Every cycle, on the neon-drenched moon of Veridia Prime, a holographic countdown would appear above the Spire of Echoes. "Alpha Luke: Run 47. Tickets dropping in 3... 2... 1..." Then, the chaos would begin.

On the final lap, Alpha Luke didn't cross the finish line. He stopped. The Event Horizon hung perfectly still in the mouth of the singularity's accretion disk, the most lethal place in the system. One by one, the other ships streaked past, confused. Then, over every comm channel, his voice came through—smooth, warm, almost gentle.

The woman beside Kaelen wept, clutching her revived ticket. "He was never racing," she whispered. "He was harvesting. He collected our need to witness the impossible, saved it, and then… gave it back."