The dust in Dodoma didn’t just settle; it hunted.
It was a fine, red powder that got into the seams of Nala’s clothes and the cracks of her soul, a constant reminder that she was no longer in the humid, tech heavy embrace of the coast. Here, in the heart of the country, the air was dry enough to snap a bone. Nala stood at the edge of the sunken district a place the locals called the "Great Hollow" where the earth had literally swallowed the first prototypes of her father’s architectural dreams.
The ruins of Dodoma weren't made of glass and chrome like the Azania Spire. They were made of reinforced concrete, rusted rebar, and secrets that had been buried before Nala was even born.
"The signal is stronger here," Nala whispered, her voice barely a rasp against the wind.
She reached into h
