Morning arrived without ceremony. The sky over Agatha was the colour of old iron, and the air that pushed through the Madhouse's cracked window carried the smell of machine oil and something else — something older, like stone that had never seen the sun.
Leon was already awake when the others began to stir. He had been lying on his back for an hour, hands folded across his chest, listening to An Lang's uneven breathing and the distant sound of boots on gravel outside. He had not slept well. When he did sleep, the dream came again — not the lizard-lady, not the old woman, but his father, standing at a distance that never shortened, no matter how fast Leon moved.
He sat up before Wu Ze opened her eyes and dressed without making a sound.
Liu Yan was next. She moved to her wardrobe without looking at him. That was still happening. He had tried twice to understand what had shifted between them, and both times the attempt ended in a silence heavier than any argument.
