Morning in the lower district didn't arrive with sunlight.
It arrived with noise.
A cart wheel screaming against stone. Someone arguing about watered milk. The smell of frying fat leaking through cracked shutters and refusing to leave. Novara Prime woke the way it always had—loud enough that people didn't have to think about what they'd seen in the sky two days ago.
Frankie liked mornings.
Not because they were peaceful. Because they were honest. People were tired enough not to pretend yet.
She stepped out onto the street with an empty sack over her shoulder and coins tucked safely into her boot. The air was cool and damp, carrying the smell of last night's rain and old brick. Behind her, Sofia still slept, and Marco still stood where he had been when she woke—leaning near the door like he'd never left.
"You don't have to guard a hallway," she had told him earlier.
"I'm not," he had answered.
He hadn't moved.
Now he followed two steps behind her, cane tapping lightly, keeping distance only because she'd insisted.
The market alley was already busy.
Bread sellers shouted first, always first, because hunger woke before reason. A woman with flour up to her elbows waved loaves like weapons while customers argued over size. Across from her, a butcher pretended his cuts were fresh enough to justify the price. They all performed the same ritual daily—complain, barter, survive.
Frankie moved through it naturally. Ordinary girl. Ordinary routine.
She traded coin for bread.
Coin for dried beans.
Coin for a strip of smoked meat she pretended she couldn't quite afford until the vendor relented with a theatrical sigh.
No one watched her twice.
That was how she knew something was wrong.
It wasn't obvious. Not dramatic. Just a conversation half a step off rhythm.
"…haven't seen him since last night," a woman said behind her.
"Drunk again," another replied.
"He wouldn't miss work."
"He misses it every third day."
Frankie didn't turn her head. Didn't slow. She only listened.
"Still," the first woman added, quieter, "his boots are still outside the door."
The second woman hesitated.
Then shrugged. "Probably passed out somewhere else."
Conversation over.
Life continued.
Frankie kept walking.
Marco spoke softly beside her. "You heard."
"Yes."
"You care?"
Frankie thought about it.
"No," she said honestly. Then, after a beat: "Not yet."
They turned down a narrower street where the buildings leaned inward enough to steal most of the sky. Laundry lines sagged overhead. Water dripped steadily from somewhere unseen. The district's heartbeat slowed here, away from the vendors and noise.
A man hurried past them carrying tools.
Another stood outside a doorway smoking nervously.
Two kids kicked a broken wheel rim along the cobbles and argued about rules they were inventing as they went.
Normal.
Then the man smoking called into a doorway, "Mira! You seen Jalen this morning?"
A woman's voice answered from inside. "No. Thought he was with you."
The man frowned. "Nah."
He went back inside anyway.
Frankie's fingers tightened slightly on the sack.
Second name.
Still nothing.
People disappeared in the lower district all the time. Debt. Fights. Patrol arrests. Running away. None of it meant anything yet.
She forced her pace to remain steady.
"You're counting," Marco said.
"I'm remembering," Frankie replied.
They returned to the apartment. Sofia was awake now, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, trying to braid her own hair and failing spectacularly. Luca leaned against the wall with the patience of someone who had given up correcting her ten minutes ago.
"You forgot the apples," Sofia accused immediately.
Frankie set the sack down. "We can't afford apples."
"We could yesterday."
"Yesterday you didn't want fish."
Sofia considered that and accepted defeat with dignity. "Fine."
Luca watched Frankie unpack the food. "Busy?"
"Normal," she said.
He nodded slowly, but his eyes flicked once toward the window. He'd learned the same habit—listening to the city between sounds.
Tomas pushed through the door without knocking, breathless from climbing stairs. "You hear about Jalen?"
Frankie didn't look up. "Which one?"
"Locksmith Jalen," Tomas said. "Didn't open shop. Door still barred from inside."
Marco's head tilted slightly.
Luca frowned. "Maybe he left early."
"That's the thing," Tomas replied. "Neighbors say they heard him moving late. Then nothing."
Sofia perked up. "Maybe he found treasure and ran away."
Tomas smiled weakly. "Sure. That's probably it."
Frankie tied the sack closed.
Three.
Still not enough.
Rafe appeared in the doorway a moment later, as if summoned by rumor. "Everyone's jumpy," he said, stepping inside. "Half the district thinks the angels marked the city. Other half thinks the priests are lying. Good time for business if you ask me."
"We didn't," Luca said.
Rafe ignored him. "Couple more people missing though."
Frankie's eyes lifted.
"Couple?" she asked.
Rafe shrugged. "Depends who you ask. Most just assume someone skipped town. Happens every week."
Frankie nodded once and went back to sorting food.
Outwardly uninterested.
Inside, she felt the faintest warmth in her chest—not pain, not warning. Just awareness. The same subtle tension she'd felt before storms, before ambushes, before angels descended without attacking.
Not danger yet.
Pattern.
Marco watched her, understanding without words.
Later, the group ate together — bread torn apart by hand, beans passed around in a dented pot. Conversation drifted to the arena again, to Luca's near victory, to whether the angels had chosen not to attack because of Ares.
"They wouldn't fear him," Luca said quietly.
"They respected territory," Marco corrected.
Rafe snorted. "Gods, angels — same thing. Bigger teeth."
Frankie didn't contribute. She listened to the street through the cracked window instead.
Someone called a name.
No answer.
A second voice joined.
Then silence.
She stood and stepped into the corridor, leaning against the railing overlooking the street below.
A woman walked past calling again, louder this time.
No answer.
A neighbor opened a shutter. "He's probably drunk," they said.
The woman nodded like that solved everything.
Frankie stared down the street a long time.
Behind her, Sofia padded out barefoot. "You're doing the thinking face."
Frankie glanced back. "Go inside."
"Is it the angels?" Sofia asked quietly.
Frankie hesitated — just a fraction.
"…No," she said.
Not yet.
Sofia accepted that because she wanted to, then returned to the apartment.
Frankie stayed where she was.
Below, the district carried on pretending absence was normal. Doors closed. Conversations shifted. Life adjusted around missing pieces like water around stones.
Her mark pulsed faintly beneath her ribs.
Not heat.
Recognition.
Frankie pushed off the railing and went back inside.
She wasn't worried yet.
But she had started counting.
And counting meant she expected the number to grow.