The city was learning a new shape.
Hunter grimaced. "You feel that lag?"
"Yes."
"That's not good."
"No," Cain agreed. "It means it's close to capacity."
A violent tremor tore through the chamber, knocking loose a slab of ceiling that crashed meters away. Dust filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, people were screaming—not close enough to hear clearly, but close enough to feel.
The man activated a wrist console, hands shaking slightly as data scrolled faster than he could reasonably process. "Load curves are spiking and flattening at the same time. That's not normal."
Cain's jaw tightened. "Because it's not offloading anymore. It's compressing."
"Into you."
"Yes."
Hunter swore under his breath. "You're not just a sink. You're a bottleneck."
Cain exhaled slowly. The pressure surged again, pressing inward from every direction. His body adapted by instinct, redistributing stress the only way it could—through posture, breath, tension. It wasn't elegant. It was survival.
