The city didn’t sleep that night, but Amara did.

For the first time in days, she let herself drift into a shallow, restless slumber inside a rented car parked along the quiet edge of Brooklyn. The streets outside were wet, glistening under the dim yellow streetlights. The storm had passed, but its echo still lingered — a hush heavy enough to drown out thought.

Her phone was off. Her SIM card snapped in half and tossed into a gutter hours ago. The woman the world knew as Amara Hayes-Blackwell had stopped existing at midnight.

She woke before dawn to the sound of distant sirens. The air smelled like wet concrete...