There were certain comforts I had learned to take for granted.
The soft hum of the AC. The faint scent of Mira's shampoo lingering on the hallway. The subtle warmth in the house that came from her presence even when she was in a different room.
Those things grounded me.
But tonight, grounding wasn't working.
My mind was too loud.
Mira was in the living room, curled into the corner of the couch with her journal open and her legs tucked beneath her. She wrote slowly, the tip of her pen pausing every few seconds, like she was thinking deeply before choosing each word.
It was something she did when she needed to breathe, and I let her have that space.
I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, my phone in my hand — screen still lit with the last message I received.
Marco:
"We found the initial source. It's not a rival family.
It's media."
Media.
Not guns.
Not raids.
Not threats of violence.
Something far worse.
Exposure.
