The UN Security Council chamber smelled like stale coffee, fear, and the sharp tang of ozone from overloaded servers.
Every seat was filled. Not just ambassadors—generals, intelligence heads, even a few religious leaders granted emergency observer status. All eyes were on the central podium, where Victoria Cross stood alone, back straight, hands clasped behind her, wearing a charcoal suit that looked more like armor than fabric.
Above her, Lysander's countdown glowed on every screen: 68:14:03.
She didn't acknowledge it.
"Three days ago," she began, voice calm, precise, "the world was asked to surrender its future to myth."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Victoria let it fade before continuing. "Myth doesn't negotiate. It consumes. And if we comply, we won't be saving civilization—we'll be erasing it."
She tapped a button.
The lights dimmed.
