“Wake up,” he whispered.

And together, they stepped into the static—two unpolished, untamed, unfiltered ghosts in the machine.

Kand stood on the rain-slicked rooftop, the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the wind. Below, the Pulse District flickered—holographic billboards selling happiness in pill form, alleyways where memories were traded like stolen goods. He wasn’t a hero. Wasn’t a villain. He was the uncut version—the raw feed before the algorithm smoothed out the edges.