He leaned closer.
He double-clicked the file.
Outside, under the flickering dome lights, a row of silhouettes stood perfectly still. Not running. Not screaming. Just waiting. They'd been there for twenty-eight years. He leaned closer
And now they knew his name.
The child turned. Her face was normal, except for the eyes. Not red. Not black. Just… old. As if someone had poured forty years into a ten-year-old's skull. She smiled. The Atmos mix shifted the sound of that smile—teeth clicking—into the overhead channels, directly above his chair. Not running
Marco hadn't slept in two days. Not because of insomnia—because of the hum. The low, omnipresent thrum that had started six months after the second wave. Everyone in the refugee dome above Milan called it Il Rimbombo . The Rebound. They'd been there for twenty-eight years