coffees like field notes. A man with a dog found a reason to loiter. The press vans exhaled at the corner. The second car slid in behind the sedan. The curb belonged to them for now.
"Procedure," Ava said.
Sofia flipped the clipboard, squared the paper, checked the letterhead, checked the date, checked the words they had built in a glass room to carry into this one.
Noah looked at her left shoulder. "Spine," he said.
Ava nodded. "Then read. Then sign."
The driver put the car in park. The world leaned in.
Noah cleared his throat once. Not nerves - calibration.
"We are reading and signing this rescission letter on the sidewalk," he said.
Sofia's hand found the door handle. Security's hand found the street. Ava curled her fingers once in the air that still smelled faintly of printer and lemon cleaner and city, and opened her door onto Orchard.
Noise adjusted. Cameras adjusted. Someone called her name as if it were their right. She didn't look for faces. She looked for place.
Mei stood in the doorway with her shoulders square and her chin set. She wore the gray cardigan Ava loved and pretended not to, and the shop key on a red string because some traditions don't need a memo.
The landlord's representative stood to the side with a folder and a mouth arranged into something like neutrality. The notice on the glass showed a wrinkle where tape had lost interest in its job.
Ava stepped to the line where sidewalk becomes threshold. She didn't cross. She didn't ask the shop to become a stage.
"Ms. Chen," she said to the doorway, to the person, to the place, "Nearlight is here."
Mei looked at her - not past, not through. "Read it," she said.
Sofia held the clipboard out. Noah took it. The pen waited in the crook of his fingers. Cameras set their breath for the first syllable.
Ava set her palm on the door frame - not to hold herself up, to measure.
The letter was white. The ink was ordinary. The notice on the glass fluttered once in a breeze that had nothing to do with any of them.
Noah lifted the pen. He set the paper against the glass where the red underline lived like a wound.