The drone started staying.
Before, they came and went, patrol arcs, random hovers.
Now one hung over their vein like a patient insect, its hum threading through the days.
Rell could hear it even in his mother's apartment, a thin vibration in the window glass.
In Laundry Two, people timed their conversations between its passes.
"Closer," Nia muttered, watching its shadow skim the arch outside.
"Same height as yesterday," Tal said.
"Closer in my soul," she replied.
Aiden sat at the console, jaw tight.
His new band was still in "civilian" mode, but the portable drive beside him showed the drone's status feed in lagged, deniable snippets.
"Same ID," he said. "D-14. Assigned to 'environmental sampling.'"
"Sampling our faces," Suri muttered.
On the wall, Rin had chalked a small box where the drone spent most of its time.
It overlapped neatly with their block.
Above the hum, they heard neighbors swapping stories.
