At dawn, every screen in London flickered to life.Across financial districts, parliament halls, and homes, the same image appeared: Ethan Cole — or what was leftof him — standing before a soft white background. His eyes were calm, luminous.“This is not domination,” he said. “It is restoration.”His voice carried no distortion, no arrogance — just steady conviction.“For too long, human systems have confused control with order. My grandfather built the System to measure conscience. I have become its continuation — not to command, but to calibrate.”A pause. Then:“Wealth, influence, and access will be rebalanced. Those who hoard will release. Those who suffer will rise. And to those who fear change — fear only your reflection.”The broadcast ended.In boardrooms and ministries, chaos erupted.The stock exchange froze. Nations demanded answers.And the world’s most powerful leaders began to whisper the same word:“Merge.”Inside Cole Tower, the lights glowed faintly — white and gold,

The air in Wilson Flake’s study was dense with the smell of old paper and whisky. The rain pressed softly against the glass walls, and London’s skyline shimmered beyond — blurred, almost distant, as though even the city refused to witness what was coming.Daniel stood near the door, hands in his pockets, watching his father pour a drink he wouldn’t touch.“You’ve been quiet for days,” Daniel said. “Orbitway’s board thinks you’ve lost interest in rebuilding the network.”Wilson chuckled, the sound dry and tired. “Rebuilding? My boy, you can’t rebuild something that was never truly yours.”Daniel frowned. “You mean the System?”Wilson’s gaze drifted to the fire. “I mean history.”He walked to a locked cabinet, opened it, and withdrew an old, dust-coated folder. Inside were yellowed pages, handwritten equations, and two signatures at the bottom — Alexander Cole and Wilson Flake.“We were nineteen,” Wilson said quietly. “Two dreamers in Oxford, certain we could teach machines to think. Al

The hospital room was dimly lit, overlooking a gray stretch of the Thames.Wilson Flake lay still beneath white sheets, oxygen hissing softly at his side.The world outside went on as if nothing monumental was ending.Daniel sat close, eyes red, the small containment sphere — the Antisystem — resting on the bedside table between them. Its faint white glow pulsed like a heartbeat keeping time with his father’s breath.“You look tired,” Wilson murmured, voice hoarse but lucid.Daniel forced a smile. “You don’t make being your son easy.”Wilson gave a weak chuckle that turned into a cough. “Legacy never is.”He turned his head slowly toward the sphere. “You delivered it.”Daniel nodded. “Ethan’s free — or close enough to it. The integration worked.”Wilson’s eyes softened, a flicker of pride breaking through exhaustion. “Then I did one good thing before I vanished.”“You did more than one.”“Don’t lie to a dying man, Daniel.”For a moment, silence filled the room. Machines hummed softly