The morning after saving the world arrived with protesters at the gates.
Liam stood at his office window, coffee growing cold in his hands as he watched the crowd that had reformed overnight. These weren't the same fear-drunk masses who'd tried to burn them out during the crisis. This group carried different signs, moved with different energy—the particular fury that came from people who'd been denied their apocalypse.
Steam rose from his mug in spirals that reminded him of yesterday's supernatural chaos, but the coffee had cooled to bitter dregs while he processed the magnitude of what faced them. The compound's windows bore new stress fractures from the storm, hairline cracks that caught morning light like spider webs made of crystal.
"FALSE FLAG" dominated the placards, along with "G
