Dawn broke over Avalon as a thin blade of light, and the command center answered it with sirens of red.
I was already in my chair when the first alerts cascaded down our boards. Holographic panes snapped from cool analytics to urgent telemetry; corridors of airspace lit up in concentric rings; port districts blinked amber, then blood-bright. The pattern was unmistakable—clean, symmetrical, military.
"Simultaneous disruptions at forty-seven major transport hubs," Reika reported, eyes violet in the glow as she fanned the map out to continental scale. "Skyveil aircraft are executing concentric 'safety holds' around any facility with an Ouroboros footprint. They've filed emergency NOTAMs as cover and pushed their own controllers to issue 'temporary inspection corridors.' Translation: blockade, with paperwork."
