Chapter Text
TIRIS: the bittersweet awareness that all things must end
— The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
The world ends on a Wednesday in the fall of 2035.
On the morning of the end of the world, Lucy Gray is trying to coax a cup of instant coffee out of the battered drip machine.
“C’mon now,” she coaxes it, tapping the side as though persuasion might work. “One good cup for the road. We’ve been friends too long for you to betray me now.”
Maude Ivory is perched on the vinyl kitchen chair across the counter. She's fifteen but so slight she’s often mistaken for twelve. She’s scanning the newsfeed on a cracked tablet. She’s not reading, just letting the warnings about minor tremors off the coast and underwater landslide in the Atlantic scroll by.
Lucy Gray shakes the canister of cheap grounds, comes up empty, and dumps the last of it into the filter anyway. There’s a little slush of brown mud at the bottom, barely enough for one.
She looks at the bread bag. There’s one heel left, edges curling like a dog’s lip. She’d meant to hit the store last night, but after the show she’d needed to walk off the crowd’s static energy, and by then the market on P Street had locked up.
She thinks about breaking up the bread into croutons, but Maude Ivory likes it best toasted, and so Lucy Gray toasts it. There’s no butter. She spreads it with a sliver of old jam, magenta crystals digging into the crust.
“Maude Ivory,” she calls, “if you want toast, you better get it before I change my mind.”
The girl glances up, thumb tracing lazy circles on the tablet’s surface. “No butter?”
“No butter,” Lucy Gray says, trying to make it a joke, “but you can have all the jam your heart desires.”
She sets the plate down. Maude Ivory tears off a piece, chewing without comment, but Lucy Gray winks at her like she’s just offered a banquet.
The coffee machine sputters, gurgles, and spits one last, defiant drop into the mug. Lucy Gray takes it straight. She can never remember if there’s any cream in the fridge, and she doesn’t care enough to check.
“So what’s the plan?” Maude Ivory asks. “You gonna sleep all day, or are you going to do something about the electric bill?”
Lucy Gray slides into the chair opposite, lets her gaze drift toward the window. The frayed yellow curtain filters the city’s morning light into something not quite natural, everything just a few shades too sour. The apartment feels both close and empty; Barb Azure is off on an extended visit with her girlfriend’s family in Richmond, and Billy Taupe hasn’t shown his face since the screaming match that ended with him storming out and slamming the door so hard a neighbor’s baby started screaming three doors down.
Lucy Gray has been on her own since seventeen, when she ran off with Billy Taupe. She had believed in his promises.
Then when she turned eighteen, Eliza Jane, her aunt by marriage, the woman who’d raised her after her parents died, passed suddenly, so Lucy Gray went down to Kentucky to get Maude Ivory.
Legal guardian at eighteen.
Somehow she’d managed it for three years so far, though “guardian” still felt like a word for someone more stable.
“I’ve only got today off,” Lucy Gray says. “Barb Azure left some money so if I do anything, it’ll be groceries. Or I’ll finally get around to throwing out all those letters addressed to ‘Current Resident.’ Honestly, what year is this? Letters.”
Maude Ivory licks a sugar crystal from her fingertip. “You could call Billy Taupe,” she suggests, voice so flat Lucy Gray can’t tell if it’s a dare or just a reflex.
Lucy Gray laughs, but it comes out strangled. “Not unless you want to see what happens when a man with a guitar string for a spine gets his feelings hurt.” She runs a hand through her hair. It’s already half out of its braid, a dark halo. “Anyway, he’s probably busy with that other girl.”
Maude Ivory reaches into her backpack pocket, pulls out a few folded bills, and slides them across the table. “Oh, this is to add to the grocery fund. Two shifts at the store, and I’m rolling in it.”
Lucy Gray frowns, pushing the money back. “That’s yours. Buy yourself something. Shoes. A book. Anything.”
Maude Ivory nudges it right back, a smile twitching at her mouth. “Shoes are overrated, books are free at the library, and if you don’t take it, I’ll just blow it all. Your choice.”
Lucy Gray huffs a laugh despite herself, scooping up the bills. “Fine. But I’m buying the good jam this time. None of that crystalized kind.”
“Now you’re talking,” Maude Ivory says, lifting her toast like a toast.
There’s a silence between them. Lucy Gray studies Maude Ivory’s face, but the girl has already retreated behind her screen, swiping through a stream of news. Above them, a faint vibration trembles through the ceiling.
The wall screen flashes a new report:
Large underwater landslide detected, tsunami risk escalating.
Lucy Gray feels the world shrinking: bills piling up, a refrigerator that hums louder every day, the growing possibility that tomorrow, the power will finally be cut.
The wall screen blinks with fresh messages. More dunning notices, a PulsePay alert, a reminder about Maude Ivory’s field trip (funds still pending, of course). A junk message from ChromaTune, the auto-music service that’d put half the live acts out of work.
“Bless your artificial little hearts,” she mutters, flicking it aside with her thumb.
A photo from last night pops up. Unum’s stage, the red glare, Tam Amber’s arm flung high. She can almost feel the sweat on her neck, the amp’s hum in her teeth.
The gig had been a half-house at best, mostly regulars and a few curious tourists trying to make the most of their expiring capital city vacation. Tam Amber had harmonized a beat off so by the end Lucy Gray had let the music collapse into a slowed-down, aching version of their closer. People liked it, or at least they’d clapped for it.
The only ones who didn’t were the couple at the back: the tall, blond guy from the penthouse upstairs in an expensive suit and his glassy-eyed date. He hadn’t touched his drink, just sat with his elbows on the table, watching Lucy Gray in a way that made her skin tingle.
She glances at Maude Ivory, still bent over her tablet, and blurts, “Guess who showed up at Unum last night? Penthouse Blondie. Sat through the whole set without blinking.”
Maude Ivory looks up, toast halfway to her mouth. “The guy who yelled at the concierge over the car thing?”
“That one,” Lucy Gray says, spreading her hands like she’s presenting a prize on a game show.
Maude Ivory smirks, eyes sharp with mischief. “That’s how many times in a row? He’s obsessed with you.”
Lucy Gray tosses her braid over her shoulder and winks. “He’s got a girlfriend so don’t start planning my wedding yet.”
She’d encountered the guy around their building before. The concierge had once called him “the Capitoline prince,” but Lucy Gray hadn’t bothered learning his real name.
She shakes off the memory, Bigger fish to fry.
“All right,” she says, “time to get you presentable.” She snatches the jacket from the chair back and dusts it off with exaggerated care before draping it on Maude Ivory’s shoulders.
Maude Ivory tugs at the cuffs, making a face. The sleeves are short, and Lucy Gray notes the fresh inch of wrist exposed.
“I’m not growing,” Maude Ivory insists.
Lucy Gray rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
When Maude Ivory leaves for the elevator, Lucy Gray collapses back into the kitchen chair, staring at the wall screen as another stack of messages filters in. She flicks through them with the side of her thumb sorting based on importance— white headers for urgent bills, blue tabs for reminders that sound hopeful but aren’t, yellow bars flashing threats about disconnection.
She picks up her pen and starts writing a list for groceries:
Milk
eggs
bread
cabbage
lentils
oats
potatoes
jam (good)
Her pen hesitates, then she scribbles in the margin, almost sheepish:
Coffee (please)
Whiskey (cheap)
Of course, her mind drifts back to last night. The blond guy from the penthouse apartment in his stupid, expensive suit. Chin propped on his fist, eyes hollow and bright. He probably never has to worry about his fridge going empty.
The thought curdles, but before she can stew there's a sound like thunder, sudden and close, and for a second Lucy Gray thinks Billy Taupe has come back to bang on the door. But the ceiling groans, dust sifting down, and the coffee mug shudders across the table. The tremor rattles through the building, not the worst she’s felt, but enough to make the pipes clatter and the lights flicker overhead.
She presses her palm flat against the tabletop and waits for the aftershocks to settle, then picks up the coffee mug and drinks it cold. It tastes like burnt water, but she smacks her lips and says brightly, “Perfect.”
The day, her only day off, has begun.
The Capitoline is a mixed-income apartment building.
The lobby smells like lemon cleaner. Lucy Gray walks through and lets herself linger by the row of mailboxes lining the far wall as if she has all the time in the world. The building’s glass front has a hundred vertical panes from street to sky, the foot traffic outside is like something painted on a moving screen.
Her slot spits out three envelopes, wafer-thin smart-paper that warms in her hand as the text blinks across its surface. All of them bad news: one with the red PulsePay insignia, two from utilities she can barely remember signing up for.
The PulsePay sheet scrolls a warning as she tilts it:
Account Overdrawn. Immediate Action Required.
The paper flashes once before dimming, spent after its single read. Lucy Gray pinches the corner until it goes black.
As she walks back to the elevator, she wonders how many times the system will threaten her before they finally lock her band for good.
Maybe she should start asking tips in cash at Unum, but she’s pretty sure Pluribus Bell would laugh her out of the bar.
Still, she’d find a way. She always did.
The elevator pings, doors sliding open. And there he is: the blond penthouse guy from last night’s set. He stands with his hands folded, posture perfect, not a hair out of place. The suit is navy, the shirt so white it nearly glows.
He’s alone this time, though Lucy Gray still half-expects the shrill-voiced woman from the month before to appear at his side—the glossy blonde with the thousand-dollar heels and the cold laugh.
Lucy Gray had witnessed the scene in the lobby: the concierge, red-faced and stammering, while the blond guy laid into him with the attitude of someone used to being obeyed.
Something about the wrong car being sent round. Not important. What mattered was the way the woman had leaned on the counter, all perfume and smirk, and said something about “the riffraff” that had started moving into Capitoline once the rents dropped. Her tone made it sound like a contagious disease.
The blond guy hadn’t contradicted her. He’d just adjusted his cufflinks and carried on as though she’d been right.
In that moment, she’d filed him neatly into a box marked Hill brat: entitled, smug, predictable.
Now here he was, shifting aside and placing a palm against the elevator door to hold it open like a gentleman.
“Ms. Baird,” he says smoothly, as if they’ve been running into each other for years. “Out early.”
Lucy Gray matches his smile, angle for angle. “You know artists. We thrive on insomnia and bad decisions.”
The car smells faintly of his cologne. It’s clean, expensive, the kind that lingers just enough to be noticed. For a brief moment, Lucy Gray is painfully aware of the thrifted skirt and jam-stained wrist, then shakes it off, refusing to let herself feel small.
He doesn’t move to leave the elevator. Instead, he glances toward the panel of glowing buttons and back at her. “Forgot something upstairs,” he says lightly, though she doesn’t quite believe him.
“We’ve been having a lot of those mini quakes lately.”
He always attempts small talk when they cross paths.
She shrugs. “The world’s been broken for a while. Nothing new. We just keep our heads up and keep moving.”
“Hmm.” His gaze returns to hers. “I enjoyed last night’s performance. You’re talented. I know I said it before at the club, but I meant it. It’s rare these days. Almost no one bothers with smaller live acts anymore. Platforms like ChromaTune have swallowed that whole industry. Still… they’re paying well to collect samples from real artists. Natural voices. Yours could go far there.”
Lucy Gray almost laughs. “And surrender my voice to the AI overlords? No thanks. I think I’ll keep juggling my three jobs, thanks kindly.”
He looks at her as if calculating whether she’s joking. “You’d make a killing,” he decides. “But you’d be wasted there.”
Lucy Gray tilts her head, deliberately coy. “And what is it you do again? Aside from critiquing the entertainment in nightclubs.”
He leans in, lowering his voice as if about to confess a secret. “Political liaison, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Mostly I just tell people what they want to hear.”
“Seems like you’re pretty good at that.”
He grins, revealing perfect teeth. “Practice makes perfect. I’m Coriolanus, by the way. Most people just call me Coryo.”
She’s heard the name in passing. People gossip about the penthouse. “Lucy Gray,” she says, with a shrug. “Most people just call me Lucy Gray. Or nothing at all.”
The elevator rises in silence for a moment. Lucy Gray can feel his gaze on her.
“You’re not from here,” he says finally, not a question so much as an observation.
Lucy Gray arches an eyebrow. “That obvious?”
He shrugs. “Accent’s faint, but it slips through. It’s...charming.” His voice softens, but then he straightens, pulling the mask back into place.
Lucy Gray pretends not to notice, though the compliment lingers. “D.C. has its perks,” she says, giving him a slow once-over. “The people-watching, for one.”
He laughs, a single, controlled exhale, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
The elevator stops at the twelfth floor. A woman in athleisure hesitates, steps in, then steps right back out, mumbling about forgetting something.
When the doors close again, Coriolanus turns to Lucy Gray. “If you’re free after your next set, maybe we could get a drink. On me. As neighbors. Consider it a peace offering for the concierge debacle and giving you unsolicited advice.”
His smile is boyish, disarming. Against her better judgment, Lucy Gray feels her heart give the smallest skip.
She tilts her head, letting a lock of hair fall across her cheek, and lets her lips curl into a teasing grin. “A peace offering, huh?”
“I think you’d regret saying no,” he counters lightly, gaze steady. “I think I make pretty decent conversation.”
Lucy Gray laughs, soft and deliberate, letting her eyes linger.
Lucy Gray studies him. She knows his type: the kind who wants to sample something new and exotic for an evening, maybe tuck her into a weekend of casual fucking before moving on to the next flavor. She’s seen it at Unum and in every venue she’s ever played. But the invitation still flatters, and she’s not immune to curiosity, a handsome face, free drinks, and a chance to get Billy Taupe off her mind.
She lets her lips curve, sly. “And what about your girlfriend?”
He tilts his head, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “What girlfriend?”
Lucy Gray blinks once, slow. “The blonde. The one who was on your arm at Unum last night.”
Recognition flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Not a girlfriend.” His smirk deepens. “You’d know if I had one.”
Lucy Gray arches a brow, unimpressed. “Convenient.”
“Honest,” he counters smoothly, hand to heart as though swearing an oath.
She shakes her head, laughing under her breath despite herself. “Maybe,” she says at last, “if you promise not to offer me job advice again.”
“It’s a promise,” he replies, mock solemn.
The elevator glides to the 28th floor. Lucy Gray steps out, but not before catching him watching her, eyes tracking her retreat down the hall. When she turns, he’s still there: all suit, smirk, and certainty.
The hallway here is dimmer, lights set to “energy saver” mode. Lucy Gray’s mail flutters in her hands as she walks. She skims the top screen—an eviction notice addressed to her neighbor, the one who borrowed sugar twice and never returned the Tupperware. Underneath, her own overdue PulsePay alert, balance redder than ever.
She tucks the stack under her arm and heads for her door, already plotting her next move.
The city is too bright. Even through the sunglasses Lucy Gray swiped from Barb Azure, the afternoon sun needles her eyes. She squints through it, head down, bag slung across her chest, the three-block walk to Unum feeling longer than usual.
She winces and thinks maybe she’s a little hungover. Not that she overdid it. Just a couple of drinks at the sleazy congressman’s table after the set. She’d spent most of it dodging his wandering hands.
On M Street, the shopfronts are mostly blanked out, “LEASE PENDING” banners drooping from every other window. The only places open are the chain cafés and the occasional payday loan kiosk, blinking their come-ons in sickly blue. She wonders how long it’ll be before Unum gets replaced by a ChromaTune Lounge, where nobody plays live and the drinks come pre-mixed in biodegradable pouches.
She takes the side entrance, bypasses the staff biometric reader with a borrowed thumbprint. The club is dead at this hour, all light filtered through blood-red curtains, the furniture upended in corners.
Pluribus Bell is perched behind the bar, cataloguing bottles and tapping notes into a slate. His wig is off, and the lemon glasses reveal his actual eyes which are sharp and restless.
Behind him, a wall screen is playing a major network broadcast. The anchor gestures to a seismologist in a studio inset. “… it could potentially cause a large underwater landslide off the eastern seaboard that could be unprecedented in scale,” the expert says, voice calm but tense. “Combined with rising tectonic activity along multiple fault lines, I think this could trigger catastrophic mega-tsunamis.”
“Lucy Gray,” Pluribus says, without looking up, “to what do I owe the pleasure at this ungodly hour?”
She slides onto a stool, checks her reflection in the mirror behind the bar: a smudge of eye pencil, hair barely tamed. “Thought you’d be glad to see me. Or at least glad it’s not Maude Ivory bringing you another lost-and-found from the alley.”
Pluribus smiles. “The child is a genius. The city’s only honest scavenger.” He gestures at the overturned chairs. “Unlike the rest of us.”
She waits, fingers drumming the bar. When he’s ready, he closes his inventory, gives her his full attention. “You’re not here for fun,” he says. “What’s up?”
Lucy Gray squares her shoulders. “I need more shifts. Singing, bartending, coat check. Whatever you’ve got. Even if it’s just cleanup. I’m free all day on Wednesdays and on Monday afternoons.”
He studies her for a beat, expression unreadable. “You already work two other jobs. You’ll burn out.”
“I’m not scared of some heat,” she says, matching his smile.
Pluribus snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.” He checks a calendar, then, softer: “Rough patch?”
Lucy Gray looks away, picks at a water ring on the counter. “Rough decade.”
Pluribus doesn’t push. He marks her name on two nights and promises to text her if anything else opens. Before she goes, he leans in.
“Your talent is wasted here.” It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it lands differently now.
Outside, the air is thick with siren sounds, emergency alert drones passing overhead. She checks the sky. It’s nothing but blue, a streak of white jet trail. Maybe it’s just another test.
The grocery store is a few blocks south, wedged between a shuttered florist and a vape depot. The shelves are understocked and overpriced. Lucy Gray walks the aisles, eyes glued to the cart’s display screen: every item scanned flashes a running total, plus the “RECOMMENDED SUBSTITUTES” for cheaper brands.
She grabs milk, eggs, the cheapest bread, lentils, oats, and then splurges on a tin of cocoa mix. It’s the one Maude Ivory loves, the kind that turns plain hot water into something sweet and warm. She picks up a powdered coffee substitute, then, after a moment’s hesitation, puts the coffee back. She can stretch the cocoa.
At checkout, Lucy Gray queues at the self-scan station, her cart’s display syncing automatically with the kiosk. She moves through the motions quickly, wrist steady as she drags items past the reader.
A teenager in a branded vest lingers a few kiosks down, half-watching the screens, half-scrolling a tablet. He’s there to unlock glitches, approve age-restricted items, and remind customers not to slip anything past the scanner.
She holds her wrist under the PulsePay reader. The band’s light flashes orange, not the bright blue of solvency, and the holo-display makes a little “tsk” before accepting the payment. Lucy Gray’s jaw sets. She doesn’t look at the attendant; she doesn’t need pity from a kid barely old enough to shave.
On the walk home, the streets feel emptier than usual. She passes a row of Glide pods, all sleek silver and silent, their doors glowing faintly as they idle at the curb. Years ago, ride-shares like Uber and Lyft were swallowed whole by the promise of autonomous fleets. Back then, Lucy Gray’s mother used to point them out with a kind of faith—proof the future was getting better, safer, easier.
Now the pods mostly serve tourists and Capitol Hill’s elite, people who can afford the steep subscription fees or treat them like novelties. For everyone else in D.C., it’s still the Metro or your own two feet.
Lucy Gray crosses the avenue, ducking as a news drone zips overhead. Its speakers crackle with an automated update:
Seismic activity increasing along the coast. Stay tuned for further instructions.
She barely registers it. Warnings have been routine since she was a kid; even the “Big Ones” rarely knocked more than a few windows loose in the city.
She picks up her pace, legs starting to ache. Her phone buzzes: a reminder from Maude Ivory about her school performance tomorrow. She’d promised to be there, even if it meant leaving her second job early.
Lucy Gray taps out a quick reply.
Wouldn’t miss it!
By the time Lucy Gray reaches The Capitoline, her hands are numb from the bags’ plastic handles. She fumbles with the door code, enters the lobby, and lets the cool air wrap around her. For a second, she just stands, eyes closed, soaking in the silence.
She’s almost to the elevators before the concierge catches her with a too-sweet “Ms. Baird, one moment please!” He’s holding a clipboard and his smile is strained.
Lucy Gray sets her groceries on the floor, shoulders flexing to work out the tension. “If this is about the overdue waste fee, it’s not my turn. I signed last time.”
“Not at all, Ms. Baird.” He holds the clipboard at arm’s length, as if she might snatch it. “Management needs all residents’ signatures by close of business. Emergency preparedness acknowledgment, and a quick income verification update. Just a formality.”
She scans the top sheet. Her eye catches the new bolded language: “In the event of infrastructural interruption or evacuation, tenant assumes full risk of personal property.”
“I’ll, uh, run this up. Be right back.” She offers a lopsided grin, already retrieving her groceries, but he holds the clipboard steady in her path.
“If you’d just sign and bring it back quickly, I can scan it. They’re being strict today.”
“Sure thing.” She grabs the clipboard and slips it in one of the grocery sacks.
He leans in. “Miss Baird, if you have family nearby, it wouldn’t hurt to check on them.”
She wants to ask what he’s heard, but she doesn’t. She gives him a polite nod and crosses to the elevator, nearly missing her footing on the marble as the floor vibrates.
The elevator ride is longer than usual, the car pausing on each floor whether or not anyone is waiting. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, anxiety amplifying with each incremental rise.
In the apartment, she finds Maude Ivory perched on the edge of the couch, eyes fixed on the television. Lucy Gray nudges the door closed with her foot and deposits the groceries on the counter, an admonishment about unlocked doors dying on her lips as she catches the urgent tone of the news broadcast.
"—unprecedented underwater landslide detected off the eastern seaboard," a gray-haired seismologist is saying, her face grave. "The initial tremors we've been experiencing are just precursors. The government is deliberately downplaying the severity to prevent mass panic, but coastal residents need to evacuate immediately."
The camera cuts to a news anchor. "Dr. Chen, are you suggesting the government is withholding information from the public?"
"I'm stating it outright," she replies. "They're protecting themselves, not the people. Military and government officials have been quietly moving to secure locations for the past six hours. The public deserves the same chance to—"
The feed abruptly cuts to a different segment. "We apologize for the technical difficulties. We now go live to the D.C. Mayor's Office for an emergency announcement."
Lucy Gray abandons the groceries and sits beside Maude Ivory, who wordlessly grips her hand. “It got worse since this morning. They think the whole shelf is going to go. Do you know what a ‘shelf’ is?”
“What you put stuff on?” Lucy Gray says, eyes not leaving the television.
“The scientist lady says whatever’s going to happen will be like a tsunami, but not a normal one. More like an entire wall of water, except it’s coming from below.”
A spokesperson from HSEMA appears, composed and authoritative. "The District is implementing a split-zone directive effective immediately. Mandatory evacuations for all riverfront neighborhoods, including Georgetown, Waterfront, The Wharf, Navy Yard, Hains Point, and Anacostia. We strongly advise evacuations for The Mall, downtown, and Foggy Bottom areas. Residents in higher ground neighborhoods, including Upper Georgetown, are directed to shelter in place. This is a precautionary measure due to potential flooding. There is no cause for alarm.Stay tuned for updates.”
Maude Ivory looks over at Lucy, her eyes wide. “That scientist lady also said—"
"Shh," Lucy GRAY squeezes her hand as the feed switches to the White House.
The President appears, his expression grave but controlled. "My fellow Americans, in times of uncertainty, we must remain calm and follow official guidance. I urge all citizens to comply with local evacuation and shelter-in-place orders. The federal government is monitoring the situation closely. Trust that we are taking all necessary precautions to ensure your safety."
Lucy Gray mutes the television. The Capitoline sits in Upper Georgetown, technically outside the mandatory evacuation zone. She should feel relieved, but the difference between the scientist's warning and the official response leaves her uneasy.
She walks over to the window letting her eyes trace the cityscape below. Traffic is weirdly normal. She counts the glide-pods humming along M Street, the pop-up food trucks, even a bike courier weaving between them. No mass exodus yet. But she can feel the tension. It’s in the air, in the way birds dart closer to buildings, in the sky’s strange pearly cast.
Lucy Gray snaps out of it. The forms. She said she’d bring them down.
She touches Maude Ivory’s shoulder as she passes. “I’m just running to the lobby. Be back in five. Start putting the groceries away, okay?”
“You think we’re safe here?” Maude Ivory asks, her voice small but steady.
Lucy Gray hesitates. “We're following the shelter-in-place order. We're on high ground. We'll be fine.”
“Don’t use the elevators,” the girl warns, mouth full of a peanut butter sandwich. “Earthquake protocol.”
Lucy Gray smiles. “I’ll take the stairs.”
But she doesn’t.
The stairwell is pitch dark and reeks of mildew, so she gambles on the elevator, tapping her floor number three times before it budges. As she rides, she watches her own reflection in the gold-tinged mirror.
The lobby is busier than before. The concierge is gone, replaced by a digital kiosk that flashes “Please Stand By.” A handful of residents hover in the entryway, clutching pets or rolling suitcases, exchanging tight-lipped rumors.
Lucy Gray heads for the desk but almost collides with Coriolanus Snow as he rounds the corner, tie loose, shirt rumpled. He’s pale and wild-eyed, but still manages a small smile when he registers it’s her.
“Lucy Gray,” he says, surprise and something else—relief?—flickering across his face.
She almost calls him Coryo. “Hey there Coriolanus.”
Before he can respond, the floor beneath them lurches. It is a full, building-wide heave. The windows vibrate, the marble creaks, dust rains from the ceiling. The quake lasts only seconds. An alarm shrieks overhead, but no one screams. The silence after is more terrifying than any siren.
“Jesus,” she whispers, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He steadies her elbow. “We have to go. Now.”
Lucy Gray looks toward the elevators, half-expecting Maude Ivory to appear.
“I need to get back upstairs,” she says, already turning toward the stairs.
He grabs her wrist. It’s not hard, but enough to stop her. “You have thirty minutes, tops. After that, they lock down everything east of here. There’s already checkpoints on the bridges. Come with me.”
"What?" She tries to pull away, but his grip tightens.
“There's a transport leaving from the old Pentagon Metro in less than thirty minutes. There should be extra space for you. If we wait, we're trapped.” His eyes burn with intensity. “What's coming is going to cause chaos in the next six hours. People are going to panic when it sinks in. The tremors are just a warning before it all comes down.” He still doesn’t let go. “Come with me.”
Lucy Gray stands frozen, a thousand possibilities tunneling through her brain. On the wall above the lobby desk, the President’s address replays in an endless loop: “Remain calm. Shelter in place. Listen to your local officials.”
Lucy Gray stares at his hand. The practical part of her mind recognizes the moment for what it is. The pivot point where everything changes.
Then another tremor hits—longer this time, a teeth-rattler—and the decision is made for her.
“I need to get Maude Ivory.”