He was right. The heavy iron blade was stuck halfway through the mahogany, vibrating with a high-pitched digital whine, neither fully in this reality nor out of it. Grandmama simply adjusted her shawl. "It makes the chopping more efficient, dear. No resistance from the wood."

Lurch sat at the harpsichord, which was now flickering between a musical instrument and a giant, singing spreadsheet. He struck a chord so dissonant it forced the virus to pause its execution.

The grand staircase shifted its steps into a series of jagged loading bars. The portraits of ancestors didn't just glare; they lagged, their eyes freezing mid-blink while their mouths moved in distorted, 8-bit loops.

"Grandmama!" Pugsley shouted from the kitchen. "The cleaver is clipping through the table!"

From below, a loud explosion rocked the floorboards, followed by the sound of digital Gregorian chanting. Gomez beamed. "That’s my boy." AI responses may include mistakes. Learn more