Not a single forceful wave, but small things first: sirens that had been quiet clicking alive in neighborhoods the council thought safe; neighborhood watch radios chirping with questions; a dozen private security feeds that had been thought redundant suddenly focused on the wrong places. The city rearranged itself as if someone had whispered a new instruction and half the machines had obeyed. Cain felt it at the edges — a dozen tiny prickings that together made a net. He moved with the group through alleys that still smelled of smoke and oil, boots careful on glass and wire. They weren't moving toward a celebration. They were moving toward the inevitable meetings that followed when power shifted. "We bought a window," Hunter said. He said it like a concession and like a warning. "Not a weapon." Roselle spat into a puddle and wiped her hand on her thigh. "Weapons are relative." Susan limped but kept pace. Her ribs caught every breath. "Relative to who? The people dying because our networks faltered? Or to the men in towers who will point and point and demand answers?" Cain watched their faces in the dim light between blocks. He kept his mouth closed. Fate was a thing they built out of choices; tonight, their choices were making a new geography. That geography had roads, allegations, and smells that people could trace back to them if they were careless. He thought of Peter and Declan and the others — names that stuck in his throat like dust. He thought of Nero and the strange things he'd seen drift in the corners of that dying world. The list of debt kept lengthening. They reached the safehouse two hours later. It was the same battered space they'd used before — concrete that had seen better paint days, a locked metal door, a crate that once held electronics and was now a table. Steve slumped against the wall like a man who had cut his wrists and then kept running. His goggles were streaked with salt and something darker. "Assess," Cain said. He did not feel like a commander. He felt like a man tallying damage. Steve exhaled. "They scrambled autonomic restoration on the nodes closest to the docks. Secondary caches locked remotely. Someone knew to expect an override and closed their shutters. We got the primary, which is a big hit. It will sting Daelmont's bottom line. But we didn't get the redundancy in Tower Three. They're waking slowly, but they're waking in a way that buys them time to point fingers." Hunter rubbed his chin. "So we still have enemies with eyes. Not dead. Different eyes." "Names," Cain said simply. He wanted lists to hang over tavern tables; names that could be whispered and checked and shaken until they rattled pieces free. Names gave shape to danger. Names could be traded like currency for allies. Hunter produced a thin roll of paper from his inner vest and unspooled it. "Safehouses we brokered. Temporary havens. Supply chains. People who answered our call when the city's voice was drowning. I didn't hide them to be clever; I hid them because the alternative is the street." Cain took the list. He read names slowly, tasting syllables like he tasted metal. He understood the trade: you shelter someone, you owe them a debt that can be called in any weather. "And the Daelmont presence on those lists?" Hunter's jaw tightened. "Patchy. Not direct. Shell companies. A charity here. A logistics firm there. Legal paper that smells like nothing." Roselle laughed low. "Paper that smells like nothing still suffocates." Susan slid off the crate and pulled two cans from the stash. She popped one open, the hiss loud in the quiet. "We need leverage," she said. "If we go public with what we found, the city will demand answers we can't give without showing how we got them." Cain listened. He could already imagine the headlines and the boardrooms and the men in suits swallowing the wrong words. He could imagine the bloodless compromise that followed, the lawyers who would carve out exceptions, the bureaucrats who would smooth edges and keep the rot. He knew all that and still believed that letting them keep their hands clean would buy no one a tomorrow. "We expose something smaller first," Cain said. "A leak that forces them to respond. Not full disclosure. Not enough to let the council move to crush us with law. Enough to make them show their faces." Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢~𝙣𝙚𝙩 Hunter frowned. "You want to bait them." Cain shrugged. "I want them to reveal whose hands they put in the water." Steve's hand found a schematic under his jacket and slapped it on the table. "There's a Daelmont conduit that moves funds through the docks. It's hidden under a consortium that deals with salvage. Hit that publicly and they'll have to explain why people who own salvage also fund private security at the same time those security firms show up at our safehouses." Roselle's eyes grew cold. "And if they arrest us for showing it?" "Then we use the arrest," Cain said. He would not flatter himself with thoughts of martyrdom. This was strategic: a sacrifice only if it buys movement. "We pick the moment they are most unstable." They plotted then, not like idealists but like men who had measured pain and learned how to feed it into gears. They mapped a public leak that would tie a Daelmont front to the fleet and to the supply lines that had hardened around Tower Three. They prepared for the inevitable legal wolves and planted a counter-narrative for when the papers started to twist. Hours collapsed into planning and then into the dull ache of waiting. Steve rewired a transmitter to bloom a single packet into a dozen feeds. Hunter reached out quietly and folded contacts like a hand doing a crumpling trick. Roselle checked ammo. Susan checked her ribs. Cain sat, hands loose on the table, feeling the city press on every side.