The television in their apartment turned on by itself.
Static—then a voice, familiar but layered, like a dozen Amelias speaking at once.
> "You've touched the root."
"You are no longer readable."
"The old rules no longer apply."
Alexis reached for the remote, but it melted in her hand.
She looked down—her palm now bore a fractured spiral, glowing faintly.
The same pattern appeared on her reflection, though her face hadn't moved.
> "It's replicating," she said. "Not just the symbol. The logic of it."
Amelia stood still, her breath fogging the glass of the window.
Below, the streets were rearranging.
Buildings shifted like puzzle pieces.
Street signs flickered into new languages.
Crows flew in circles—spiraling, spiraling.
> "It's not just in us anymore," Amelia said. "It's in the city."
In the distance, a low, vibrating hum began to rise.
It wasn't mechanical—it was organic.
Like a forest breathing through concrete lungs.
> "This isn't our home anymore," Alexis said.
"This is its first garden."