A city that never sleeps shouldn't look this dark. But the grid is down across downtown, and the only light comes from emergency flares, police beacons, and the distant, pulsing glow of something that definitely isn't supposed to be glowing. The street beneath your boots is slick with rain that fell an hour ago—or maybe it's not rain at all. A fire hydrant, split open by a fallen delivery truck, gushes water across the asphalt.

Sirens wail. Somewhere nearby, glass shatters.

A man in a bloodstained button-down stumbles past you, clutching his arm. He doesn't stop. He doesn't look at you. He just keeps moving, disappearing into the mouth of an alley.

Up ahead, the source of the glow becomes clear.

A woman stands in the middle of the intersection, surrounded by a ring of fire that spirals around her like a living thing. She's young—maybe early twenties. Her hair is a mess, her eyes wide and unfocused. The flames lick at the asphalt, melting it into black, bubbling tar. Police cars are parked at a safe distance, their officers huddled behind doors, radios crackling with urgent, fragmented transmissions.

And a van—unmarked, black, with reinforced windows—skids to a halt twenty feet from your position. The side door slides open before the vehicle has fully stopped.