They came back slow.
Not a single forceful wave, but small things first: sirens that had been quiet clicking alive in neighborhoods the council thought safe; neighborhood watch radios chirping with questions; a dozen private security feeds that had been thought redundant suddenly focused on the wrong places. The city rearranged itself as if someone had whispered a new instruction and half the machines had obeyed.
Cain felt it at the edges — a dozen tiny prickings that together made a net. He moved with the group through alleys that still smelled of smoke and oil, boots careful on glass and wire. They weren't moving toward a celebration. They were moving toward the inevitable meetings that followed when power shifted.
"We bought a window," Hunter said. He said it like a concession and like a warning. "Not a weapon."
Roselle spat into a puddle and wiped her hand on her thigh. "Weapons are relative."
