At 3:04 a.m., the practice arena should have been empty.
Instead, Cora Vale stood alone at center court, suspended thirty feet in the air by a lattice of rehearsal drones. She wore silver training gear and no makeup. Without cameras, without music, without the stadium lights turning her into an icon, she looked painfully young.
Then the drones released her.
Cora fell.
Mara lunged forward, but Cora twisted midair, struck an invisible magnetic cushion, and landed upright with one palm on the floor. The lights flashed gold around her.
“Archive staff aren’t allowed here after midnight,” Cora said without turning.
“Captains aren’t supposed to practice illegal drops without spotters.”
Cora smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Illegal is a word people use when they didn’t get invited to the room where rules are changed.”
Mara stepped onto the court. “I got a voicemail from Theo.”
The smile vanished.
For one second, Cora looked like someone had put a blade against her throat.
Then the arena speakers hissed to life.
“Mara Venn,” said her mother’s voice, calm and warm. “Please come to Medical Observation. You’re overtired.”
Mara looked up at the cameras. Their black lenses rotated toward her like insects.
Cora whispered, “You shouldn’t have played it on the Dome network.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then it played itself.”
The drones above them shifted formation. Training machines, Mara remembered. Lightweight. Harmless.
Until one dropped.
Cora shoved Mara aside as the drone smashed into the court where she had been standing. Another dove. Then another. Not falling—attacking.
Cora moved with terrifying precision, kicking one drone into another, dragging Mara by the sleeve toward the player exit. The arena alarms did not sound. The cameras did not stop watching.
They burst through a maintenance door and slammed it behind them. In the narrow corridor, Cora pressed a finger to Mara’s lips and pointed at the ceiling vent.
A microphone blinked red.
Mara pulled a sonic scrambler from her tool belt and switched it on. A low buzz filled the corridor.
“Talk,” she said.
Cora’s composure cracked. “Theo found something under the Dome. Not a room. A system. Your mother called it LULLABY.”
“My mother designs concussion protocols.”
“Your mother designs obedience.”
Mara wanted to laugh in her face. Instead, she remembered Theo’s last argument in the parking lot: You don’t hear what people mean, Mara. You only hear what they say.
Cora swallowed. “LULLABY uses crowd noise, music cues, and broadcast frequencies to push emotional states. Excitement. Loyalty. Forgetfulness. The Finals are a demonstration.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You work with sound. Tell me it’s impossible.”
Mara could not.
Before she could answer, her badge vibrated. A security alert flashed on the tiny screen.
MARA VENN: ACCESS REVOKED.
Then another message appeared from an unknown sender.
THEO IS NOT DEAD. BUT HE WILL BE IF THE SONG PLAYS.
At the end of the corridor, heavy boots began to run toward them.
