The deeper they ran into the glitch-city, the more the laws of logic unraveled. Streets looped back on themselves. Buildings changed architecture mid-frame. The sky above flickered like a corrupted video file, sometimes blue, sometimes blood-red, sometimes filled with eyes.
Ethan skidded to a stop as a street corner bent into a staircase that shouldn't exist. "This place is folding on itself," he gasped. "Like it's—"
"—alive," Eve finished grimly. "The Entity doesn't build spaces. It corrupts memory, recycles code. This place isn't a city. It's a composite consciousness."
Ethan turned slowly, staring at the alley behind them, where flickers of people—children laughing, lovers holding hands—glitched into screaming silhouettes. "Those weren't strangers," he muttered. "That was… my memory. Our café. That street in Osaka. The cat from my apartment."
Eve didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
