The Free Zone had settled into a rhythm. People built houses, argued over fence lines, and figured out how to live without someone telling them the rules every five minutes.
Coherence sat at seventy-six percent and climbing. That was when Skritch decided the place needed a Complaint Bureau.
He planted a wooden booth right in the middle of the main square, painted it bright red, and nailed a sign above it that read: *Speak Your Mind.
We'll Make It Worse.* Underneath in smaller letters: *Chief Complaint Auditor: Skritch. Tips appreciated.*
Atlas stood twenty feet away with his arms crossed, watching the line form. "This is going to bite us."
"Everything bites us eventually," Elara said. She leaned against a post, arms folded. "At least this way they complain to a desk instead of lighting things on fire."
The first complainers were ex-Holdouts, still adjusting.
