Cassandra.
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They say silence is golden. I say it's a resting place for the living — and a graveyard for the dead.
I awoke this morning in a safehouse I never named, nestled beneath Sector 7’s rebuilt power corridor. No light filters in. No echoes. Just the pulse of electricity I didn’t touch and mustn’t leave. I haven’t slept in days—too many questions keep me awake. Not about what comes next, but who stayed awake with me.
The world beyond no longer fears me. They barely remember me. Obsidian was a spark, not a blaze. But flames are fast — and frost is quiet. Ash falls endless days after the fire dies, and ash doesn’t vanish; it settles. That’s the danger here.
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I check the local feed monitors blown-in cracks where the dust settled but the pixels didn’t. Micro-vaults once dedic
