The Breugelen span did not simply collapse; it unraveled with the methodical precision of a faulty clockwork. The first main cable, thick as a ship’s mast, didn't snap. It *sang* – a high, thin screech that ripped through the storm’s howl, then frayed, strand by agonizing strand, before recoiling into the deluge with a whip-crack sound that vibrated through Lieselotte’s teeth. The asphalt beneath them tilted, a sickening lurch that sent a torrent of rainwater sliding towards the southern pylon. A series of auxiliary cables followed, less dramatic, more like the tearing of thick fabric, each one accompanied by a deeper groan from the metalwork. “Forward!” Bastiaan’s voice cut through the noise, raw and urgent. He didn’t release her arm, pulling her not towards the pylon they were closest to, but diagonally across the rapidly fracturing deck. “That pylon is compromised. Secondary resonance failure will take it down next.” Lieselotte stumbled, her boots skidding on the slick surface. She glanced back at the retreating pylon, then at the approaching chaos. Her memory of the ‘accident’ was a blurry news report, a footnote in a timeline she’d desperately tried to forget. It hadn't been this violent, this *fast*. “The reports said a localized structural fatigue!” she yelled, the words torn from her throat by the wind. “Not an engineered demolition!” “Localized fatigue caused by harmonic instability, Lieselotte,” Bastiaan corrected, his gaze sweeping the buckling steel girders ahead. “Kasper’s algorithm isn’t designed to just *break* things. It finds the sympathetic frequency and amplifies it. Think of it as a tuning fork for destruction.” He pointed with his chin towards a section of roadway ahead, where cracks spiderwebbed outwards from an epicenter. “The access ramp to the lower service tunnels is still intact for another forty seconds. We have to make it there.” The roadway groaned, a sound like iron tearing against iron. A section of railing peeled away, spiraling into the churning river below. A muffled scream reached them from further down the deck. Lieselotte’s head snapped towards the sound. “Wait. A maroon commuter van, near the middle observation platform. They’re trapped!” Bastiaan hesitated, his jaw tight. He could see the observation platform, already sagging perilously. “It’s too far, Lieselotte. The entire suspended tier will go in less than a minute. We have to—.” “No!” She dug her heels in, pulling against his grip. “In the original timeline, they were saved! They were the ones the news focused on, the ‘miracle’ survivors. If we don’t save them now, the cascade… it could be worse!” She didn’t know how. She only knew the memory was sharp, a detail she couldn't ignore. Bastiaan stared at her, then at the teetering car, then at the rapidly collapsing bridge ahead of them. His pupils darted between the widening fissure and her face. “Alright,” he bit out. “But we move *fast*. Follow my lead.” They sprinted, the wind a physical shove against them. The vehicle was indeed maroon, its tires wedged into newly torn fissures in the asphalt, pinned by a twisted lamppost. Inside, a woman was screaming, clutching two small children. The driver, a man, was frantically trying to pry open a jammed door. “The driver’s side is compromised!” Lieselotte shouted, recalling the blurred details from the old news report. “The passenger side, near the main support beam, it’s weaker!” Bastiaan didn’t question it. He was already at the passenger door, bracing himself against the wind. “On my count! Three… two… ONE!” With a primal roar, he wrenched the door open, the metal groaning in protest. “Out! Now!” The woman fumbled with plastic buckles through shaking fingers. Lieselotte threw herself through the frame to reach the rear latches. Her fingers flew, unbuckling the small, trembling boy, then the girl. Bastiaan reached in, hauling the woman and children out with surprising gentleness, pushing them towards the relative shelter of the median divider. “Go! Get to the access ramp!” he yelled, pointing towards the rapidly shrinking opening. He turned back to the man, who was still trying to free himself. “Grab my hand!” The steel framing shuddered again. A deep, guttural rip echoed as a massive section of the mid-deck began its final descent. The chassis slid sideways, teetering on the brink. “Now, Bastiaan!” Lieselotte screamed. She saw the man finally get free, scrambling over the bent metal of the doorframe just as Bastiaan pulled him clear. The empty van plunged, end over end, into the churning grey waters. “Run!” Bastiaan ordered, shoving the man towards his relatives. He gripped Lieselotte’s hand, his fingers like steel bands, dragging her towards the ramp. They tumbled down the grimy steps of the service tunnel, the screams of the storm momentarily muffled, just as a colossal *CRACK* reverberated above them. The world outside the narrow tunnel entrance was replaced by a churning wall of spray and foam. The main deck of the river crossing had vanished into the froth. They emerged on the sodden riverbank, gasping, soaked to the bone, the distant sirens already beginning to wail. The four survivors huddled together on the embankment stones, retching and sobbing. Lieselotte turned, her gaze drawn to the opposite bank, now impossibly far away across the turbulent water where the roadway had stood. He was there. Elias Vermeer, standing amidst the sparse, wind-whipped trees, his coat flapping around him. He wasn’t running, wasn’t panicking. He was simply watching them, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips. His eyes met hers across the ruined expanse, and in them, she saw not regret, but a chilling satisfaction. Her phone buzzed, vibrating insistently in her pocket. She pulled it out, her hands shaking, and saw a new message from an unknown number. The text was short, precise, and every word was a blow. Your grandfather is in my care. Surrender the rest of his research, or the next cascade will be the hospital.

The Devil's Due