The next morning arrived like a glitch in the sky.
A red sun burned through the smog, bleeding light across Seoul's fractured skyline. The air smelled of metal and rain, the aftertaste of electricity still clinging to every breath.
Down below, in the subterranean tunnels, Lin was already awake. He'd been awake all night—his eyes hollowed by hours of data flow, trying to trace what exactly had happened during Keller's link with the Seam's echo.
Every few minutes, the monitors flared with interference patterns, thin as static, whispering beneath the surface of clean data. They reminded Lin of a heartbeat—irregular, persistent, alive.
When Hana finally stirred from her corner, she found him leaning over Keller's diagnostics.
"He hasn't moved?" she asked softly.
Lin shook his head. "He's stable. Neural readings are… strange, though. There's activity where there shouldn't be any."
She frowned. "Activity?"
