The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the Doom pressed against the edges of her awareness, an environmental oppression that made her skin crawl. Then, immediately after the child's pulse, the entire Core experienced something it had never felt in its ancient, recursive existence.
Silence.
The ambient hum of the facility's climate control died. The blinking alerts on the servers ceased. For one terrifying second, the air turned to thick, suffocating mud.
Galathea's throat went bone dry. She had spent so long fighting the systemic noise that the sudden absence of it felt like a physical blow.
Then, one enormous pulse erupted from Galathea.
The Core didn't respond. It recoiled. Every black stone wall contracted simultaneously. Ancient architecture bent inward, grinding with the sickening crunch of bone, as if the entire Doom had suddenly developed a heartbeat of sheer, unadulterated fear.
