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Outside, the real sky tightened. The model’s behavior echoed across the spectrogram: mimicry made literal. For a moment Savannah felt like a conductor watching her orchestra match sheet music she had never seen.

“January twenty-eighth,” Bond said, as if finishing a sentence that had been dangling between them. “You think they’ll run it in Savannah?” HardX.23.01.28.Savannah.Bond.Wetter.Weather.XXX...

Savannah folded her hands in her coat and stood at the edge of the marsh where the water had reached a new, greedy line. The tide moved with a new rhythm, and she thought of Bond and the vial and Lila and the boy on the stoop. The file HardX sat in newsfeeds and inboxes now, and somewhere in a building that had once called the storm an experiment, executives argued about damage control. Outside, the real sky tightened

Savannah placed the thumb drive on the table like a confession. “Enough to make them listen,” she said. “January twenty-eighth,” Bond said, as if finishing a

The caretaker’s fingers trembled as they closed around the drive. Her eyes darted to the window where rain traced wild veins down the glass. “My sister had a boat,” she said suddenly. “Sold it last year because the insurance got stupid. Said she’d come back when it calmed down. She’s still not back.”

A woman at the counter watched them with eyes that catalogued faces like a ledger. Her hair had been wind-tangled into a halo of practicality. She slid a coffee across without asking. “If you’re withholding, at least tell me one thing,” she said. “Will it stop?”

Bond found her there, soaking in the cold and the quiet after noise. He handed her a steaming paper cup without being asked. “What now?” she asked.