Atlas returned to the warehouse fringe by a different cut through the alleys.
Morning traffic had settled into its full rhythm. Carts rolled over wet stone. Drivers shouted weights and destinations. The grind of iron-rimmed wheels mixed with the slap of boots and the occasional bark of a residual check from a passing patrol.
He moved through it without drawing notice. The restrained power under his sternum sat differently now. Not louder. Not rising. Simply awake in a way it had refused to be for years.
He found the others in a narrow residual-dull yard behind a salt storehouse. Clara was checking secondary signals from the packages on a slate balanced against her knee. Lara watched the alley mouths with the steady patience of someone who had done this too many times.
