The siren in Navara no longer screamed; it shivered. A thin metallic tremor ran along the canal as if someone plucked a wire beneath the city, setting shopfront shutters and a thousand tired ribs humming in sympathy. Beneath Bridge K-7, a skiff idled without a motor, its hull kissing algae and reflected neon. The water held a postcard of the skyline—crooked towers, scaffolded cranes, a weather-balloon that refused to die.