By evening, the city lights along the cliffs began to blink on earlier than usual, as though even the power grid had sensed the week ahead would need steadier illumination.
The light gathered itself along the stone streets and glass towers, filling corners before shadows could grow there.
The air had changed too—not into something tense or heavy, but into something alert. It carried that kind of weight that doesn't threaten, only reminds, the subtle pressure of inevitability.
It was the same feeling you get standing near the ocean at low tide, watching the water draw back, knowing it will return soon without needing to be told how.
In their suite, the trio stayed quiet. The air there felt different, too, but it was an honest kind of different.
They had done everything they could for now. Everly sat cross-legged on the couch with her notebook open, writing two short lines before erasing one, then leaving the other alone as if editing any further would be a kind of arrogance.
