The world had moved on. The story of the dueling prophets was relegated to the occasional midnight comedy routine, a cautionary tale about hubris. In the empty stillness of his home, Reuben Stone was a ghost haunting the wreckage of his own life. The interface to the System was an accusatory silence that was ever-present. He avoided it, the 98.7% probability a number that felt less like a prediction and more like a diagnosis of his own madness.
He didn't shave. He barely ate. Food left on his doorstep by Anna would go untouched until she took it away, her face a mask of concern and frustration. The HON existed as a shadow, sustained by a dozen of the most fanatically loyal, operating on a whisper of the budget they'd enjoyed. They'd close down the Harbor City headquarters, retreating to a
