The cameras never slept, but Akira had learned to move around them like water flowing past stones.
Three days of constant surveillance had taught her family to navigate their home differently. The bathroom remained sacred—no cameras allowed, thank the ancestors—but everywhere else had become performance space whether they wanted it or not. She watched Kova adapt with the fluid grace that belonged to children, turning the lens operators into invisible friends who happened to record his every gesture.
The triplets kicked restlessly as she moved through the kitchen, their rhythm matching her emotional state. Stress affected dire wolf pregnancies more than human ones, and the constant weight of global attention pressed against her ancient instincts like foreign pressure. Her body wanted to d
