No one wakes expecting blood.
That’s the lie people tell themselves to keep sleeping.
But the city does not wake slowly that morning. It jolts upright, nerves already tight, breath shallow, as if something in the night air warned it that kindness has finished pretending.
It starts with a checkpoint.
Not officially called that. Just a presence point placed at the eastern junction where three neighborhoods meet, one Candle-aligned, one contested, one openly resistant.
Candle patrols stand there in pairs, lanterns unlit in the morning light. They don’t block the road. They don’t ask for papers.
They watch.
People slow as they pass. Some nod. Some avert their eyes. Some turn back without quite knowing why.
The watchers arrive minutes later.
Not to confront.
To observe the observers.
