Above you, the sky flickers. Not clouds. Not birds. Data. Green lines and shifting numbers that ripple across the dome of blue like heat haze on a summer road.

You’re standing at the edge of the market square. People mill around you—bakers, traders, children chasing each other with sticks wrapped in cloth. Normal. Everyday.

No one looks up.

No one ever looks up.

Not the data—the space behind it. A shadow passes across the distant blue, vast and slow, like a continent shifting.

The market continues. No one gasps. No one points.

Except you.

Because that shadow has a shape. A silhouette. Broad shoulders. A head tilted down.

Watching.