The morning after, the city didn't feel rested.
It wasn't the kind of dawn that brought a clean slate; Elandra buzzed before the sun had even tipped the river, like a pot boiling over. Runners darted through the lanes, voices raised too high, and even the gulls seemed sharper in their cries.
Inside the stall, the air smelled of yeast and hot oil. Inigo set dough to rise in neat rounds, precise as if measuring battle lines. Lyra tied her apron with stiff hands, jaw still set from the weight of yesterday. Riko yawned so wide his chalk clattered to the floor, while Maddy hummed nervously as she washed greens.
They felt it, all of them—the pressure, the unseen eyes.
By mid-morning, Elise slipped in, not through the line like a customer, but through the side door as though she'd been sewn into the bricks. She looked at the fryer baskets, the flour dusting the counter, and only then allowed herself a breath.
"You've started a fire," she said without preamble.
