Or.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Not just for calling. For everything.”

He could use it to win arguments. Expose liars. Get rich. Manipulate.

He just needed to call Mira back.

At 10:30 PM, Alex sat on his fire escape, coal in hand, and realized what it was: not a rock, but a lens. A filter that showed the hidden thermodynamics of human intention. Every unspoken apology, every secret hope, every quiet act of cruelty or kindness—the coal rendered them as visible, fleeting auroras.