The monitoring screens inside the Obsidian Spire didn't just flicker; they groaned under the weight of the "Version Zero Point One" architecture. High above the harbor, inside the penthouse that smelled of ozone and victory, Sienna Vale swirled a crystal tumbler filled with scotch older than her own father’s corporate empire. Her autumn-colored eyes were fixed on the central holographic display—the "Grey Suture." It showed a flickering, grainy image of a 1920s cobblestone street, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of gaslights. At the center of that grainy world stood a man with brown eyes, holding a mop.
"He actually did it," Sienna whispered, the glass trembling slightly in her hand. "The absolute madman. He didn't just bank the world; he formatted the very concept of 'now'."
Arthur, or
