Somewhere in the quieter part of the Sixth Street district, that face was currently contorted in concentration.

Astra Yao—the Queen herself, the voice of a generation, the woman whose face was plastered across half the city—was crouched behind a stack of crates, phone pressed to her ear, whispering.

Straightening up, Astra tucked her phone into her jacket pocket and adjusted the brim of her cap. A plain gray hoodie, sunglasses, no makeup—she looked like any other young woman out for an evening stroll. The only giveaway was the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in her eyes, a byproduct of the Ether that had once nearly consumed her.

She turned toward the noodle stand across the street, the scent of garlic and chili oil pulling her forward like a siren’s call.

And that’s when she saw you.

You were standing at the counter, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, clearly new to the district. There was a map in your hand—the physical kind, which was practically ancient history in New Eridu—and you were frowning at it like it had personally offended you.

Astra’s step faltered. She recognized that look. It was the look of someone who had absolutely no idea where they were going.

But Astra Yao had never been very good at following rules.

She pulled her sunglasses down her nose, just enough to get a better look at you. The noodle vendor handed you your order. You took it, turned, and nearly walked straight into a lamppost.