The "Verification" scan from the probes lasted for twelve hours. It wasn't a gentle pulse. It was a deep, penetrating searchlight that swept the planet, analyzing everything from the composition of the Earth's core to the neural patterns of dreaming children. Witches reported their scrying pools boiling over. Werewolves felt a metallic itch under their skin. The Awakened hunger entities, those who had regained their humanity, described it as "the feeling of being disassembled in a clean, white room."
But it passed. And when it was done, the four lights returned to their steady, watchful glow. No new transmission came. No "Correction Fleet" appeared on the long-range sensors.
The silent verdict was clear: Stand by.
They had bought time. Not safety. Time.
The countdown clock, now synced across every government building, military installation, and public screen on the planet, read: 53:19:41.
Fifty-three hours.
