Delusions of Grandeur

The makeshift lab was a tomb of stolen technology—an unholy sanctuary hidden beneath layers of concrete and decay. Servers, scavenged and patched together from discarded equipment, hummed and buzzed like angry wasps trapped in a jar. The heat they emitted warped the air, shimmering faintly above Clarissa as she crouched in the center of the room. Her face was lit by the sickly, ghostly glow of holographic files, flickering and drifting around her like restless spirits.

Strands of hair had escaped her tight bun, clinging to the sweat slick on her neck. She didn’t notice. Her fingers danced over the salvaged keyboard—fragile, aged, but reliable—pulled from a long-forgotten Nine Dragons bunker. Each tap echoed in the confined space as she delved deeper into the data.

“Stress-induced paranoia doesn’t explain this,” she muttered, voice tight with tension.