The sky over Ravensfield bruises in layers—orange, then a raw magenta that bleeds into the glass towers by the harbor. It throws mirror-light across the street where Forrest pedals too fast, knuckles white on cold metal, backpack straps biting into his shoulders. His breath fogs in the air though the day had been warm; his teeth chatter when he thinks of the ledger app and Maya's face at the kitchen sink, tired and small-framed in the glow of the stove. He is late. Again. Bike tires hiss over wet paint. A delivery scooter zips past, a kid in a BrewBoard vest waving an apologetic hand. The crosswalk light blinks like a needy eye. Forrest wants nothing more than to get home, set the pasta on, check the tip jar from the shop, and log his hours before bed. College doesn't pay itself. Every minute late is another shift he has to make up. Every dollar lost is a soft landing ripped away from the scholarship stack he's building—$176 today would have been the part of a summer tuition deposit he'd been counting down to. He doesn't see Dagger until he's already on him. "Watch it," a voice says, flat, low, confident enough that even the cars slow a little. Forrest's front wheel clips something—warm, solid—and the handlebars twist. He tries to right the bike and his ankle catches on the curb. The world contracts to the crash of