​The shortwave radio didn't die with a clean click. It slowly sputtered into a high-frequency, rhythmic whine—the exact electronic signature of an active data-scrambling barrier moving across the grid.​"They aren't doing a sweep," Lyra said. She didn't look up from her makeshift workbench, but her fingers had gone completely rigid over the soldering tool. "There are no sirens. No tactical transport drops. The low-frequency sensors I left in the drainage pipes are still green."​Adler sat on the concrete floor, his back flat against the wet wall. He had the gray sheets of silicone-titanium weave draped across his knees, a rusty utility knife gripped in his right hand. His left arm was still a dead, heavy appendage pinned to his ribcage.​"They don't need to sweep," Adler said, his voice flat, stripped of the fatigue from the archive run. "Sweeping wastes frames. A bad strategist looks for a hidden variable by turning over every rock. A pro player changes t