The sky over the city didn’t turn gray; it turned a bruised, electric purple.
Elias stood on his balcony, watching the birds flee in a frantic, silent exodus. Below, the streets were a chaotic grid of brake lights and sirens. The weather apps had called it a "high-pressure anomaly," but the internet had already given it a better name: Stormageddon.
By 6:00 PM, the wind didn't just blow; it screamed. It was a sound that felt ancient, like a giant waking up after a thousand-year sleep. Elias retreated inside, sliding the glass doors shut just as the first drop hit. It wasn't water. It was a jagged shard of ice, the size of a fist, that shattered against the railing with the force of a gunshot. Then, the power died.