The sky was bone-white at noon, stretched thin over a city trying to pretend it hadn't just been gutted.
Cain and the others slipped through the alleys of South Dock, their boots splashing through puddles that shimmered with oil and data-ink runoff. Half the neon signs were dead. The other half blinked the wrong words. The network's blackout hadn't just burned the Grid—it had rewired the city's pulse.
Susan limped, her shoulder wrapped tight with cloth that hadn't been white for hours. Hunter walked beside her, scanning every window. Steve's transmitter pulsed green once every five seconds, the only rhythm left in this part of the sprawl.
They passed a child sitting beside a shuttered food stall, watching a dead drone spark and twitch. The kid didn't flinch when Hunter tossed him a ration pack. He just caught it and kept staring.
Roselle whispered, "This place looks like a memory that refused to die."
Cain said, "Memories are better armed than people."
