The morning sun hit the central square like it always did—flat, reliable, and a little too bright after last night's normalization.
Atlas stood by the ugly bench he and Elara had hammered together from scrap two months back. One leg still crooked on purpose. He liked it that way.
A stranger walked straight into the square wearing an old Holdout uniform. The fabric kept flickering: crisp white one second, torn traveler's cloak the next. The man stopped ten feet from the bench, hands open at his sides.
"Name's Calix," he said. His voice was calm, almost pleasant. "One of the four hundred who came over. You probably don't remember me. I fixed the south gate during the rescue."
Atlas remembered. Quiet guy. Followed orders, didn't complain, then disappeared into the crowd once things settled.
Elara stepped up beside Atlas, arms loose but ready. "You're not flickering because of shadows this time. What's going on, Calix?"
