The Tiber flowed beneath the Ponte Sant'Angelo like liquid obsidian, indifferent to the digital apocalypse that had just flickered out above its surface. The *smell of the Roman rain* was fading, replaced by the scent of damp stone and the heavy, iron-rich mud of the riverbanks. Lila stood on the ancient steps, her fingers trembling as she held the gold-leafed envelope.
Beside her, *the sound of Ethan’s jagged breathing* was the only thing anchoring her to the physical world. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, his gray eye fixed on the single word scrawled in her father’s elegant, devastating script: *Checkmate.*
"He’s not in the servers, Lila," Ethan whispered, his voice cracking with a sudden, hollow realization. "The purge... it hit the Aura. It hit the satellites.
