THE FIRST THING I COULDN’T REMEMBER

Calista’s POV

The first sign that my memories could no longer protect me arrived three days

before the event that was supposed to prove I was right.

I spent the gray morning hours at my mahogany desk, spreading digital manifests

and city planning maps across the polished surface as I tried to force reality to

align with the text of The Last Dawn. According to the novel's exposition, the

initial wave of infrastructure failures was supposed to cascade outward in a

predictable sequence beginning weeks after the cataclysmic shift.

Yet the live feeds from Edevane’s municipal grid painted a different, more erratic

picture. V oltage drops and unexplained blackouts were already erupting in outer

districts that the book described as completely stable.

Whether these anomalies were the butterfly effect of my own early interventions or

proof that the novel’s foundational timeline was fundamentally flawed, the result

was the same: I could no longer afford to wait for a fixed schedule. I drafted an

immediate instruction to accelerate the final transfer of my emergency caches tothe District Twelve compound, determined to secure my inventory before the

supply chains fractured completely.

By mid-morning, Nyvelle Thorne met me at the gates of the abandoned logistics

site. She did not bother with pleasantries, stepping around a rusted drainage grate

with her clipboard already in hand as she surveyed the weathered concrete

buildings.

"If you're planning on riding out a major disruption here, Lady Drevane, we have a

massive amount of work to do,

" Nyvelle said, her sharp brown eyes narrowing as

she pointed toward the primary warehouse.

"The storage bays are structurally sound, but the auxiliary power systems are

decades out of date. The water filtration units need a secondary backup pump, and

the perimeter fence is basically decorative. More importantly, there's only one

viable access road for heavy vehicles. If the surrounding blocks panic, this place

becomes a bottleneck.

"

"I am well aware of its limitations,

" I replied, pulling my wool coat tighter against

the damp harbor wind.

"I am not looking for a luxury estate, Nyvelle. I need a

functional stronghold that can keep people alive when ordinary services stop

functioning.

"

She paused, looking at me with a mixture of professional curiosity and skepticism.

"How long do you expect the disruption to last?"

"Long enough that you won't want to rely on the municipal water supply,

" I

answered evenly.

Nyvelle studied my expression for a long beat, searching for hesitation, but her

practical instincts ultimately overrode her doubts. With a sharp nod, she began

sketching notes onto her pad.

"Fine. If we prioritize reinforcing the perimeter gates

and upgrading the generators this week, we can make it defensible. But you're

going to need a reliable secondary supply chain. You can't put all your inventory

into a single basket.

"She was right. And as if to punctuate her warning, my phone buzzed in my pocket

a moment later with a message from my primary equipment supplier, notifying me

that a bulk transport of medical supplies had been inexplicably delayed due to a

sudden, unannounced road closure on the western bypass.

When I called the distribution center to demand an explanation, the supervisor

stumbled over his words, claiming the route had been sealed off as a precautionary

municipal measure, even though local news outlets had broadcast nothing about

maintenance or accidents in that sector. The closure had happened quietly, hours

before any public advisory.

The supply chain was unraveling faster than the novel had ever predicted.

"We diversify our suppliers immediately,

" I told Nyvelle, turning away from the

biting wind.

"Find secondary vendors outside the central commercial zone, and

double our allocation for shelf-stable goods. Whatever it costs.

"

Nyvelle looked up, her expression tightening with a mixture of urgency and

lingering suspicion.

"You're acting like someone who knows a storm is coming,

Calista. Not just a routine blackout.

"

"I am acting like someone who refuses to be caught unprepared,

" I said, meeting

her gaze without flinching.

Before we could finish mapping out the revised logistics routes, a notification

flashed across my secure terminal, an intelligence update concerning a minor

emergency-response incident near one of the city intersections.

The names attached to the report caught me completely off guard. It involved a

low-level clerk who, according to the novel's background lore, was supposed to

play a minor role in the post-apocalyptic settlement arcs months from now, yet the

file noted he had already sustained severe injuries during an unexplained structural

collapse at a public transit hub.

My chest tightened. The ripple effects of my changes were touching people who

hadn't even entered my personal orbit yet. The novel was not an absolute map; itwas a crumbling sketch, and the blank spaces between its lines were growing wider

by the day.

Just as we prepared to leave the compound, my phone chimed with an incoming

call from the property acquisition representative. The tone of his voice had shifted

from apologetic to deeply unsettled.

"Lady Drevane,

" the representative said quickly.

"The municipal board has

received another inquiry regarding the District Twelve deed. They aren't just

reviewing utility access anymore. Someone pulled the full municipal architectural

history of the site.

"

I stopped walking.

"Who?"

"I don't know the name, but the board's clerk said it was an independent state

investigator.

"

Before I could demand details, Nyvelle’s phone buzzed sharply against her palm.

She glanced down at the screen, her face draining of color, and thrust the device

toward me.

It was a text message from a trusted logistics contact embedded within the

municipal transport authority, accompanied by a high-resolution photograph taken

from across the street. The image showed a sleek, unmarked government vehicle

parked directly outside the rusty perimeter gates of our compound.

Beneath the photograph was a single, chilling line of text:

Someone has been asking whether this property can survive a citywide emergency.

They specifically asked about Calista Drevane.