The city didn’t sleep.
Fires burned across Eastgate in blocks Capol had once patrolled with ease, their orange glow cutting through the rain-slicked streets like the eyes of a predator. Sirens screamed in distant alleys. Helicopters chopped frantic rhythms overhead. And every so often, the ground itself trembled, rattling the safehouse windows like a warning. It felt less like a city and more like a wound, bleeding out under a cold, relentless sky.
Inside, the world had shrunk to a narrow, fragile sphere: Pat’s steady hands, Jerry’s ragged breaths, and Capol’s shadow in the doorway. He hadn’t left his post. Not since they’d dragged Jerry in, bleeding and broken. The worst of it was done hours ago—the stitches, the bandages, the frantic press of gauze against too much blood. But she staye
