5:00 AM.
Ethan Hawke's eyes shot open.
He wasn't in his apartment bed, but curled up on a five-foot-long sofa in the outer room of the Mayor's Office.
This was the seventh day in a row.
His neck was as stiff as a board, and his spine let out a series of cracks.
He sat up. The blanket slid to the floor, revealing a white shirt so wrinkled it was a lost cause.
Ethan grabbed the half-full cup of cold coffee from the coffee table and took a swig.
The bitter coldness flowed down his esophagus, waking his stomach and forcibly dragging his mind from its chaotic state back to reality.
He walked to the window and pulled open a corner of the blinds.
Outside, Pittsburgh was still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness, lit only by the streetlights and the searchlights from the distant Inland Port construction site.
The city looked quiet.
But Ethan knew that beneath this calm facade, the city was running a fever.
Leo Wallace had lit too many fires.
