The Neutral Zone smelled like ozone and old promises.
Luna stood at the edge of the obsidian platform—floating, weightless, suspended in a pocket of folded space where no nation, faction, or god held jurisdiction. Around her, three delegations faced off in uneasy silence: the Synthetics in their sleek white armor, led by Victoria's second-in-command, Director Hale; the Weave Elders in layered robes stitched with living thread, their eyes clouded with centuries; and the Hybrid Council, just sixteen kids representing the 156, Kai at their front with arms crossed and jaw tight.
They'd come to renew the Truce Accord—forty-eight hours of ceasefire, fragile as glass, brokered after the memory-weapon attack. Luna wasn't supposed to speak. Just stand there. A symbol. A deterrent.
But symbols don't stop ancient things from waking up hungry.
It started with the air.
