Kaelen had been an architect once. Before the collapse of the Arcologies, he designed bridges that kissed the sky. Now he was a skeleton wearing skin, chasing a ghost through a mirror. He knew the logic was flawed. He knew the drug was a parasite. But the vision of Lyra—her hair the color of burnt copper, her laugh like small bells—was a wound that wouldn’t scab.
Not broke. Cracked. Like a windowpane struck by a pebble. Through those hairline fractures in reality, Kaelen saw the other . trikker crack
Reality didn’t crack. It shattered .
He fell through layers of existence like a stone through ice. He saw the Spire above, where the rich lived on stolen seconds. He saw the Warrens below, a fractal of suffering. And then he saw the Undercroft. Kaelen had been an architect once
The drug never lied about the living. It only lied about the cost. He knew the logic was flawed