Two weeks after the fall, the Spire was nothing but a skeleton of steel and stone jutting into a washed-out sky. Grass had already begun to push through the cracks where fire once burned; nature was reclaiming what the system had tried to freeze in perfection.
The air smelled of metal, dust, and rain.
We’d turned what used to be the library courtyard into a temporary settlement. Canvas stretched between half-collapsed pillars, forming shelters. Barrels of salvaged water lined the edge of the square. Every morning we gathered to plan, argue, and rebuild.
There were no leaders anymore only volunteers. Yet somehow, every discussion still ended with everyone looking at me.
Kira called it habit.
I called it responsibility refusing to die.
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That 0.003 percent was the problem. Every nig
