DX01: SINGULARITY 22117

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Shattered mirrors cover a vast, abandoned tennis court, like it's been ravaged by some catastrophic event. The air's thick with the stench of mildew and stale sweat, but there's a weird stillness, like the atmosphere's been vacuum-sealed. A steady stream of tennis balls is bouncing itself into neat, concentric spirals around the court's center, somehow carrying a faint scent of fresh-cut grass with them. The sun's setting low in the sky, casting a golden glow over everything, and... a single tennis racket is hovering upright, holding itself aloft with no visible support.