The countdown in the sky was not a clock; it was a pulse. Every time the red numbers flickered from 60 to 59, the ground beneath Piccadilly Circus let out a low, tectonic groan. The world was shivering. It was the sound of a billion hard drives spinning to their deaths, the sound of a reality being prepared for the incinerator.
Lyra stood in the center of the chaos. Around her, the "Reset" Londoners were frozen. Some were mid-step, their bodies translucent as the system struggled to decide if they were "Current Data" or "Historical Waste."
"Lucian, look at the sky," Lyra shouted.
Lucian wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at his hands. The charcoal suit he had been wearing was now fused with his skin, turning into a living armor of matte-black carbon fiber. His glass wings didn't just reflect the light; they fractured it into thousands of tiny, stinging needles.
