The morning after was a colorless void.
It wasn't a dramatic, theatrical grey, the kind of sky that seemed to weep or loom over the carnage below. It was a flat, indifferent grey.
An even, suffocating cloud cover that stripped the world of its depth, turning the landscape into a monochromatic smear where every shadow was muted and every light was drained of its vitality. It was the kind of weather that didn't care that the world had changed; it was simply a morning, as hollow and unfeeling as a tomb.
Rex had been awake since the fourth hour.
It wasn't a matter of insomnia; he had slept, though the rest had been shallow, a mere four-hour reprieve from the heavy machinery of his mind. He was awake because the world did not pause for the exhaustion of its architects.
