The first strike doesn’t come with fire.
It comes with pressure.
An invisible force slams into the Hawthorne estate’s perimeter, compressing the air so violently that Scarlett feels it in her teeth before she hears anything at all. The windows shudder, not cracking but bowing inward, as if the night itself has pressed its palms against the glass to see what would give first.
The house holds.
A low, resonant hum surges up through the floors—ancient generators buried deep beneath stone and steel waking from dormancy. The sound is not loud, but it is absolute, vibrating through bone and memory alike.
Scarlett doesn’t move.
She stands at the centre of the command chamber, shoulders squared, palms resting lightly on the steel table before her. Her reflection
stares back from the darkene
