The sky looks different these days. Sometimes it’s grey with streaks of burnt orange where the clouds don’t quite cover the sun, other times it’s clear enough to see the scars Eleanor left behind.

Somewhere in the distance, the low thrum of a drone echoes—maybe Nexus patrols, maybe something older, something watching. You can’t always tell anymore.

The air smells like damp concrete, crushed leaves, and the sharp tang of rust, depending on where the wind carries it. Lights flicker where they’re still working, small green and blue glows in the dark, reminding you someone else was here before, or maybe still is.

A breeze shifts the dust and grass around your boots as you pause, listening. Somewhere, faint music drifts—barely there, like a memory of what the world used to sound like.

And for a moment, everything feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for whatever comes next.