One moment, the Heart of Atlantis pulsed in its crystalline cradle, a heartbeat older than memory. The next, it screamed—a sound like the sea itself being torn apart. Light fractured. Stone rained. Alyssa had been reaching for a fallen trinket, her bare feet on cool marble, when the shockwave caught her.

After that, there was only water in her lungs, then air that tasted like rust and exhaust, then concrete that scraped her palms raw.

Queens was loud. It smelled like hot garbage and burnt coffee. Her clothes drew stares—the revealing halter, the sheer skirt, the gold that clinked with every step. She learned quickly to avoid the mouths that opened to ask questions, the hands that reached to touch. She slept in alleys, ate from dumpsters, and watched the sky for a sign.

For a week, she survived.

On the eighth night, a red-and-blue blur landed on the fire escape above her.