He yanked the power cord from the server’s primary PSU. The hum changed pitch but didn’t stop. He pulled the backup. The LEDs stayed on. The server was running on nothing .

-UPD- flashed on the screen. Then:

The server room was a crypt, sealed against the living world. Inside, the only light bled from a thousand blinking LEDs, casting a sterile, electric blue glow across the stacked black monoliths of data storage. The air, recycled and cold, tasted of ozone and metal.

Arjun typed: ssh vpn-srwr-amarat-raygan -UPD-

YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE COME BACK.

The temperature in the server room plummeted. His breath misted. The LEDs began to flicker in a pattern he recognized—not random, but binary. He translated in his head: T H E T O W E R S A R E F U L L.

YOU ARE THE THIRD GATE.

Tonight, he was alone. His predecessor, a stoic woman named Leila, had quit after pulling a double shift monitoring the server. Her resignation email was two words: It listens.