LYRA’S POV
Monday morning arrived with the crisp, sterile precision of a luxury watch.
The ridge was bathed in an unblemished, golden sunlight that didn’t seem to carry any actual heat—just a cold, expensive glow that illuminated the flawless limestone arches of Garrison Heights Academy. As I stepped off the transit bus at the crest of the mountain, the contrast between where I had spent my weekend and where I was standing now hit me like a physical barrier. Down in the valley, the air smelled of stale grease, frying onions, and the constant, metallic sigh of the rail yards. Up here, it smelled faintly of freshly cut lawns, expensive cedar mulch, and the subtle, collective perfume of multi-generational wealth.
I adjusted the heavy straps of my canvas backpack, my shoulders instantly tig
