"Who turned me into a mouth?"The question did not echo.Echoes were honest. They admitted they were copies. They returned thinner than the original, softened by distance, changed by walls. Vorathen's question did something worse.It arrived everywhere as if it had always been there.In the Vance Capital press room, seventeen reporters clamped hands over their mouths. At Nightingale, the vault under the nursery shuddered until dust sifted down over Susan's hair and Lionel Pierce's oxygen monitor stuttered in a rhythm that sounded almost like language. At Sterling Tower, Aaliyah's screens turned black, then filled with one enormous blinking cursor.Jack felt the question enter his ribs.Not his ears. His ribs.The words moved through bone and old Alpha blood, hunting for the place in him that had once obeyed missions, once accepted penalties, once believed pain could be assigned a purpose if the prompt was clean enough.Who turned me into a mouth?The Prime Analyst stood at the far end
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