A woman who’d been crying against a pillar stopped. She blinked, as if waking from a dream.
"The one in my chest," Cyrus whispered, then walked out into the night, his footsteps landing perfectly on the beat.
When he finished, the space wasn’t silent. It was whole . The drip of the pipe was now a crisp hi-hat. The transformer’s whine was a melodic drone. The people were no longer angry or lost. They were nodding. They were a choir of two-step.
He found the second crack: the high-pitched whine of a distant transformer, a note of anxiety that set teeth on edge. Leo twisted a knob, pitched the whine down into a deep sub-bass, and wove it into the rhythm.