Later—maybe hours later—Emily was back on the roof of the newsroom building, her arms resting on the railing. The concrete was damp. The city lights danced on the wet surface of the asphalt, as if they couldn’t decide whether to dazzle or disappear.
She hadn’t chosen the place. Her steps had chosen it. Or the echo that was working in her head.
The words “I hear you” had long since become an impulse. Not a thought. More like an electrical resistance somewhere deep behind her breastbone. Like a spark in an old circuit that refuses to go out.
Emily still had the interface in her hand. The screen dark, in power-saving mode—but ready.
She didn’t know whether it was a real message. Maybe a program. Maybe a trap. Maybe a test. But even then: Who was testing her?
A door beeped in the distance. A train? No. A maintenance door to a tunnel. Underground. Access by code only. She felt it more than she heard it—the dull click of a remotely controlled lock.
She turned around. Looked back toward the city. Only shadows. No one. No sound except the wind scraping between the buildings.
Then her interface vibrated.
…
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