A Bug in the Code

The silence didn't last.

By dawn, the news feeds were screaming. District 7 had gone dark for exactly fourteen minutes—long enough for whispers to become shouts, for fear to curdle into something hotter, something dangerous. The Sentinel's grip had slipped, and the city had felt it.

Miyu watched from the rooftop of a derelict arcade, her hood pulled low as the first protests flickered to life in the streets below. A group of factory workers, their faces half-hidden behind scarves, overturned a surveillance van. A cluster of students scrawled fresh graffiti over a propaganda screen: THE SENTINEL LIES.

For the first time in a decade, Neo-Tokyo was waking up.

Lena's voice crackled through Miyu's earpiece: "You seeing this?"

Miyu didn't answer. Her fingers traced the outline of the neural drive in her pocket—empty now, but still warm. Echo was gone. Kai was gone. But this?

This was theirs.

A bottle shattered against the pavement, the sound sharp as a gunshot. The crowd surged, their voices rising into a single, wordless roar.

Somewhere in the chaos, a drone sputtered back to life, its red eye scanning the unrest.

Miyu stood.

The fire was lit.

Now it was time to burn.