“Six months,” he said quietly.

For three seconds, Silas Rourke experienced absolute clarity. He saw every mind he’d hobbled. Every child he’d dimmed. Every ounce of potential he’d traded for creds. The guilt hit him not as an emotion, but as a supernova of objective truth. He collapsed, sobbing, his own Leash-device frying itself in sympathetic feedback.

Rourke lunged for a panic button on his wrist. Kaelen was faster. He pressed the slate to Rourke’s temple. The code transferred.

“How long?” she asked.

Rourke laughed, but it was brittle. “The Super Activator is a myth. Burnout in six months. They’ll die brilliant, but dead.”

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