The 1998 farmhouse didn't just break; it **inverted**.
The blue door turned into a portal of violet fire. The lemon-scented kitchen exploded into a storm of sapphire shards. The "Mother" figure let out a digital shriek as the "Infection" of my lived experiences—the blood, the dirt, the love—tore through her sanitized reality.
I felt the write-protection on the property line shatter.
Silas was thrown forward, his shadows erupting like a volcano as he finally breached the archive. He caught me before I hit the ground, his arms the only solid thing in a world that was rapidly turning into a kaleidoscope of incompatible eras.
"We have to go deeper," Silas hissed, his voice vibrating with the frequency of the merge. "She’s retreating to the **Sub-Level**—the raw data storage! If we don't ca
