The morning mist clung to the skeletons of the rising towers, but the usual sounds of construction were replaced by a rhythmic, almost frantic hammering. Emilia stood at the perimeter, her boots sinking into the damp earth, staring at the transformation.
"This is impossible," Lucas whispered, his hand hovering near his radio as he stepped in front of her. "Emilia, those are Reuben’s men. I recognize the ink on their necks. They were the ones throwing Molotovs two days ago."
The men weren't just working; they were laboring with a desperate, fearful precision. Before Emilia could respond, the sea of high-visibility vests parted. Reuben emerged, his usual swagger replaced by a stiff, mechanical gait. He looked like a man who hadn't slept, his eyes bloodshot and darting toward the shadows.
