The sensation of running across the rooftop in broad daylight was invigorating, a symphony of cybernetic limbs and cityscape merging into a kinetic dance. Boz's expert repairs had elevated my legs to new heights of responsiveness, the upgraded firmware adding precision to their movements.

  A gratifying relief accompanied the cessation of my headache since the perplexing vision at my apartment. Somehow, Noah was communicating through our connection—a revelation that implied I still possessed his Soul despite my receptacle's apparent emptiness. The prospect of spending a fortune on a new one was daunting, but the inexplicable glimpses into Noah's life added a surreal layer to an already bewildering situation.

  The situation teetered on the edge of insanity. Part of me wished this wasn't real, that it was just some complex malfunction, while another part—one that felt increasingly foreign—urged me to delve deeper.

  I braked abruptly at the edge of a rooftop, gazing down at the street below. Was my growing curiosity genuinely mine, or was Noah manipulating my thoughts? The unsettling notion of being a puppet steered by a corrupted Soul made my skin crawl. I shook my head in an attempt to dispel these troubling thoughts, but they clung tenaciously.

  Below, sparse pedestrian activity unfolded. The usual assembly of languid Dream junkies sprawled in disheveled abandon, a stark contrast to ordinary citizens navigating their routines with hurried determination. My gaze drifted to a neighboring building, its facade adorned with a pristine advertising board extolling the virtues of Heaven. The billboard's conspicuous cleanliness clashed with the dilapidated structure behind it—a gleaming lie pasted over crumbling truth.

  Collecting myself, I pressed forward toward NeoDuck Cafe, driven by the need to know if the memory stick from my vision was real.

  Fifteen minutes of nimble rooftop navigation brought me to Avant Street. This section of the city carried an air of relative cleanliness and vitality—at least during daylight hours. It reminded me of Red Fusion, where I lived. The outer neighborhoods always felt different, as if humans there were clinging to some semblance of normal life.

  I approached the edge of my final rooftop and began my descent. With practiced efficiency, I hopped from ledge to balcony in a seamless dance that drew minimal attention. My enhanced legs absorbed each impact silently—Boz's calibrations proving their worth.

  As I approached ground level, I noticed a cluster of youths blocking the alley flanking NeoDuck Cafe. Their badges identified them as Melrose employees, likely on break from the nearby distribution center—the clean, administrative hub far removed from the actual farms where underpaid laborers toiled.

  Seeking to avoid drawing attention, I ducked into a shadowed doorway. Prudence dictated avoiding unnecessary risks. The last thing I needed was witnesses to my retrieval of the memory stick—assuming it was actually there.

  A wry smile tugged at my lips as I considered how readily I'd accepted the reality of the flashback. The possibility that it was merely a glitched receptacle never seriously crossed my mind. The smile vanished, replaced by a chill of unease. Was I truly in control, or had Noah's influence subtly manipulated my actions?

  I shook my head forcefully, as if physically dispelling such intrusive thoughts. "I am in control," I muttered, but even to my own ears, the words sounded hollow.

  A plan formed: I'd grab a coffee inside the cafe, bide my time, and observe. With luck, the Melrose employees would disperse naturally.

  "I am in control," I muttered as I stepped through the cafe door, the bell chiming softly to announce my arrival.

  The waitress seated me promptly and poured coffee from her carafe without being asked. Despite the hour nearing 14:00, the establishment maintained a subdued atmosphere. The lunch crowd had thinned, leaving only a few lingering patrons nursing drinks.

  While awaiting the gradual exodus of customers, my gaze swept the room methodically. Suddenly, the cafe door opened and two men entered together. As they stepped inside, a subtle glow manifested in my field of view, highlighting a small metallic implant beneath the ear of one of them. The luminous aura pulsed like a digital heartbeat, reminiscent of the glowing numbers and letters on the takeout menu that had spelled out this very address.

  The pair made an unlikely duo by any measure. The first was imposing and tall, sporting a pristine suit that struggled to contain his robust frame. His neck was a metallic expanse extending to his chin, and both eyes gleamed entirely chrome. His bald head bore numerous connection ports that lent him an intimidating presence.

  His companion—the one with the highlighted implant—provided stark contrast: diminutive and slender, the complete antithesis. He wore thin round sunglasses and a runner's suit similar to those worn by Couriers. Despite the form-fitting fabric, there were no visible augmentations except for the conspicuous device beneath his left ear that continued to pulse with an ethereal glow in my vision.

  The aura intensified briefly before gradually fading out. Was this another system glitch, or was something—or someone—trying to communicate?

  My heart rate accelerated as I focused my cybernetic eyes, using their digital zoom to capture a detailed image of the device. I connected to the darknet for an instant search.

  Results appeared within seconds: Neo Future BP-Neuro 4—a recently released, top-of-the-line AI-assisted hacking device. There was no doubt about it—the smaller man was a NeuroSlicer, and not some street-level amateur.

  In our cybernetically augmented world, NeuroSlicers occupied a specialized niche. As society grew increasingly reliant on neural implants, even the human brain didn't escape augmentation. Most citizens operated AI-assisted software for everyday tasks, from disease management to darknet access. The relics of the past—smartphones, tablets, computers—had been rendered mainly obsolete, with most interactions now transpiring internally.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Yet this progress brought profound vulnerability: the brain itself could be hacked.

  NeuroSlicers emerged as mercenary hackers-for-hire, surrendering significant portions of their brains to cybernetic tools that enabled them to combat AI-driven security systems at superhuman speeds. Each hack elevated the risk of neural degradation, leading eventually to insanity or brain death—a toll similar to what I faced as a Courier, bartering fragments of my mind for credits.

  The most effective NeuroSlicers operated in teams, distributing the neural load to prevent any single mind from bearing the full strain. The fact that this one operated with just a single companion suggested either tremendous skill or dangerous recklessness.

  The duo settled at a table and ordered coffee, their motives obscured beneath casual conversation. Subtly inspecting them, I found no indications they were MainFrame employees. The corporation's NeuroSlicer teams wore uniforms, their identities hidden behind masks. These two seemed more at home in conversation than covert operations.

  I pondered the improbability of their presence. Why would they be here? The likelihood of them coincidentally pursuing the same memory stick at precisely this moment defied reason.

  To my surprise, their stay proved brief. Before my food arrived, they finished their drinks and left, their departure accompanied by jovial banter.

  A sigh of relief escaped me. Perhaps paranoia had briefly taken the reins, but the encounter left me uneasy. Why had the implant glowed in my vision? Another receptacle malfunction, or was Noah trying to warn me about something? I shook my head, unable to trust my own perceptions anymore.

  My order arrived—synthetic eggs, bacon, and toast that tasted eerily authentic despite being poor imitations.

  As I settled the bill and departed the cafe, I surveyed the street, detecting no anomalies. With measured steps, I proceeded toward the backstreet.

  The scene mirrored Noah's flashback with unsettling precision—the garbage bins, the stained walls, though subtle details had changed. Time had clearly passed, though I couldn't tell how long. But it was undoubtedly the same alley. At the far end stood the junction box, its cover slightly askew.

  "It was real," I whispered, advancing cautiously.

  Prying the cover open, I stood in astonishment. The memory stick remained exactly where Noah had hidden it.

  The tangible confirmation sent a shudder through me—these weren't hallucinations or glitches. Noah's memories were genuine. He had existed. Had worked for MainFrame. Had hidden this device. And now, somehow, he was communicating with me, using me to retrieve it. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and validating—I wasn't losing my mind after all.

  With hesitant fingers, I gently extracted the memory stick. Though antiquated technology, contemporary systems could still access it via adapters. Its physical nature made it impossible to hack remotely—a security feature by obsolescence.

  "You gonna turn around slowly and raise your hands," a voice commanded from behind.

  My body tensed, adrenaline surging through my system. I turned to find the bulky man from the cafe, now brandishing a gun with practiced ease. The NeuroSlicer stood a few feet behind him, fingers pressed against the device beneath his ear—the telltale stance of someone preparing to launch a wireless neural attack.

  They had been waiting for me. But how? How had they known I would come here? More importantly, why now? What were the odds they'd appear at the exact moment I arrived? The coincidence was too perfect to be random.

  "Drop whatever you found on the floor and back up against the wall," the gunman ordered, his gaze flitting nervously toward the alley entrance, ensuring no witnesses would interrupt.

  My grip on the memory stick tightened involuntarily. As it did, my vision fractured with digital artifacts—pixelated blocks spreading across my field of view. Warning indicators flashed across my heads-up display:

  NEURAL INTRUSION DETECTED. SECURITY BREACH IN PROGRESS.

  I was being hacked.

  Against my will, my body began to crouch, my arm moving toward the ground with the memory stick still clutched tightly in my hand. I fought against the external control, launching desperate counterattacks with my internal security software. But against a specialized NeuroSlicer, an ordinary Courier stood little chance. My hand touched the ground, yet my fingers refused to release their prize.

  The bulky man glanced back at his partner, confusion evident. "What's going on?"

  "I don't know," the NeuroSlicer replied, strain evident in his voice. "I have control of his body, but something's blocking the command to release whatever's in his hand. It's like his fingers won't respond."

  "What do you mean, something's blocking it?"

  "There's—there's something else," the NeuroSlicer gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. "Something extremely aggressive. Fast. It's reprogramming my commands, blocking access and... attacking me simultaneously. This isn't normal security software—it's... it's something I've never encountered before."

  "Shut up!" the NeuroSlicer barked, suddenly clutching his head. His face contorted in pain, sunglasses slipping to reveal eyes widening in shock. Blood began to trickle from his nostrils, then stream in alarming quantity. "Shut up! SHUT UP!!"

  Simultaneously, a crushing pressure exploded inside my skull—a headache so intense it felt like my brain might rupture. My vision alternated between total darkness and blinding clarity. Though I maintained my grip on the memory stick with unnatural determination, I commanded nothing. My body had become a battleground between the hacker's intrusion and... something else.

  The armed man, bewildered by his partner's distress, redirected his aim toward me. "Enough time wasted. We're gonna do this my way. Nothing personal, dude."

  With tremendous effort, I managed to lift my head, meeting his gaze as he loomed over me. The gun barrel hovered less than ten centimeters from my face, yet I remained paralyzed—caught between opposing neural commands. My body was a battlefield; the NeuroSlicer forcing most of my muscles to comply while something else maintained an iron grip on my hand, refusing to surrender the memory stick. Different parts of me obeying different masters.

  "Stop your hacking and give me what you found," he demanded.

  "I'm not... hacking," I forced out through gritted teeth, blood beginning to drip from my nose.

  "Bullshit!" he shouted, glancing at his writhing partner. "What the hell is going on here! I got no time fo—"

  His sentence cut short as panic flashed across his face. A thin trickle of blood began to seep from his right nostril. "Who is that?! Who's doing this?!" he gasped, wiping at his face with growing alarm.

  Behind him, the NeuroSlicer collapsed to his knees, blood now pouring from his ears and nose, hands clawing desperately at the device beneath his ear as if trying to tear it away.

  The unfolding chaos eluded my comprehension. As the headache crested in unbearable intensity, consciousness began to slip away. The last image imprinted on my fading vision was crimson droplets spattering onto grimy concrete—my blood mixing with the accumulated filth of ToxCity as darkness claimed me completely.

  But as awareness receded, I sensed something—not quite a voice, not quite a touch—a presence that defied explanation. Was someone watching me? Protecting me? Attacking me? The sensation hovered at the edge of perception, impossible to grasp as my consciousness slipped away. Then darkness claimed me completely.