The world didn't end.
It unraveled.
Not in fire.
Not in noise.
But in something colder.
Something heavier.
Something that dragged everything down with it.
The Manhattan Bridge—the iron giant that had stood over my life like a silent guardian—was gone.
Not destroyed.
Erased.
In its place, a jagged wound tore through the skyline, glowing an unnatural electric blue, like the city itself had been cut open to expose something it was never meant to reveal.
The sound of its collapse didn't fade.
It echoed.
Through steel.
Through stone.
Through bone.
Through me.
But there was no time to grieve.
No time to process.
No time to breathe.
Because four stories beneath the surface—
The East River was coming.
"Reid!"
My voice cracked as the first wave hit.
It didn't rush in gently.
It invaded.
Icy.
Heavy.
Violent.
