The silence in the Deep-Net sanctuary was no longer peaceful; it was a vacuum. The Norton sat in the middle of the drive like a hollowed-out shell, its sapphire glow replaced by the dull, matte gray of inactive data. I knelt beside it, my fingers tracing the cold metal of the frame. The Shadow-Wolf’s "Leech" had been surgical it hadn't just stolen the mapping; it had gutted the bike’s digital soul, leaving me with nothing but a pile of heavy, non-reactive geometry.
Dax stood at the edge of the clearing, his back to me, the iron gavel hanging loosely in his grip. His shoulders were tense, a physical manifestation of the storm brewing inside him.
"They’re moving toward the Sub-Basin," Dax said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the ground. "I can see the distortion in
