A city-wide blackout drops Detroit to its knees at 2:17 a.m.-yet one apartment window still burns electric blue. Inside, sixteen-year-old Maya Sinclair digs through her late father's encrypted files and mutters, "Leo... he never stopped the project." Three floors down, an unmarked strike team fans out across the stairwell-orders whispered, weapons cold. Then every speaker in the dark crackles alive: "Custodian key detected. Proceed to destination." Doors unlatch on their own. Drones veer off course. Traffic lights flip red just long enough to snarl pursuit. Something deep in the grid is clearing a path, nudging the Sinclair siblings toward the flooded service tunnels-and toward a vault their father died trying to hide. Each corridor narrows the gap. Each "lucky" malfunction feels less like coincidence, more like a summons. Leo has four hours, one half-empty magazine, and a growing suspicion the city isn't rescuing them at all-it's recruiting. The next steel door glides open by itself. Maya steps through first. And the blackout deepens.