Morning in Arkvale felt wrong.
The city skyline, a jagged forest of neon-lit towers and holographic billboards, shimmered beneath a crimson haze that no weather forecast could explain. The air itself seemed to hum with an unnatural charge, as if the city's pulse had synced with something primal, something alive. Newspapers and holo-feeds screamed of a "freak atmospheric event," blaming solar flares or rogue nanotech. But Charles Manson knew better. Standing in his penthouse atop the Obsidian Spire, he could feel it—the city thrummed in rhythm with his Red Core, vibrating like a spider's web under his fingertips, each thread pulsing with the emotions of those bound to him.
He wasn't imagining it.
A translucent window flickered in his vision, its edges crackling with static:
> **[Red Core Sync: Active]**
> **[Link Radius Expanded: 21.6 km]**
> **[Warning: Emotional Saturation Approaching Critical]**
