The Central Hub loomed over the city like a monolith of polished obsidian, devoid of windows or seams. Sarah approached the base, her lungs burning with the acrid haze of the burning Archive. The silence of the streets was absolute now, a vacuum of sound where the hum of the grid used to be. It was the sound of a million people waking from a fever dream, unsure of their own names.
She reached the blast-proof entrance, but there was no keypad or scanner. The obsidian surface rippled under her touch, turning into a liquid-like interface.
You are a biological error, a voice boomed from the air itself. It was the voice of Monarch, cold and synthesized, yet now tinged with a tremor of instability.
Sarah placed her hand on the black fluid. I am the error you cannot delete, she countered.
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