Art’s POV
The coffee maker gurgles, spitting out the last of the dark roast. I pour it into four mugs. Black for me, black for Draven. Soren gets the one with the chipped rim because he doesn’t care, and Eira gets the clean one.
The small radio on the counter is tuned to a low-frequency shifter station. Usually, it’s just talk radio and weather reports for the concealed district. Today, the morning DJ’s voice cuts out mid-sentence. The station dissolves into a long, hissing stretch of white noise.
I wait. Five seconds. Ten. The static doesn’t break.
I reach over and click it off.
"Station go down?" Draven asks. He’s leaning against the fridge, shuffling a deck of cards with one hand.
"Just static," I say.
I check my phone. Two messages. The first is from Titus. "Warehouse swee
