The message came at sunrise.
I was in the war room, reviewing the network's integration reports, when my phone buzzed with an unknown number. I answered it, expecting another crisis, another emergency.
"James Chen?" The voice was young, female, trembling with fear. "My name is Lily. I need your help. Please. They're coming for me."
"Who's coming for you?" I asked, already on my feet.
"The network. It's been reaching out to me. I can feel it—connections forming in my mind. I didn't ask for this. I don't want this. Please, you have to help me."
I could hear the panic in her voice. The network had found another person, someone who wasn't ready for the connection. Someone who was terrified.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"The Warrens. The old church on Seventh Street. Please hurry."
---
I
