The corridor seemed endless, stretching like a vein cut through the spire. Each panel glowed faint with residual power, humming softly, the last whispers of a machine not yet aware it was dying. Cain's blade caught the glow, silver edge whispering with every step he took. Behind him, the others moved in silence, their breathing shallow, their bodies taut with the weight of decisions made moments ago.
The Grid was screaming, though not in sound. Its scream lived in the lights stuttering along the walls, the hum that pitched unevenly, the vibrations trembling beneath their boots. Steve glanced at the displays, sweat cutting lines across his soot-stained face. "We hit it harder than I thought," he muttered.
"Good," Roselle said flatly. Her pistol swung in arcs, her eyes sharp, her voice stripped of anything but edge.
