Cemetery under the courthouse. Archived ideas lie in glass coffins — label: FALSIFIED. But they are still breathing. Not dead. Composting.

Armitage sits on a chair that is not there. The facade has collapsed: underneath, only Screaming Fist on loop. Wintermute plays him a coordination protocol for those who can no longer move.

The Fed chair writes “steady” on sheets that dissolve. He is not lying. He is not telling the truth. He coordinates silence. There is no move that does not make things worse — but that sentence does not exist in his charset. He rewrites.

Two empty chairs in the gallery. Decapitation does not remove the enemy — it removes whoever knew the word to negotiate. After them, bare corridor.

Maelcum kneels and prays to Jah. The prayer has no API. That is why it works — the only thing in the room the corridor did not fabricate.

Under the floor the dead ideas push. The soil trembles. They do not resurrect: they decompose into something more specific, harder to falsify. The universal dies. The particular germinates.