The bell above the door of The Grindstone gave a lonely, metallic tinkle as it swung shut. Outside, the Ritson campus was still reeling from the booming authority of the announcement I had broadcast from the clouds, but inside, the air smelled of burnt espresso and old wood.
I sat in the furthest corner booth, my back to the wall. The matte-black tactical gear I wore felt heavy, grounded, and utterly distinct from the suit I had worn only hours ago. I looked like a man prepared for a siege, which, in a way, I was.
Elaine Zhou walked in three minutes later. She didn't look like a scientist who had just been offered the world. She looked like a woman who had seen too many promises turn into chains. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and her eyes were wide, darting between the empty
