The roof is still collapsed.
The windows are still blown out.
The flat-top grill is visible from the sidewalk, warped and blackened and tilted at an angle that makes my chest tighten like someone just reached inside me and twisted something.
People are already there.
A dozen at first.
Then two dozen.
Then more, filtering in from side streets and alleys like water finding a low point.
Some of them recognize me.
Some of them don’t.
All of them look scared and furious and desperate for someone to tell them what happens next.
I park the truck diagonally across the street and climb down.
Tur stays half a step behind me, armor scorched, bone spurs still faintly visible under his skin like pale ghosts of violence, eyes scanning every rooftop and window.
The air smells like ash and ozone and spray paint.
Someone has already tagged the side of the building with a resistance sigil in red.
Someone else has started writing names under it.
I step up onto a chunk of fallen masonry and raise my voice.
“Okay,” I call out. “Listen up.”
The crowd hushes in a ripple.
“If you are here because the Nine burned your business, threatened your family, shook you down for protection money, or made you disappear socially, financially, or literally—congratulations, you are in the right place.”
A few people laugh, shaky and disbelieving.
“We are evacuating civilians through off-grid tunnels tonight,” I continue. “If you can walk, carry a bag, or drive a vehicle, I need you. If you have medical training, logistics experience, construction skills, or a criminal record that involves moving things quietly, I definitely need you.”
A woman in a grease-stained mechanic’s jacket raises her hand.
“Are we… are we starting a rebellion?”
I look at her.
Then at the burned building behind me.
Then at the city on fire around us.
“Yes,” I say. “I guess we are.”
Mara screeches up in a van five minutes later and jumps out before it’s even fully stopped.
She takes one look at my face.
Then my ribs.
