Quinn stands by the front door in a light jacket, his clothes straightened now, suspenders properly set. He crouches to pull on his shoes, lacing them with practiced motions.
Roran joins him, shrugging into his own coat. Without thinking, he reaches up and takes two umbrellas from the hooks by the door, handing one over.
Quinn accepts it on instinct, setting it beside him as he finishes tying the last lace.
"Roran," he says, quietly, "might I see the newspaper?"
Roran hums, scanning it one last time before passing it over. He settles his hat onto his head as he does.
"You don't usually read the paper," he says. "What's changed today?"
Quinn freezes for half a heartbeat.
Then he looks up, meeting Roran's eyes.
"I thought I'd take a look," he says evenly. "You seemed pretty focused on it this morning."
Roran studies him for a second, then nods, approving, and goes back to tying his boots. "Fair enough."
Quinn unfolds the paper carefully. The print is dense, familiar in a way that makes his head ache faintly.
Roran speaks as if reading aloud from memory. "It's just about a State Nine going berserk," he says. "Lost their Anchor."
Quinn's eyes skim the headline.
CIVIC REGISTRY CONFIRMS INCIDENT — STATE 9 CONTAINED
State. The word lands heavy causing his head to ache.
States are what the Registry uses now. A clean way to measure danger. Eleven of them, everyone knows that much. The lower states live ordinary lives. The higher ones get monitored, managed—sometimes erased.
State Nine means awakened. Dangerous, but still human enough to pretend otherwise.
Until they aren't.
"Registry says they've got it handled," Roran continues. "Containment teams moved in quick. Whole block shut down."
Quinn nods slowly, eyes still on the page. The article mentions anchors only once, carefully phrased, like a footnote.
Loss of stabilizing influence. Resulting behavioral deviation.
Clinical words for something so final.
Boots thud against the floorboards.
"Elin—don't just run off—!"
Elin rushes past them, already pulling her hood up, book tucked under her arm.
"I'll be late!" she calls over her shoulder, already out the door.
Roran sighs and grabs his umbrella. "Every morning," he mutters, then looks back at Quinn. "You ready?"
Quinn folds the newspaper and sets it neatly on the shelf by the door, right where it belongs.
"Yes," he says.
Roran opens the door, rain already tapping lightly against the stone.
Quinn takes a breath and steps forward into the rain, it tapping on his umbrella as he shuts the door.