Dawn on November 15 hit like a dropped pane of glass—silent for an instant, then shattering everywhere at once.
From the observation deck of Intelligence Command Alpha I watched satellite loops stack into a living wall: cloud veils retreating, pressure ridges hardening, humidity readings collapsing across the Central Continent. The weather didn't look natural because it wasn't.
Aqua Marinus had stopped probing. He was pulling.
"Moisture levels at critical thresholds in seventeen metros," Dr. Chen said over the room's hush, each update cutting cleaner than the last. "Average atmospheric humidity in our corridors is down sixty percent in four hours. He's draining air columns. Conventional models don't apply."
He had chosen the one lever that makes ministers flinch—water—and he was using it to put a question on every screen: will Ouroboros protect people, or protect its momentum?
"Civilian impact timeline?" I asked, though the overlays were already drawing their grim clocks.
