The night smelled of metal.
Not of rust or blood – but of data, of glowing memory that seemed to breathe. A flickering haze lay over the streets, as if light itself was afraid to become too bright.
The Will Field was quiet. Too quiet.
Rhea stood on the tower's roof and felt the hair on her neck stand up. Below her, the city pulsed in golden rhythm. Every breath, every movement – predictable.
"This is what perfection feels like," she murmured.
Eiko stepped beside her, a flickering tablet in hand. "Or death in slow motion."
He pointed to the readings. "The Field hasn't reduced its activity – it's hidden it. Every second it synchronizes new neural pathways. If we don't stop it, no one will lose the ability to dream anymore."
"Dream?" Rhea laughed dryly. "That's long been forbidden without anyone saying it out loud."
