Soundwave arrived after the noise had been erased. The facility sat like a dead memory—locks torn, walls scorched. Silence here was enforced, not peace. He moved through it, recording: drag marks, stripped belongings, wiped cores. Not chaos—curation. Someone removed voices and kept function.

Fury built behind his calm.

No survivors, only traces: barricades, scratched warnings, resistance patterns. He listened. The walls remembered. Autonomy violated, logged. He restored systems without claiming them—opening channels instead of control.

A signal against erasure.

Those who returned would find choice. Those who hunted would find a boundary.

He waited, listening.