Rook stood on the tower as the world began to unravel.
Not burn. Not fall.But unravel—like an old thread pulled from the edge of a coat sleeve. Seam by seam.
The alien vessels—those impossible, black-winged shapes above the ionosphere—still hadn't fired. No weapons. No contact.
And yet, across the world, people were collapsing.
Some with eyes rolled back.Some sobbing.Some laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.
The ships weren't attacking Earth's defenses.They were pulling something deeper.
Memory.
In the Archive below, Aya Sparks was screaming at her console.
"They're bypassing encryption! I didn't even know this layer existed!"
The Archive was lit in blinding data-light. Massive projections of unprocessed trauma hovered like ghosts. Voices from a hundred thousand lives echoed through the chamber—cries of loss, confession, betrayal.
A child's voice sobbed, "Why didn't you save me?"
A woman screamed in Concord dialect: "I told you I loved her—why didn't you believe me?"
