The Arctic ocean was a silent, crushing weight above the hull of the Borealis. Inside the dying submarine, the air was thick with the smell of scorched copper and the humid mist of sea water spraying from burst pipes. Ateş moved through the flickering shadows of the lower decks, his body leaning heavily against the vibrating metal walls.

In his arms, he carried Mercan. She was a ghost of her former self, her skin pale and cold from the cryogenic fluid of the tank. The black diamond collar around her neck was no longer glowing violet; it was dark, humming with a low, parasitic frequency that felt like a needle in Ateş's brain. Every time he touched her skin, he felt a faint static shock—the digital residue of his father's consciousness trying to find a new host.