Anya Oxi — [work]

She taps the glass once. The crack spiderwebs. A tendril of orange dust slips through the breach, curling around her wrist. It doesn't burn. It feels like a handshake.

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. anya oxi

And if you press your ear to the stem, you can still hear her humming. She taps the glass once

The Glass Horizon