Greg’s lungs burned like someone had swapped out the air for industrial-grade sandpaper, and every breath felt like dragging razors over his insides. His whole chest was one big bruise wrapped in sea salt and the damage numbers, even low, just kept fucking blinking. -11 -5 -5 -3 -3 -1 -1 Seawater and vomit kept…
Greg Veder was trying to pay attention. He really was. Legend’s voice had the kind of baked-in authority that could probably sell insurance to a house on fire—the kind of voice that made you want to stand up straighter even if you were already standing at full attention, which Greg absolutely was not. His spine…
Greg stood in front of the PRT HQ, cape flapping around his shoulders like a beach ball someone forgot to deflate all the way before stuffing it in the lost and found. Six stories of misery brick and tinted windows loomed over him, the kind of ugly that screamed “government building” even before you clocked…
The flag atop the PRT headquarters had seen better days, the gusts tearing it flat against the pole with sharp snaps of fabric. Colin Wallis—known to the city as Armsmaster—stood alone at the edge of the plaza, helm tilted slightly up, watching it strain against the stormfront. As bad as it seemed, the rain hadn’t…
Susan Veder had made it through two days without crying. She considered that a victory. A small one. Hollow. Still—she’d take it. That had lasted up until fifteen seconds ago, when that had all come crashing down like the two-tiered vanilla cake she had stayed up till 2 AM baking and frosting with the white,…
Grief 7.20 The doorbell rang again, the chime crisp and routine, a familiar intrusion into the steady hum of conversation from the living room. Susan smoothed her hands down the fabric of her blouse, exhaled, and opened the door. Another mother, another carefully wrapped package in pastel-colored paper, another child standing half-hidden behind her. The…
Cutscene: Snake on the Lane – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – Tap. Tap. Tap. Thomas Calvert’s fingers drummed against the leather of the steering wheel. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Control manifest in movement. He let the sound fill the silence, let it settle beneath the steady hum of…
Cutscene: What Now? – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – The screen flickered, stabilizing against a backdrop of blue and silver, the BAY NEWS 8 logo rotating in the corner. The newsroom was a study in restraint—polished glass desks, sterile lighting, the steady hum of broadcast equipment…
Cutscene: Tangent – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – Tangent saw it coming. Just barely. The light shifted in a way it shouldn’t have—too fast, too hot, the wrong shade of orange. Reflex over analysis. He glanced up from his perch, caught the flicker through the upper…
Grief 7.19 – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – Greg’s head hurt. Bad. Not like a punch. Not like a headache. Not like anything. It was big. Wide. Heavy. Like something inside was crushed, leaking out into everything else. He didn’t know how to think about it….
