The city woke up wrong.
It wasn't the kind of wrong that came with sirens or smoke, those people understood. This was subtler. Streets that used to hum went silent. Shops opened late. Couriers changed routes without explanation. Men who once walked confidently now glanced over their shoulders twice.
Power was no longer centralized.
It was scattered.
And scattered power always cut deeper.
Matthew stood at the center of the operations floor, surrounded by holographic projections of the city. New colors pulsed across the map—emerging factions, shifting loyalties, dead zones where information simply stopped.
"Three nights," Rafe said, voice tight. "Three nights since the convoy disappeared. And now we've got movement in six districts we don't control."
Vinny leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "They're not random. Look at the timing."
Matthew saw it immediately. "They're mimicking the Mercato's old rhythm."
