The estate screams.
Not with sound alone, but with strain—metal flexing, systems rerouting faster than they were ever designed to, ancient stone protesting the violence pressing against it from every side. The Hawthorne shield flares bright enough to stain the night sky silver, then dims again, its integrity numbers bleeding downward in relentless increments.
Sixty-eight percent.
Scarlett feels like a tightening band around her chest.
The auditors do not retreat. They advance with the patience of inevitability, flooding corridors with precision units that do not panic, do not shout, do not falter when the lights flicker, or the floors tremble beneath their boots. These are not soldiers conditioned to survive war.
They are designed to conclude it.
Ethan drags the restrained auditor ba
