The convoy rolled through the capital at that slow, deliberate pace meant to be seen. Two cars ahead, one behind, black and polished under the midday sun. The streets already carried the news in the way only cities can—people moving quieter, heads turning, conversations dropping as we passed. The specific hush of a place that had just lost something big and hadn't decided how to carry it yet.
I sat in the back with Sinn. Mercury drove in front, dressed head to toe in black, one hand resting loose on the wheel, eyes locked on the car ahead of us.
"I've always wanted to do something at a funeral," she said, breaking the silence.
"What kind of something?" I asked.
"Show up with an umbrella. Full black. Stand maybe two hundred meters from the grave, completely separate from everyone else." She adjusted her grip on the wheel, knuckles pale for a second. "Not close enough for anyone to approach me. Just close enough that people notice."
"That's what most people do," I said.
