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Elias didn't hesitate. He slipped out of his car, keeping low, his boots splashing quietly in the puddles. He needed to get close enough to clone the transmitter signal from the suspect's pocket.

As the figure reached for the car door, Elias stepped out from the shadows of a stack of shipping crates. He held up his scanner, his thumb hovering over the execute button. "Freeze! Police!" Elias shouted over the roar of the rain.

Right on cue, the heavy iron doors of the warehouse groaned open. A figure stepped out into the downpour, wrapped in a dark, high-collared trench coat. The figure didn't look left or right, but walked with absolute purpose toward a black sedan waiting at the curb. s070_041_lg.jpg

Before Elias could process the sight, the mask emitted a blinding flash of strobe light. He stumbled back, shielding his eyes as a high-pitched frequency tore through the air, scrambling his scanner and sending a piercing ache through his skull.

The image looked like nothing more than a corrupted file when viewed on a monitor—a mess of digital artifacts, broken pixels, and jagged color bars. But printed out, held physically in his hand, Elias could see the faint, ghostly outline of a face buried beneath the noise. It was the calling card of a phantom programmer known only as The Architect. Elias checked his watch. 02:00 AM. Elias didn't hesitate

The face staring back at him was not a person at all. It was a smooth, featureless ceramic mask, painted with the exact same glitched, neon-streaked patterns from the photograph.

He looked down at the physical photograph still clutched in his shaking hand. The corrupted pixels seemed to shift and dance in the low light, as if laughing at him. The Architect hadn't just left a clue; they had left a warning. And Elias was now squarely in their crosshairs. As the figure reached for the car door,

The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the narrow alleys of the city into slick, reflective rivers of neon. Detective Elias Thorne sat in his parked car, the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers doing little to clear his view of the warehouse across the street. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn, glossy photograph labeled simply .