7:30 A.M.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and nothing else.

Yuna stood at the counter in yesterday's button-up — dark grey, half-tucked, two buttons shy of professional — holding her mug with both hands the way people hold things when they're not really thinking about holding them. The spoon was still in her other hand. She'd forgotten to put it down. She often forgot to put it down.

Outside, the city was already doing what cities do. She wasn't looking at it. She was looking at approximately nothing, the middle-distance stare of someone whose brain had clocked in even if the rest of her hadn't quite caught up.