The word soon lingered.
It did not echo. It did not shout. It simply… sat in the air, like a smell you couldn't place but absolutely did not trust.
Shen felt it before anyone else did.
Not as fear—fear was loud—but as imbalance. A subtle tug behind the sternum, the way soup tastes wrong when the salt is almost, but not quite, enough.
He stilled mid-wipe, sponge hovering over the counter.
"…Did anyone else feel that?" he asked quietly.
Lucien, who had been rearranging a vase of utensils into what he called intentional chaos, froze. "Darling," he said carefully, "I feel many things at all times. But if this is another premonition, I would like advance notice so I may sit."
Rico glanced up from the sink. "If the fridge starts chanting, I'm moving."
The fridge did not chant.
Instead, it clicked.
That soft, innocent plastic click of temperature regulation.
The light inside turned on.
No one had opened the door.
