Maxwell's POV
The war room felt like a cathedral at dawn—hushed, expectant, its stained-glass of monitors casting fractured light across scarred tables. Outside, the morning drizzle turned the streets into polished mirrors, reflecting the city's awakening pulse. Each drop that hit the windows matched the tension in my chest: an anxious heartbeat echoing the weight of last night's rebellion and the far more daunting challenge of what lay ahead.
I moved along the rows of flickering screens, absorbing every update: global news anchors dissecting our broadcast, social media feeds churning with #Reckoning, and encrypted comms buzzing with field reports. Through the haze of cables and routers, I caught fragments—"shareholder petition," "legal injunction," "public sentiment swinging." The pattern was clear: our first strike had landed, but this was only the opening movement.
