The night broke before dawn could catch it. Smoke clung to the skyline, the Grid's skeleton glowing in slow, dying pulses. Cain and the others stood on the deck of a derelict transport, the hull groaning beneath the weight of ash. The city below still breathed—but it was uneven, gasping through broken circuits and burned orders.
Susan pressed a hand against her ribs, her breaths shallow. "We didn't just cut their network," she said, eyes tracking the ghost-lights of patrol drones falling into the sea. "We cut their spine."
Roselle checked her pistol, silent. Her gaze swept the horizon like she expected the dawn to shoot back.
Steve sat slouched by the ship's terminal, his fingers blackened with grease. "Spine's one thing," he muttered. "But parasites crawl even without a head."
