PORTSTEAD — MIDNIGHT — BEHIND "EMERALD PETALS"
The freed "reformers" stumbled into the street like newborns, blinking at air that didn't smell like roses and control.
One of them turned back once, eyes red, and said hoarsely, "She made us *listen* to the speeches while we—while we couldn't—"
Sera's jaw tightened.
"Go," she said gently. "Tell the truth. Loud."
They ran.
The shop was wrecked. Glass everywhere. Stems crushed underfoot. Spilled tinctures bleeding green into the floorboards.
Mira held the black card Mercedes left us like it was contagious.
Shadow stood near the ceiling beam, half-shadow themself, eyes fixed on the back room where those stitched-mouth victims had been.
Sera didn't look at any of it for long.
She stared at the address.
**THE PRINTING HOUSE — UNDER PORTSTEAD**
"I don't like it," I said.
Sera's silver eyes flicked to me. "I know."
"That usually doesn't stop you."
