Midday, and the living room was still cloaked in darkness. The explosion hadn’t just ripped through walls, windows, and crown moldings—it had torn through the light itself. Somehow, even the sun couldn’t touch the remnants of the room with the same blinding confidence as before.
But Andromeda wasn’t wasting time. She’d traded her silk robe for clothes she could work in—tight black leggings, a form-fitting gray shirt—and tied her hair back with careless ease. A few strands still escaped and fell beside her face as she leaned forward. One pencil was tucked behind her ear, another between her lips, and a third spun between her fingers while she made notes on a sketch spread across the dusty floor.
A measuring tape hung from her wrist, her other hand moving with sharp precision to draw a lin
