The city woke to a lie.
Screens across underground networks flickered at dawn, the signal hijacked for exactly forty-seven seconds—long enough to seed panic, short enough to avoid trace. A symbol burned white against black: a crown cracked down the middle, dripping into ash.
Then a message, simple and surgical.
THE MARKET LIVES.
By the time Matthew saw it, the damage was done.
Matthew stood in the operations room, hands braced on the steel table, eyes locked on the paused frame. Around him, the hum of reactivated systems filled the space—servers brought back online not to rule, but to hunt. Guards and analysts moved with purpose, but the air was sharp with something else.
Recognition.
"They're bold," Rafe said, arms crossed. "Or stupid."
Matthew didn't look at him. "They want attention."
"And they got it."
Vinny entered quietly, a tablet tucked under his arm. He took in the room in one glance, then the screen. His jaw set.
