The vibration against Jack’s ribs turned from a rhythmic pulse into a discordant grind, syncing with his heartbeat as he sprinted past the empty laundry crates. He reached the heavy, reinforced door leading to the maintenance stairwell, his hand hovering over the keypad. The screen was a blackened slab, dead and unresponsive, but the data-key in his palm burned with a sudden, localized heat. He pressed the device against the sensor. With a mechanical click that sounded deafening in the silence, the lock disengaged.He lunged inside, the door slamming shut behind him. The air in the stairwell smelled of ozone and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the sterile, climate-controlled luxury of the locker room. As he began his descent, the red light on his key shifted to a frantic, pulsing violet."System anomaly detected," a voice echoed—not from his head, but from the key itself. It was metallic, devoid of warmth, and utterly alien. "Local grid partition active. You are drifting, Host-01."

The van’s sliding door groaned against its rusted track, a sound like grinding teeth that underscored the rhythmic thrum of the black-box kernel behind Jack’s eyes. He didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped into the interior, the air inside thick with the smell of ozone, stale sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of unshielded mana-converters. The man with the silver teeth slammed the door shut, and the vehicle lurched forward, tires squealing as it peeled away from the academy’s perimeter."So, you’re the one," the man said, leaning back into a worn bucket seat. He gestured toward a cluster of monitors mounted to the bulkhead. "The kid who tried to overclock his system in the middle of a scouting drill. You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. Most kids just fry their frontal lobes and spend the rest of their lives drooling into a tray."Jack ignored him, his focus pinned to the display of floating data streams flickering across his vision. The van was moving at a high speed, yet he