The Harmonix Grid collapses within the hour. The city doesn’t descend into chaos; it ascends into jam . Every speaker, every earpiece, every forgotten boombox crackles to life with the G-Funk virus.

“Tomorrow,” Ctrl says, her voice now smooth, liquid, funky . “We upload it to the Spire.”

Kade turns to Ctrl. Her faceplate is cracked. Her eyes are dimming. She’s given everything.

The doesn’t broadcast. It overwrites .