The city didn't wake up all at once.
It never did.
It stirred in fragments—streetlights flickering off in districts that trusted the sun, markets opening behind half-closed shutters, radios crackling to life in apartments where people pretended they weren't listening for bad news. The Mercato Del Muerte had once controlled those rhythms. Its collapse hadn't freed the city; it had unsettled it.
Power hated a vacuum.
And Kieran knew that better than anyone.
Matthew stood at the center of the safehouse's command room, hands braced against the table, eyes locked on a digital map fractured by red and amber markers. Each one represented movement—money flows, weapons transfers, allegiance shifts. Not attacks. Not yet.
This was quieter.
That was what scared him.
"They're not consolidating," Rafe said, circling the table slowly. "They're courting."
Vinny leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "That's worse."
