The morning after the rooftop confrontation felt wrong in Moira’s skin.

Not dangerous.

Not calm.

Just... suspended.

She sat at the window, legs drawn up, still in yesterday’s black silk. The sky outside was bruised with early light, and the city hadn’t decided yet whether to wake or disappear.

Matthew hadn’t come to bed.

She hadn’t asked him to.

Some silences meant distance. This one felt like a bridge under construction.

Moira’s phone buzzed at 6:07 a.m.

Unknown ...