The evacuation center occupied what had once been a public high school gymnasium.
Rows of folding cots stretched across the polished basketball court beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Handwritten signs had been taped over official emergency banners. Volunteers moved between families carrying bottled water, blankets, clipboards, and increasingly exhausted expressions.
Nothing appeared catastrophic at first glance.
That was the problem.
The city hadn't stopped functioning.
It had simply stopped functioning correctly.
Galathea stood near a registration table assembled from pushed-together classroom desks. A volunteer sat behind an aging laptop while an elderly woman waited patiently in front of him, handbag clasped against her chest.
The young man typed.
Paused.
Typed again.
Frowned.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Could you repeat your surname?"
The woman did.
He entered it.
The system rejected it again.
His shoulders sagged.
"Let's try manually."
