The helicopter banked sharply, cutting through the dense, heavy smog that blanketed the outer perimeter of Neo Soma. Inside the cockpit, the air was thin and tasted of stale oil and recycled oxygen. Zeta gripped the flight controls, his knuckles white against the dark polymer. Beside him, Mara remained silent, her gaze fixed on the endless expanse of decaying structures and tangled metal piping that marked the transition into the unmapped suburbs. The machine groaned under the strain, its engine vibrating with a rhythmic, mechanical fatigue that mirrored Zeta’s own state of exhaustion. He had pushed his neural capacity to the brink, and the aftershocks were still rattling his senses. Every sound, from the steady hum of the turbines to the distant wind whistling against the fuselage, felt
