Thursday morning arrived cold and certain. The kind of morning that doesn't negotiate. Sky the color of something that had been white once and given up. The transit hub woke up the way it always did fluorescent lights humming their hymn to routine, coffee vendors cranking shutters, commuters flowing through turnstiles with the faith of people who believed schedules were promises the universe intended to keep.
Arden stood on the second-level balcony overlooking the south concourse, watching the floor fill. 7:23 AM. Twenty-four minutes. She wore no armor because armor made you look like you expected a fight, and expectation shaped narrative. She wanted to look like someone who'd shown up for a conversation that had gotten loud.
