The city above reeled like a drunk stripped of balance. Towers blinked out one by one, each blackout a tooth kicked from its jaw. For a long moment the skyline was not a crown of light but a jagged silhouette. People poured from their homes, leaning out from broken balconies, shouting across alleys as if words might anchor them. Vehicles stalled in their tracks. Drones spiraled down like burnt moths.
In the spire's corridor, the air tasted of melted insulation. Cain stood with his blade lowered but not sheathed. The silence after the Grid's collapse felt dangerous, like the absence of thunder after lightning. It left the city poised on the edge of something feral.
Roselle pressed her back to the wall, pistol still angled upward. "They'll recover," she said flatly. "They always do. The Grid isn't the only spine this city has."
"Recovery doesn't matter," Cain answered. "They know it can be broken. That's enough."
