The next days unfolded in work and consequence. Indictments began: procurement fraud, abuse of office, reckless endangerment. The shell company’s officers vanished then reappeared in cuffs. The man from the bridge was named in filings as a contractor for “security assurance.”
Rhea resigned her post and accepted a role as an expert witness, trading a salary for a spine she could live with. Jax rebuilt his channel on sturdier ground, this time as part of a cooperative where no single platform could be throttled alone.
Kelechi turned himself in with counsel and a statement that made no excuses. He faced charges for his part in transport and interference but received leniency for cooperation and testimony. On the courthouse steps, he hugged Amara hard. “I’m not running anymore,” he said. “I’m tired of being weathered.”
The state offered Amara a position in the capital—head of a new task force on ethical weather tech. The salary was a sky she could live under. So was the work. But the lab space at the high school called to her too, empty since the physics teacher retired—a place where she could build something that stayed.
She walked to the mural at evening, touched the flaked paint near her mother’s cheek. The town breathed around her—tired, bruised, but intact.

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