On the fourteenth day, the rage spoke.Jack was in the middle of an anchor shift, the Hollowsmith suit humming with dimensional stress, the Utterance's filaments pulsing through his nervous system with the steady rhythm of a partnership that had survived sixty-percent decompression and cosmic bureaucratic proceedings. The bridge was stable. Katherine's regulatory valve had been optimized three times, and the effective transfer rate was now thirty-one point four percent. Marcus had settled into a twelve-hour rotation schedule that he endured with the grim professionalism of a man who had added dimensional anchor to his resume of improbable job titles.Everything was working. The mirror's decay rate had dropped to twenty-nine percent. The timeline had extended to forty-three days. Dead-universe traders were buying transdimensional bonds at a pace that had forced Ben to hire three additional market-makers and a compliance officer who was, by necessity, a reformed hell-sprite
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