Probably habit. Or a ritual. Or a nervous tick. Or just the one thing she could control after getting tossed around by dungeon physics for two hours.
Lucen got that.
Callen hadn't spoken in a while. He sat shotgun, upright, stiff, like the car seat offended his posture. His shield was tucked awkwardly between his legs, and he kept staring at the dashboard like it might offer an explanation for everything that just happened.
Taira slowed the car slightly as they passed a crumbling guard rail.
The road curved along an artificial bluff, an old skyway from the pre-drift era. It had never been repaved. Probably never would.
Lucen caught a glimpse of the lower districts.
Gray buildings stacked on grayer buildings. Mana pipes bleeding glow. Steam vents whistling between alley mouths. A billboard flickered overhead advertising "clean arcfield therapy" with a cartoon squirrel vomiting glitter.
He didn't laugh.
Just blinked once. Then looked down.
