Maya’s POV
The first thing that hit me wasn’t sound. It was how wrong the silence felt.
Not the usual quiet of Millfield settling into evening—the usual cats scrapping on rooftops, televisions murmuring through thin walls, the steady hum of the generators. This was heavier. Too clean. Like the air itself had pulled tight, waiting. My skin prickled, hairs rising on my arms.
I leaned on the porch rail of the old post office—our half-working comms hub—and stared down the road. Three days since Director Chen’s convoy left town. Three days of brittle peace while Washington argued if we were worth trusting or worth chaining.
Too still. Too long.
“Maya.”
I jerked. Sarah was in the doorway, clutching her tablet so hard her knuckles were white. Her lip looked raw, chewed until it bled.
“What
