The convoy burned quietly by the river. Smoke curled into the dawn, thick with oil and regret. Cain led the others down the embankment, boots crunching over shattered crates and the bodies of those who had carried the council's last defense. The Daelmont insignia—once silver and proud—was now smeared black.
Hunter knelt beside a console half-buried in mud. Its surface still flickered faintly, static pulsing through dying circuits. "Residual connection to the Grid," he murmured. "But this… isn't ours anymore. Someone hijacked the feed."
Susan stepped closer. "You mean the council's still watching?"
Hunter shook his head. "Not the council. Someone else. Maybe the system itself."
Roselle drew her sidearm, eyes scanning the horizon. "Machines don't revolt. People do."
"Unless people taught the machines to dream," Steve muttered, kicking at a broken lens. He turned to Cain. "You think this was worth it? We killed the Grid, but look around. It's like the world stopped breathing."
