The first sunrise after the awakening didn’t look like sunlight. It shimmered in fractured hues—gold bleeding into silver, sky rippling like a slow-moving tide. The horizon itself seemed alive, breathing in pulses of color that echoed faintly in Leon’s bones.
He stood on the rooftop of an old apartment tower, the city stretched out below him. From up here, it looked like a heart trying to remember its rhythm—streets glowing faintly, buildings resonating with a quiet hum that never fully stopped.
Kiera joined him, handing over a battered metal flask. “Found it downstairs. Still whiskey, I think.”
Leon smirked faintly and took a sip. The burn was comforting—human, imperfect, grounding. “I didn’t think anything this old would survive.”
“Neither did I,” she said, leaning against the ledge.
