On an ordinary afternoon in Derana City, two seventh-graders take the long way home. Pia leads — sharp, restless, already mid-complaint. Fira follows, quiet and watchful.

Then the parking area across the street becomes fire.

No warning. A wall of orange light, sound arriving late, then the shockwave — and both girls are on the pavement. Around them the city fractures and keeps moving. Car alarms. Smoke darker than black. Someone nearby says missile, once, like a word they don't believe yet.

Fira watches Pia go still. The girl who is never still. That stillness is worse than anything burning across the road.

Behind them, the city keeps being the city. In front of them, the fire keeps being the fire.

Then Pia's hand finds hers on the pavement. Not reaching. Not gripping. Just — there.