Eren's hand hovered inches from the black cylinder. The coiling crimson thread inside reacted to his proximity, its movements becoming frantic, rhythmic—a heartbeat made of jagged light.
"Don't listen to his songs, Eren," Zero's binary chattered, the translation scrolling in the boy's mind as a warning. The construct's optic was no longer red; it had turned a hard, diagnostic white. Zero's paws were locked onto the base of the pedestal, his internal magnets hummed as he prepared to yank the entire assembly out of its socket if the resonance became lethal.
Eren ignored the machine. He reached out and pressed his palm against the glass.
The world didn't explode. It vanished.
