April 22, 2026. They found him in the pod-sleep alcove of his warren unit, neural crown still locked into his temple, the jack's indicator light cycling through a dead man's rhythm. His fingers had clawed at the armrest so hard the synthetic skin split, exposing the servo-wire underneath. The apartment's light-grid had failed hours before; he'd been too deep in the simulation to notice the dark creeping in around the pod's edges. His rig was still running—the last daemon-loop playing on repeat, asking him to insert another token.