My father’s hand felt like a cold iron shackle around my wrist. We were suspended in a place that shouldn't exist—a gap between the "formatted" Sector 3 and whatever came next. It was a throat-choking vacuum of pure black, lit only by the dying blue sparks of the Tundra Spire’s debris.
"Give me the Key, Leo," he repeated. His face was a mask of calm, but I could see a bead of digital sweat—a rendering error—flickering on his forehead. "The Null-Zone is a recursive loop. If we fall into it, we’ll spend eternity being deleted and reconstructed every millisecond. You’ll feel your cells being pulled apart forever."
"Sounds better than spending another minute in your 'Perfect Version'," I spat back. My right arm was screaming. The weight of carrying the Second Key—a heavy, pulsing blue weight
