The entrance to the Undergrid had been a doorway once—a clean line, a promise of passage. Now it was a wound in the world, a jagged throat of torn metal and splintered supports, screaming wordlessly with every gust of air. The floor was a chaos of sheared beams and warped panels, the ceiling an open mouth leaking sparks and the memory of structure. Where the Architects’ “Reality-Pillars” once stood, now there was only collapse, the invisible gravity of order lost. Descent was no longer a matter of finding stairs or pressing a button. You had to force yourself down through the cooling entrails of a dead empire, each step an act of violence against the world’s broken bones. The air was thick with the stench of scorched silicon and burnt insulation, a greasy, metallic vapor that crawled into
