The shimmer is a road made of heat.

You nose in because roads are for following. The lamps go white-gold, then useless, a blizzard of flakes and bubbles that are not air, not exactly—just water deciding to be visible. The camera gain screams. Reed’s hum stops.

Density shifts. Hot water is lighter. Minnow’s nose lifts without you asking. Trim that was near-neutral is now a balloon in a chimney. Alarms are polite and firm.

Yuna: “That’s not a lane. That’s a weather.”

You can still pull up, kill the lamps’ vote, go back to the puck. You can still push because maybe Paz is in the glitter, and glitter feels like the middle of the problem.

The manipulator fingers click once, a nervous habit of the machine.