April 17th, Saturday.
The chime of the Elffire City meteorological station clock struck six. Elara, her face pale in the pre-dawn gloom, slammed her fist on the worn mahogany desk. "Gods," she breathed, eyes glued to the barometer's plummeting needle. Outside, the city, usually a tapestry of rosy sunrise hues, was swallowed whole by a bruised, slate-grey sky. Thick, heavy clouds, low and menacing, pressed down like a suffocating blanket, blotting out even the faintest hint of light. Raindrops, fat and cold, began to drum a frantic rhythm against the windowpanes, a relentless tattoo mirroring the frantic beat of Elara's heart. "The low-pressure system is gaining speed, faster than predicted," she muttered, her voice barely audible above the growing tempest. "Prepare the warnings. This isn't just a storm; it's a Level 2 Thunderstorm."
