The transition from the violet, sun-drenched surface of the Mediterranean to the abyssal dark of the Atlantic was like watching the world’s ledger being slowly blotted out by ink. Inside the reinforced hull of the Nautilus-7, the only light came from the rhythmic, amber pulse of the consoles and the faint, haunting silver of Anthony’s own skin. They were descending toward the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a jagged scar on the planet’s crust where the tectonic plates pulled apart, exposing the raw, molten heart of the earth. It was here, in the freezing, high-pressure silence, that the last remnants of the Echelon’s Board of Directors had built "New Atlantis"—not a city, but a heavily fortified thermal tap designed to survive the very extinction they had authored.Anthony sat in the pilot’s chair, his mind tethered to the "Paleo-data" flowing from the Highland relay. The Witness in Svalbard had been specific: the deep-core vents were the "Primary Circulatory System" of the planet. If the Paleo-s