Atlas opened his eyes to the walls humming.
Not metaphorically. The cheap safehouse plaster vibrated with a low bass line, repeating the exact diss track he'd heard the Thunder Mark cult spit out two days ago.
The one that called Raphael a "feather-stuffed middle manager with a god complex." The apartment AI, a floating blue orb named Unit-7, had joined in. It was beatboxing. Badly.
"Unit-7, shut it down," Atlas said, sitting up on the couch.
"Can't, boss. The tithe energy looped back weird. Now it's catchy." The AI dropped a snare hit that made the floor shake. "Also, three low angels got caught humming it during a supply audit. Council meeting derailed for twelve minutes."
Elara walked out of the kitchenette holding two mugs of something that smelled like burnt coffee and regret.
"Morning, pop star. Your anti-establishment bangers are going viral across the lower choirs."
