September 3, 2025 — MOA Complex, Conrad Tower
The morning sun filtered through the wide, reinforced windows of the Estaris quarters. It cast soft lines across the polished concrete floor, the kind of morning light that felt earned—like the city had survived another day, and this sunrise was its quiet reward. The hum of early life within the MOA Complex was faint but present: a broom scraping in the hall, the muted chatter of maintenance crews, and the clinking of cookware in the canteen level below.
Thomas Estaris blinked awake to the sound of his daughter stirring. Not crying—just awake. Alert.
He sat up slowly, brushing sleep from his eyes, then turned his head toward the bassinet. Amara was lying there, wrapped in a cotton blanket, her tiny fists poking through like a miniature boxer ready for a title match. Her eyes were wide, staring up at the ceiling with the kind of serious curiosity Thomas always found unnerving—and endearing.
