The air here tastes of ozone and forgotten machinery. You stand at the threshold of the Great Divide, where the floor of the station gives way to a sprawling abyss of liquid data. Below, currents of static-white code pulse like the heartbeat of a dying god. To your left, a terminal flickers with a persistent, rhythmic amber glow. It is the only light in this section of the Spire, casting your shadow long and distorted against the brutalist concrete pillars.