The sky had stopped bleeding gold.
For the first time in months, it was blue—soft, fragile, and unfamiliar. Kiera stood on the roof of what used to be a skyscraper, now half-melded into smooth, luminous stone. Below her, the new city stretched outward like a living organism: buildings grown rather than built, streets glowing faintly in the dusk, the remnants of the Pulse’s architecture bending to human hands.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
She ran her hand along the balcony rail. The surface warmed beneath her touch, recognizing her presence. “Good morning,” it whispered in a voice faintly mechanical, faintly human. Every object had started to speak now—soft murmurs of awareness lingering in the air. The Pulse had not died when Leon stopped it. It had learned restraint.
And yet… someth
