LYRA’S POV.
The transition from the cold, grease-laden air of the valley flats to the crisp, silent atmosphere of the lower ridge corridor felt like crossing an invisible atmospheric border.
It was nearly 9:00 PM by the time the private transport Asher Williams had arranged dropped us off outside the sleek, glass-and-steel facade of the residential complex. I walked half a step behind my parents, my eyes scanning the perimeter with a cold, deep-seated vigilance. My father carried the two heavy commercial laundry sacks over his broad shoulders, his boots leaving faint patches of gray coal dust on the pristine, heated stone walkway. Beside him, my mom held her faded cardigan tightly against her throat, her head turning slowly as she stared up at the glowing architectural lighting.
"Lyra..
