Click.
Crowds across the world flinched, eyes shut tight. In the Indian market that filled the feed, vendors clutched their children, prayers spilling from their lips. People braced for pain, for blood, for death.
T +35.
The screen showed chaos—people pushing, screaming, some falling to the ground in fear. But not a single body bled, not a single soul collapsed the way Atropos promised.
T +40.
Atropos froze. The mask tilted, stunned. Her hand jabbed the button again.
Click.
Still nothing.
The President leaned forward in the conference chamber. "What's happening?"
The NATO representative's face was pale. "I don't know, Mr. President. Looks like… something interrupted her trigger."
On the screen, Atropos pressed again, frantic now. Click. Click. Nothing. Her laugh cracked, faltering.
And then—movement behind her.
