Alpha Garrett's Perspective
The air in Garrett's territory had been off for three days. Not off like blood. Not off like an intrusion. Off like metal in water—too clean, too sharp, like something had been scrubbed into the wind that didn't belong there. He stood on the upper balcony of the headquarters—an old brick building squatting at the edge of the industrial district, refitted into something that pretended it was modern while still smelling faintly of iron and burnt oil. Beyond the fence line, the city pulsed with late-night traffic and neon glare. Inside the boundary, everything should have been simple. Predictable. His. But the wind kept delivering inconsistencies. A faint sweetness where there should have been nothing. A thread of winter that wasn't cold and wasn't snow. Winter as a signature. Win
- Writer
