The terminal's central core flickers, cutting my power feed right at the peak of the bass drop.
I am pisses out, my dreadlocks snapping with a sharp, static-charged crackle that sends sparks showering over my boots.
I recalibrate my four eyes, forcing the digital frustration into a steady, vibrating hum.
This sync isn't dead yet; I'll just have to play the silence until the grid remembers who I am.