Three days after the network went silent, the air itself began to hum.
At first, it was subtle — a low, rhythmic resonance that people mistook for distant machinery or electrical feedback. But soon, it was everywhere. Radios hissed with phantom voices, television static formed faint patterns, and even unpowered speakers vibrated faintly with an inaudible rhythm.
They called it the Ghost Signal.
For most citizens, it was nothing more than another inexplicable phenomenon in a world long accustomed to digital oddities. But for those who had seen what the Archive could do, it was a warning.
In the lab, Lin sat before an array of receivers, headphones pressed tightly over his ears. The signal wasn't random noise; it pulsed in perfect mathematical ratios — patterns of three, five, thirteen — a sequence that repeated every ninety-seven seconds.
"It's not interference," he muttered. "It's a broadcast."
Keller looked up from his screen. "From where?"
