Smoke clung to the ruins of Norfolk like a second sky, thick and choking.
Ash fell in slow spirals, dancing on the wind like burnt confetti from a celebration no one survived; a funeral for a republic that had once proclaimed its virtue louder than its crimes.
The riots had been crushed.
But nothing felt victorious.
From the steps of what remained of the Federal Building, rows of boots stood at attention, backs straight, rifles slung across chests.
Their uniforms were spotless, new federal issue in deep navy with no unit insignia, only a single patch: a white star, blank and cold.
An unofficial army for an unofficial war.
Behind them, bodies were still being loaded into trucks, civilians, agitators, National Guard units that refused orders.
Nobody bothered counting anymore. The numbers had lost their meaning. Death was just a line item on the federal ledger.
In Washington, the mood was darker still.
