Anya Oxi doesn’t run from the storm; she breathes it in. At twenty-eight, she is a climatologist for the last habitable arcology in the Northern Sinks, but her colleagues call her "The Barometer" because the pressure in the room always drops when she enters. She has silver-threaded hair tied in a loose braid and eyes the color of rust—permanently stained from staring at oxidizing skies.
"The horizon is rusting," she says to the void. "Let me show you how to bloom instead." anya oxi
Instantly, a crack forms. The hissing grows louder. Anya Oxi doesn’t run from the storm; she breathes it in
