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Ben shifts into Grey Matter, the pint-sized Galvan genius darting into the shadows with a flicker of green light. His clawed fingers clutch the edge of a rusted ventilation grate near a flickering hologram ad. The Omnitrix—camouflaged as a scratched, unassuming wrist chronometer—blends seamlessly into the grime of the metallic undercity. Your gaze narrows: cracked neon signs bathe the cramped corridor in sickly violet hues, while distant echoes of clanging machinery mask his faint clicks. Track the subtle glint beneath his grip—the watch’s face is half-buried under synthetic sludge, its dial barely visible. Focus. He’s not just hiding; he’s recalibrating. Every twitch of his antennae maps escape routes through the labyrinth of dripping pipes. Stay sharp. The trail leads deeper, where steam hisses and the walls hum with latent energy. Don’t blink.
