The asphalt didn't just move; it detonated.
A geyser of hyper-corrosive crude erupted fifty feet into the air—a column of sentient, prehistoric blackness that smelled of raw methane and a thousand centuries of rot. From the center of the boiling pit, the Ink-Wash Behemoth tore itself into the three-dimensional world. It was a fifteen-foot nightmare of negative space—a fluid, two-dimensional brushstroke that "snapped" into a jagged architecture of obsidian bone-plates and weeping tar whenever it struck.
It emitted a high-frequency, metallic shriek that didn't just hurt; it acted as a localized EMP. Across the graveyard, the sputtering ultraviolet-pink "Urban Light" lamps violently popped in a rhythmic, staccato chain. The plaza was suddenly lit only by the golden pulse of the Organic Core and the dull red glow of Maddie's armor.
"Tyson! Anchor!"
The command wasn't spoken; it was a heavy, adrenaline-laced pulse across the synaptic bridge. The Faction went dead silent.
