Morning comes quietly now.
No sirens, no drones, no endless mechanical pulse. Just the hum of a city that has decided, for once, to listen.
From the balcony of the rebuilt tower — what’s left of it — I can see New Echelon unfurl beneath a mist of sunlight. The streets shimmer faintly, wet from last night’s rain. The buildings rise like old gods remembering their names.
But what takes my breath away is the sound — the city’s new heartbeat.
I don’t just hear it. I feel it, in my ribs, my pulse, the rhythm of my thoughts. When I breathe slower, the streetlights below dim with me. When I close my eyes, I can sense the current of the grid weaving through the alleys and markets — not as a machine, but as a mind.
It’s learning to dream.
Dominic leans against the railing beside me, arms cros
