The air was crisp, carrying the clean, metallic scent of late autumn. Two days had passed since the forced shutdown, two days of silence and slow, deliberate recovery.
The migraine was gone, replaced by a residual, low-level hum the System, now running in a stable, low-power Safe Mode.
Mateo stood in the small courtyard behind his apartment, adjusting the seat of his new bicycle.
It was a gift from the club that he had bought for himself, a sleek, matte-black road bike, a machine built for speed and efficiency, much like the boy who owned it. This was his first outing, a sanctioned piece of light activity, a test of his recovery.
The moment his feet found the pedals, a sense of profound relief washed over him. The motion was rhythmic, predictable, a physical counterpoint to the mental chaos of the past few days. He pushed off, the tires whispering on the pavement, and turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street leading out of the city center.
