The filament did not breach the boundary.
It changed.
The pale thread widened, thinning into a wavering veil of light that hovered inches from the invisible barrier. It did not burn. It did not push.
It listened.
Ira felt it immediately.
Not as presence.
As intention.
Her breath slowed.
"They're not trying to enter," she said quietly. "They're trying to speak."
Rehaan's jaw tightened. "They don't speak. They extract."
The veil pulsed faintly.
Then the air bent.
A vibration passed through the space between worlds, subtle enough that the stone did not react—but Ira did.
Her knees weakened.
Devansh caught her before she fell.
And in that instant—
the veil shaped sound.
"Ira Malhotra."
Her name did not echo.
It settled.
Not into the air.
Into her.
Her pulse thundered.
Devansh's voice was low and lethal. "Do not answer."
The presence did not repeat her name.
It spoke something else.
"You are not where you belong."
Ira's lips parted, breath trembling.
The voice was neither male nor female.
It carried no emotion.
And yet—its absence of emotion felt designed.
"They can hear you," Rehaan said sharply. "Not your voice. Your alignment."
The veil brightened faintly.
"You are a convergence," the voice continued. "A deviation from the closed system."
Devansh felt the city's deeper layers tense.
Old laws braced.
"You were never meant to occur again," the presence said.
Ira closed her eyes.
The heaviness inside her stirred—not in fear, but in recognition.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Devansh's grip tightened.
The veil shimmered.
"Clarification," the voice replied. "And custody."