Nye’s glider descended in near silence, the anti-grav stabilizers humming softly as it eased onto the lev-surface of the sprawling parking lot. The ground beneath it covered in snow, shimmered faintly, adapting to the craft’s weight before settling. The pilot-passenger door split open with a smooth hydraulic hiss, exhaling a gust of sterile, climate-controlled air. Before stepping out, Nye let his gaze sweep across the monolithic estate before him.

  The Echelon branch of Aeternum was nothing short of a behemoth, a looming testament to the corporation’s reach. From his seat, he could see the sheer scale of the facility—towering reflective glass interwoven with artificial steel, sleek surfaces pulsing with luminescent stripes running top to bottom like the nervous system of some sleeping cybernetic beast. The sheer size made his own residence feel like an isolated relic of a bygone era. He had always thought of himself as living in a quiet, well-connected part of the country, but this? This was a stark contrast. It made him wonder why he hadn’t chosen a place closer to Echelon in the first place. Then again, maybe he had been avoiding the future—or at least, the version of it Aeternum represented.

  The entrance was an expanse of artificially renovated land, barricaded by towering holographic walls playing a looping advertisement for the NeuroHalcyon chip. The same ad, over and over. A sleek, impossibly attractive model grinned as their eyes flickered with a subtle luminescence, their voice smooth and inviting: "Reclaim your life, fall in love, make a family, or just simply live free of pain and anguish. Choose NeuroHalcyon today."

  The tagline burned itself into his mind like an inescapable mantra.

  He barely registered the moment his jaw went slack, caught somewhere between awe and apprehension.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  The amused lilt in Eve’s voice cut through his tangled thoughts like a well-placed scalpel.

  Nye flinched, blinking rapidly as he was pulled back to the present. He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Uh…wow.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair as if that would somehow smooth out the knots in his brain. “Didn’t realize their was this big. ‘Intimidating’ doesn’t even cover it.” He gestured vaguely at the corporate sprawl. “I mean, look at this place. It’s like stepping into a dystopian fever dream.” His voice turned contemplative as he added, “And yeah, I’m absolutely having second thoughts. What do you think? Should I go through with it?”

  Eve’s response was, as always, maddeningly logical. “I think you should at least attend the consultation and physical assessment before making a decision.” Her voice was smooth but firm, like a well-coded AI counselor. “What do you say?”

  Nye sighed, rubbing his temple. “Yeah. No harm in consulting, I guess.” He shrugged, though the gesture felt hollow.

  Bracing himself, he stepped out of the glider, adjusting the fit of his overcoat before tightening his grip on his crutch. The moment he stepped out, the brutal winter greeted him with a flurry of snowflakes, thick and heavy like ashfall. They clung to his dark coat, melting into damp patches before fresh ones replaced them. The wind howled low and sharp, cutting through the air with an icy bite, but Nye barely reacted—he had grown used to Earth’s worsening extremes.

  “So where do I go?” He asked, absently smoothing out an imaginary crease on his sleeve—an old nervous habit.

  “Keep walking straight. I’ll guide you as you go.” Eve’s voice chimed from the Voxlet on his wrist.

  Nye took a sharp inhale, exhaling slowly as he set his first step forward. His boots crunched against the frost-laden ground as he made his way toward the towering Aeternum building.

  The gigantic structure loomed ahead like an altar of progress, its inhabitants a parade of impossibly polished individuals—Primes, no doubt—draped in high-fashion synthetic blends so tight they seemed vacuum-sealed to their bodies.

  Each step toward the entrance was an exercise in endurance. His balance issues, a gift from his seizures, made the trek an ordeal, and the crutch, rather than aiding him, seemed to highlight his struggle. The minutes stretched endlessly, an agonizing march across a space designed for bodies that functioned flawlessly. By the time he reached the entrance, fifteen minutes had passed, and he already felt drained—mentally more than physically. His mind gnawed at the decision he was about to make, second-guessing every step that had led him here.

  The moment his proximity triggered the entrance sensors, the doors parted with an effortless , revealing a sanctuary of technological opulence.

  Nye paused on the threshold, eyes widening as he drank in the interior. Every inch of the lobby screamed wealth, precision, and scientific ambition. The walls, constructed from some kind of responsive nanomaterial, shimmered subtly with embedded data streams, shifting displays that pulsed with company metrics, client stats, and promotional content. Holographic assistants floated mid-air, greeting visitors in smooth, carefully modulated voices. Above, a skylight made of adaptive glass filtered the light to a perfect, clinically optimized hue.

  This was Aeternum, after all. The corporation responsible for pushing humanity forward, for rewriting the rules of existence itself. Sustaining life? That was an understatement. They were it.

  Eve’s voice chimed in his ear again, snapping him out of his reverie. “Please proceed forward, Nye. At the dead end, take a left. The elevators will be in front of you. We’re heading to the fifth floor.”

  Nye nodded absently and started moving. His gaze flitted from one sleek innovation to another, his awe almost childlike despite his reluctance. His expression alone was enough to amuse any passing observer—wide eyes, slightly parted lips, the telltale look of someone torn between admiration and intimidation.

  What unsettled him most, however, were the people.

  Not just the ones engaged in their routines, but the ones who noticed .

  As he made his way through the lobby, some individuals—leaving, entering, moving between tasks—paused just long enough to glance at him. Not in passing, not the way one notices another human in a crowded space. No, these were lingering, assessing stares, their expressions hovering somewhere between recognition and intrigue.

  His stomach twisted. He told himself it was because of his former job, that his name still carried some residual attention, but he wasn’t entirely convinced.

  He chose not to engage, keeping his head down as curiosity, suspicion, and unease warred in his mind.

  Eventually, he reached the elevator section. A stroke of good fortune—an elevator arrived the moment he did, its doors sliding open invitingly. He stepped in quickly, relieved to find the other occupants engrossed in their projected interfaces, glowing screens hovering inches from their faces.

  Finally, a moment of peace. No curious stares. No evaluating glances. Just the familiar hum of technology and his own thoughts, which, unfortunately, were doing their best to ruin his sense of relief.

  As the elevator ascended, Nye let out a slow breath, bracing himself. The moment it arrived on the fifth floor, the doors slid open, revealing yet another pristine corridor lined with minimalist yet intimidating architecture.

  He stepped out and adjusted his grip on his crutch before asking, “Where to now?”

  After a brief silence, Eve’s voice chimed through his Voxlet once more, crisp and precise. “Proceed to the left, and continue straight until you reach the third right. Turn there, and your consultation office should be at the end of the corridor.”

  Nye began moving. Another set of hallways stretched before him. A soft orchestral melody drifted through hidden speakers, clearly engineered to put visitors at ease, but to Nye, it only emphasized how out of place he felt.

  He followed Eve’s guidance, turning at the instructed junctions, resisting the urge to hesitate at every branching path. It would’ve been easy to get lost in this corporate labyrinth, but thankfully, he had Eve. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, his gaze flitting across the space, cataloging every minute detail—a group of Primes in shimmering designer attire discussing enhancements, a couple of Primes huddled near a holo-consultation booth, even a floating sanitation drone polishing the already spotless surfaces.

  By the time he reached the consultation wing, his legs were aching, and his patience had thinned. At the far end of the pristine corridor, a wide, imposing door loomed, metallic silver with an embedded plaque reading: CONSULTATION

  The scale of the space was staggering—polished floors stretching endlessly, crystalline panels flickering with medical readouts, and seating arrangements so ergonomic they probably cost more than a low-tier hovercraft. Dozens of individuals occupied the area, though the sheer size of the lobby made it seem sparsely populated. Nye exhaled sharply. It was an architectural flex, Aeternum making a point:

  His focus snapped to the reception desk, where a female Prime in an immaculate Aeternum uniform was engrossed in a floating holo-screen. Her name tag gleamed subtly, though Nye was more struck by her appearance—powder pink skin with denim-blue eyes and hair, features sculpted with perfect symmetry.

  Internally, Nye groaned. Another long walk.

  He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and trudged forward at his usual sluggish pace. Each step felt like an eternity, his muscles screaming in quiet rebellion. He despised this—the limitations, the exhaustion, the way grief had hollowed out his body like a parasite gnawing at his very bones. More than anything, he hated the suffocating weight of failure pressing against his ribs.

  “Nye, you’re spiraling,” Eve interjected smoothly, her voice laced with just enough teasing to snap him out of it.

  He let out a dry chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Painfully. How about focusing on something a little less self-destructive? Maybe the fact that today could be the start of something new?”

  Nye rolled his eyes but said nothing. He wasn’t convinced.

  By the time he finally reached the desk, he was ready to collapse into the nearest seat. He cleared his throat to grab the Prime’s attention. “Hi, my name is Nye. I have an appointment for a consultation at 11.”

  The woman looked up, flashing him a dazzling, almost unnervingly perfect smile. “Welcome, Nye! Great decision coming in today.” Her voice was bright, smooth, and professionally warm. “I’m Lina. Let me notify our primary consultant that you’ve arrived. In the meantime, you can take a seat over there.” She gestured toward a row of nearby chairs, each one as posh as everything else in the facility.

  Nye nodded. “Thanks.”

  As he moved toward the seating area, he couldn’t help but feel increasingly out of place. Even as a millionaire, standing here—surrounded by individuals who were either born into luxury or had enhanced their way into perfection—made him feel painfully ordinary. His wealth was practical, not indulgent. Here, indulgence was the standard.

  Sinking into the plush chair, Nye exhaled slowly, allowing his muscles a moment of reprieve. He could hear Lina’s soft voice as she placed a call, informing the consultant of his arrival. Moments later, his name crackled through the overhead speakers, echoed with the smooth precision of AI modulation.

  “That’s you, Nye,” Eve prompted.

  Pushing himself up, Nye steadied his stance before walking past Lina’s desk. She smiled again, gesturing toward a door that silently parted for him.

  The next corridor was just as grand as the waiting area—high ceilings, softly pulsing wall panels, and a faint hum of machinery beneath the pristine silence. Lina guided him through a series of turns, her steps effortlessly graceful while Nye’s were deliberate, measured, and sluggish. By the time they reached his destination, he was internally cursing his body’s betrayal.

  The chamber doors slid open automatically, revealing an office that was both clinical and luxurious. At its center sat a man in a pristine white and silver Aeternum uniform, posture effortlessly poised. His uniform bore the insignia of Chief Consultant

  “Good afternoon, Nye. Glad to see you made it.” His voice carried a deep, velvety smoothness, polished from years of professional refinement.

  Nye’s eyes flickered across the room before settling on the consultant. He had shiny silver hair, grey eyes, and a light peach skin tone. Nye wasn’t sure what he had expected, but something about the man felt… calculated. Like every movement, every word was part of an equation Nye hadn’t yet solved.

  Still, he returned the polite smile and made his way forward, lowering himself into the chair opposite the consultant. He propped his crutch against the seat beside him, fingers briefly drumming against his knee.

  “Hi,” he said simply, forcing his tone to remain light. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  The consultant offered a measured smile, his fingers steepled as he observed Nye with the practiced patience of someone who had seen far too many fractured minds sit in that very chair. "Of course. I’m Orson, and I’ll be your primary consultant today. Let’s begin by reviewing your medical history, yeah?"

  Nye returned the smile—polite, hollow, and laced with an awkward stiffness. He had never quite grown accustomed to these types of conversations, the kind where strangers sifted through the remnants of his past with clinical detachment. Especially not when he had spent so long rejecting the very concept of . It felt ironic, even hypocritical, to be sitting here now.

  Orson’s gaze flickered over his holo-screen, scanning the details with a faint furrow of his brow. Nye watched his expressions like a hawk, unease creeping up his spine with every subtle shift of the man’s face.

  “Ah, I see,” Orson muttered, more to himself than to Nye. “Your memory only goes back to last year, and you regained consciousness earlier this year.”

  Nye nodded, clasping his hands together to keep himself grounded. “That’s correct.”

  The consultant leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on the data streaming across his screen. "Well, in that case, have you checked whether you're already chipped?"

  That caught Nye off guard. His lips parted slightly before he let out a short, dry chuckle. "Oh…" He pursed his lips, brow knitting together in thought. "Now that you mention it, I never really considered it a possibility. But I’m pretty sure I’m not chipped. Otherwise, your product is failing miserably.” A grin followed the remark, laced with sarcasm so thick it was impossible to miss.

  Orson, to his credit, took it in stride. He chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax, I you're not chipped. Just messing with ya." His grin was unapologetic, almost impish.

  Nye exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

  “Alright,” Orson continued, his tone shifting back to business. “I’d like you to give me a brief history of what’s been going on since you woke up. What’s been bothering you? What made you finally decide to opt for the chip? Just enough to help me determine what of intervention you’d require.” His hands clasped together, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he regarded Nye expectantly.

  Nye’s stomach twisted slightly at the phrase. “Level of intervention?” he echoed, suddenly feeling like he had just walked into something far more intense than he had anticipated. The last thing he wanted was to lay out his miserable history in front of a stranger. It already felt pathetic enough living through it—he didn’t need an audience.

  Orson, unfazed by his apprehension, merely tilted his head slightly. “Well, there are different types of chips, each tailored to specific needs. Based on your history, I’ll be able to determine the best model—or whether we need to develop a custom one for you. Every case is unique.” He shrugged, the weight of his profession sitting comfortably on his shoulders. He had clearly said this a thousand times before.

  “Oh.” Nye swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat, forcing himself to push past the discomfort. He exhaled, gathering himself. "Okay, right…so I—" He hesitated, mind blanking for a moment. It felt like a job interview, one of those moments where you suddenly forget every relevant detail about yourself.

  After an awkward pause, he just picked a random point. “I reconnected with my friends after I returned home in mid-May. Some time later, I got busy taking on the responsibilities of Best Man to a friend.”

  Orson’s expression shifted slightly, his brows lifting. “Ah! Lucky man.”

  Nye let out a short chuckle at that. “Yeah, yeah, he’s lucky indeed,” he muttered, momentarily distracted by the memory of Vin and the chaos surrounding that wedding.

  Then he hesitated.

  His mouth went dry.

  He almost didn’t say her name.

  But then, forcing himself past the invisible barrier, he continued, “So, this other friend…Mia.” He paused. His jaw tensed before he forced the words out. “She was very close to me. Took care of me like family. She…uh…she ended her life soon after the wedding.”

  Orson’s expression remained neutral, professional, but there was an undeniable flicker of understanding in his eyes.

  Nye pressed on, his voice quieter now. “I’m still…reeling from it. I can’t shake the grief. It’s like being caught in a loop, and every time I think I’m breaking free, it pulls me back under.” His fingers curled slightly against his thigh. “I keep having these nightmares. Seizures.” He nodded toward the holo-screen, where his neurological reports were no doubt displayed in cold, clinical detail. “I assume you can see that for yourself.”

  Orson glanced at the screen again, nodding in silent confirmation.

  “I feel like I’m losing control of my own body,” Nye admitted, his voice dropping even lower. “Again.”

  And was the worst part.

  He had fought so hard to reclaim his sense of self, his autonomy, only to feel it slipping through his fingers all over again. The helplessness was suffocating.

  “So,” he continued, clearing his throat and forcing a smirk to his lips, “I figured it’s time to put a stop to it. I heard your chip doesn’t just do the whole enhanced emotions thing. It can actually fix neurological and neuropsychological disorders.” He quirked a brow. “Or was that just a really good marketing gimmick?”

  He fell silent, allowing Orson to take the floor.

  The consultant, however, didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied Nye carefully, fingers tapping lightly against his wrist.

  For the first time in the conversation, Nye felt like Orson wasn’t just looking him—but him.

  And somehow, that was even more unsettling.

  “Thank you, Nye. Lucky you, it wasn't just a marketing gimmick.” Orson finally said, folding his hands with practiced elegance. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, but before we proceed, there’s something you should know. Under no circumstances should you lie during this consultation or your physical assessment. That includes your medical history, mental health, neurological state—everything. And I say this not as a warning, but as a professional courtesy.”

  His gaze locked onto Nye’s, unwavering, clinical, and yet laced with a salesman’s polished charisma. “Even if you did lie, it wouldn’t matter. Because if you proceed with getting the chip, it’s going to absorb your entire life experience—every thought, every emotion, every fleeting moment—like a quantum-level flash drive the size of half a grain of rice. The good news?” He leaned forward slightly, his lips stretching into an almost comically proud grin. “With the chip embedded, your entire existence can be installed into a humanoid vessel, should you ever find yourself, well... without a body. Isn’t that something?”

  Nye’s eyebrow twitched, his stomach twisting into knots of existential discomfort. “Uh-huh,” he muttered. It was all he could manage.

  Orson immediately read the shift in his demeanor and adjusted accordingly, dialing down the eerily enthusiastic pitch to something more... human.

  “Look, Nye,” he said, his voice gentler now, “I know it sounds unsettling. But I want you to understand—this is a process performed only upon the explicit request of the original host. Your consent is everything. No one’s out here running rogue consciousness extractions.” He chuckled, eyes momentarily distant, as though recalling past cases.

  “Sometimes, the people who want to live the most are the ones who leave us too soon, while those who actively seek the end somehow keep trudging forward. We’ve seen it all.” He refocused on Nye and gave him a reassuring nod. “So, believe me when I say—you’re in the right place.”

  Nye wasn’t entirely convinced. He’d have liked to believe that Orson’s words held weight, that this was some well-regulated, humane advancement rather than a dystopian tech horror waiting to unfold. But he also just wanted to get this damn consultation over with. “Yeah. Okay,” he said with a small shrug.

  Orson studied him for a moment, then nodded back, as though checking off an invisible box. “Alright. I have a few more questions, if that’s alright?”

  Nye gave a simple nod.

  “Let’s go back a little,” Orson began. “After you returned home, but before you took on the Best Man duties—what were you doing? More importantly, were you happy?”

  The question made Nye pause, not because he didn’t know the answer, but because happiness wasn’t something he’d given much thought to. “Sure,” he replied finally. “I was content with what I had. I liked keeping myself occupied—chores, experimenting in the kitchen, you know, just staying busy.” A small smirk curled his lips. “I’m a fantastic cook, by the way.”

  Orson let out a genuine laugh this time, free of corporate polish. “That’s great to hear, Nye. I’m glad you found new things to be proud of, despite… everything. That resilience? We appreciate that.” His voice carried a rare sincerity, and for a brief moment, Nye wondered if Orson had always been this perceptive or if years of dealing with broken people had fine-tuned his emotional radar.

  A pause, then Orson’s voice softened. “And these nightmares you mentioned—can you tell me about them?”

  Nye’s smirk faded, his fingers instinctively curling into his palms. He was careful, deliberate in his response.

  “It’s just... drowning, literally,” he said flatly. “I can’t breathe, struggling to get out of the water.” He kept his tone light, his expression neutral, his eye contact unwavering—ensuring that not even a flicker of his real burden slipped through.

  Orson frowned slightly, nodding in understanding. “That sounds terrifying, Nye. I’m sorry you’re going through that.” A beat of silence. “Do these dreams ever trigger seizures?”

  Nye scoffed, his voice crisp, direct. “Every single time.”

  Orson’s fingers tapped once against the table, his expression unreadable. “I see. Have you been able to figure out what these nightmares are stemming from?”

  “I don’t know. Have you?” Nye asked, mirroring his curiosity.

  Orson shook his head. “No, Nye. And that’s where the chip comes in.” His excitement returned the moment he began talking about the chip again. “The NeuroHalcyon Chip operates on a revolutionary neuro-synthetic feedback loop. It regulates the release of cortisol, suppressing stress-induced trauma responses while enhancing serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin production in real-time—effectively eliminating prolonged sadness, anxiety, or grief. Its neural lattice synchronizes with your hippocampus and amygdala, rewriting pain receptors and emotional distress markers at a cellular level.”

  He clasped his hands together, his eyes glinting with enthusiasm. “But that’s just the foundation. The chip also amplifies neuroplasticity, allowing your brain to self-repair, override negative thought cycles, and maintain an optimal cognitive state. You’ll experience heightened clarity, accelerated problem-solving abilities, and an adaptive emotional threshold—essentially making you immune to anguish, despair, and even heartbreak. And the best part? It’s fully customizable. Whether you want to retain a baseline level of emotion or dial up your resilience to near-invincible levels, the chip evolves to meet your unique psychological needs.”

  Orson’s smile stretched wider as he delivered the final hook. “And, of course, the most important part—once implanted, the NeuroHalcyon Chip is permanent. There’s no going back to the old, fragile version of yourself, Nye. You’ll always find a way to thrive, no matter how lonely the world gets. Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?”

  Nye raised an eyebrow, half-impressed, half-wary. “Fancy. And what’s the success rate?”

  “That depends on how much you’re willing to pay for it.” Orson winked playfully before chuckling. “Just kidding. Our models range from 15,000 Cryonics to 5 million, with baseline implants boasting an 85% success rate. But for those who can afford the premium variants? A guaranteed 100% success.”

  Nye scoffed. “For all that crying over going extinct, you sure charge a fortune for salvation. Shouldn’t it be accessible to everyone? How do the Deformeds pay for it?”

  Orson’s expression soured instantly. “Oh dear, the Deformeds can’t receive brain implants, Nye. Their neural structure is too unstable. They’d reject the chip before it even booted up.”

  Nye’s face twisted in shock. “That’s… incredibly unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate, indeed,” Orson echoed without a shred of sympathy. He tapped a final command on his holographic screen before shifting gears. “Alright, my final question before we proceed to the physical assessment: Have you made any efforts to recall memories from before your coma? Maybe spoken to friends about what life used to be like?”

  “Yes, they’ve helped me reconnect with myself—told me what kind of person I used to be.” Nye lied effortlessly, his expression unreadable.

  Orson studied him for a moment before pressing further. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

  Nye shrugged. “Not really. You already have the rest of my medical history. Pretty sure you know more about me than I know about me.” He smirked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  Orson chuckled. “Alright, then. Let’s get you to the physical assessment.”

  Pushing himself up from his seat, Orson gave one last glance at his floating screen before stepping toward the exit.

  Nye, gripping his crutch for balance, followed at his own pace, his mind still lingering on the unsettling permanence of the chip.

  Nye was escorted to another sector of the facility, located in a different wing and on an entirely separate floor. The transition was anything but seamless—his sluggish pace quickly became apparent, prompting Orson to offer him a levitation chair. Nye declined with a polite shake of his head, though the reminder of the unused one still sitting in the trunk of his glider lingered in his mind. He had been issued the chair after his second seizure episode, yet he never quite found the will to use it.

  The walk stretched on, each step amplifying the ache in his muscles. The crutch, once a necessity, now felt like a cruel handicap—dragging him down rather than aiding him. By the time they reached the physical assessment department, frustration simmered beneath his otherwise impassive expression. If not for the dull but persistent pain in his joints, he might have snapped the damned crutch in half and walked without it. Had he known he’d be subjected to endless treks across Aeternum’s sprawling facility, he would’ve reconsidered using it today.

  As they neared the entrance, the sleek metal doors parted automatically, responding to Orson’s biometric signature. He stepped aside, gesturing for Nye to enter first. The contrast between this department and the previous one was stark—unlike the corporate sterility of the prior wing, this space bore the unmistakable design of a high-end medical lab. The walls pulsed faintly with embedded neural circuits, their soft glow adjusting dynamically to ambient lighting. Humanoid nurse units moved with precise, calculated efficiency, their synthetic hands performing scans, drawing samples, and calibrating instruments without missing a beat.

  The assessment began with a collection of standard vitals—though ‘standard’ in Aeternum’s terms was far from ordinary. The humanoid assistant spoke in a soft, modulated voice, recording each data point in real time as its mechanical gaze scanned Nye’s frame:

  “Height: 6’5”. Weight: 80 kg. Blood type: XN-3 (Augmented Hemocellular Variant). Ocular pigmentation: Emerald-5 spectrum. Hair pigmentation: Auburn-Copper. Skin tone: Pale-9 Iridescent.”

  Blood samples were drawn through a subdermal extraction process, the needle replaced by microscopic nanoprobes that infiltrated his veins and withdrew the necessary data without so much as a prick. His hormonal balance, neurotransmitter activity, and metabolic efficiency were all logged instantly into Aeternum’s system.

  Then came the endurance assessment. Nye was guided onto an adaptive treadmill, his crutch swiftly confiscated as the machine adjusted its surface tension to match the pressure of his gait. What started as a leisurely walk escalated to a near-sprint, the incline shifting dynamically to mimic real-world terrain changes until Nye couldn't keep up and slipped. The humanoid nurse caught him immediately from the back.

  But that was just the beginning.

  The physical evaluation escalated into a battery of cybernetically enhanced stress tests designed to measure his neuromuscular resilience, cardiovascular adaptability, and cognitive reflexes. His vision was bombarded with rapid holographic distortions meant to test visual tracking speeds—unfortunately leading to a fit of convulsions. Sensory calibration chambers exposed him to alternating waves of intense heat and frigid cold to assess his autonomic nervous response—also resulting in another series of seizures. Micro-exoskeleton simulations mapped his muscular engagement in real-time, gauging compatibility for potential biomechanical augmentations.

  What Nye assumed would be an hour or two of speaking and some tests, stretched deep into the evening of . By the time the grueling process was over, he found himself in yet another cabin within the physical assessment sector, his limbs aching in protest. But they were extremely nice, he couldn't bring himself to be rude. He kept telling himself that he's never coming back here.

  Orson re-entered, scrolling through Nye’s test results on a floating holographic screen. His gaze flicked across the glowing data streams, an intrigued hum escaping him as he processed the findings.

  “Well,” Orson finally said, eyes still scanning. “That was… enlightening.”

  Orson leaned back in his seat, grinning as he tapped at the floating holographic display. “I’ve reviewed your overall assessment score, and guess what? A perfect 100 out of 100. You are an ideal candidate for the NeuroHalcyon Chip. Not that I ever had any doubts,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk.

  Nye returned a feigned, polite smile, though exhaustion weighed heavily on him. His mind was fried, his muscles ached, and at this point, all he wanted was to go home. Besides, he was dangerously close to lashing out at them for provoking his convulsions today.

  Orson continued, unbothered by Nye’s lack of enthusiasm. “We’ve shortlisted both premium and non-premium variants tailored for you. I’ve already sent them to your AI unit. Take your time, browse the catalog, and let us know if you decide to proceed with implantation. Sound good?”

  Nye nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just one thing—if I need further customizations to the chip after implantation, how does that work?”

  Orson chuckled. “All modifications are handled remotely from our end. We deploy updates virtually, and you experience them after your next sleep cycle. Seamless integration. That’s why I’d strongly recommend opting for our premium variants—100% success rates, minimal side effects, zero system lag. All the details are in the catalog.” He clasped his hands together. “Anything else?”

  Nye leaned forward slightly. “Let’s say I pick a variant. What happens next?”

  “Once you’ve made your selection, we schedule the earliest available procedure date. Post-op, you’ll remain under observation here for 72 hours to ensure stability. After that, you’re free to go, fully enhanced, fully optimized. Simple.” Orson's excitement was almost palpable—clearly, he was deeply invested in the program’s success.

  Nye remained outwardly neutral, though his mind churned with both mild intrigue and deep apprehension.

  “Thanks for your time, Orson. Appreciate it.” He extended a hand.

  Orson clasped it firmly. “Pleasure meeting you, Nye. I look forward to seeing you again.” He patted Nye on the back, then guided him toward the exit of the physical assessment department.

  The two parted ways at the elevator section. Nye was carried all along on a levitation chair before finally dropping him outside, close to his glider. The cold hit instantly as he stepped on his foot—snow had blanketed the ground in thick layers. As he neared his glider grasping on his crutch, the craft’s sensors activated, heating the roof to melt away accumulated frost. The vehicle’s canopy parted open once the temperature stabilized, inviting him inside.

  Nye wasted no time slipping into the cockpit. As the canopy sealed shut, he muttered under his breath, “Phew. That was exhausting—and condescending. I should sue them. Right?”

  A soft chuckle echoed through his Voxlet. Eve responded smoothly, “Let’s get you home, Nye. You did well today.”

  The glider hummed to life, lifting off effortlessly. Within minutes, he was airborne, leaving the towering facility of Aeternum behind as he soared toward Neryon Veil.

  Later that night, the corridors of Aeternum Laboratories hummed with the remnants of a long day’s work. The overhead biolume strips dimmed as the last of the staff filtered out, their tired chatter echoing through the high-tech facility.

  Keila, one of the departing researchers, paused mid-step as she noticed someone hunched over a workstation in Lab 03

  , the Chief Consultant at the Echelon’s branch of Aeternum, known for his unshakable curiosity and the kind of brilliance that often blurred ethical lines.

  “Doc, is that you?” Keila called, stepping into the lab.

  Orson flinched—just slightly—before lifting his head, blinking as if surfacing from deep thought. His sharp grey eyes adjusted to her presence before settling into casual amusement.

  “Oh, hey.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge of distraction beneath it.

  Keila tilted her head. “Aren’t you leaving? It’s pretty late.”

  Orson flashed her an easy, lopsided grin. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be out soon. Just wrapping up a few last-minute things. You go on ahead, Keila. Appreciate the concern.”

  She gave him a small nod, her gaze lingering for a second longer, as if debating whether to press further. Eventually, she left with a quiet, “Alright. Goodnight, Doc.”

  The door slid shut behind her with a soft hiss.

  The moment she was gone, Orson exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders. His fingers tapped absently against the cold metal of the workstation. He wasn’t nervous—not exactly—but there was an underlying tension in the way he ran a hand through his already-messy silver hair.

  Finally, he lifted his wrist and commanded his Voxlet, “Call Viora.”

  The device blinked to life, projecting a holographic screen in the air before him. Within moments, the image of Viora flickered into existence—her back-brushed lime-green hair, matching piercing eyes, and an almost unnatural mossy tint to her skin. She looked like she had been sculpted from jade and enhanced by the sharpest technology available.

  She barely spared him a glance before acknowledging his presence with a detached, “Orson.”

  Cool. Professional. Lethally efficient.

  Orson let out a sheepish chuckle, straightening his lab coat as if it somehow made him more composed. “Hey, Viora. Thanks for taking the call. I know it’s pretty late—”

  “Mm. Don’t mention it.” She cut him off and finally looked at him—well, his reflection from whatever work she was immersed in. Her fingers danced over an unseen interface, managing multiple tasks even at this hour. “So? Did you see him today?”

  Orson nodded. “I did. Yeah.”

  “And? How was he? Do you think he’ll get the chip?”

  Orson hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “He's reluctant, tight-lipped… and clearly under a lot of emotional stress. The chip would definitely help, but he didn’t seem particularly thrilled about the idea. I did my best to lay out the benefits. Now we wait.”

  Viora’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Oh, he’ll come around. If my world were as royally fucked as his, I’d get one too.”

  Orson raised an eyebrow. “You already have one, though.”

  Viora shrugged. “Yes, but that’s because I refuse to be weak. Not because I waited for people in my life to fuck it up for me first.” Her tone was smooth, devoid of sympathy or judgment—just a simple, unvarnished fact. “His brother was smart enough to get it long before he even thought about it.”

  The mention of Nile sent an unspoken ripple through the conversation, but neither of them dwelled on it.

  “Anyway, I need you to keep me informed—” Viora continued before exhaling a small, tired sigh. The first real sign of weariness she had shown all night. “In either case.”

  Orson nodded. “Certainly. Uh… You know, I was analyzing the blood sample Nye left today. It seems like he hasn't been taking any of the prescribed medications since his initial discharge, and I also noticed something... unusual, if you’re interested.”

  Viora didn’t even look up. “Just spit it out, Orson.”

  Orson exhaled. “Okay, so… There are DNA-level changes. It’s like he’s still evolving. Adapting. I don’t know what’s triggering it, but it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I’m going to study the shifts in detail, and I’ll get back to you once I have something conclusive.”

  That finally got Viora’s attention. She paused, eyes flickering toward him with something between mild surprise and amused inevitability.

  “Of course, he’s evolving. He’s the most powerful Primalis on Earth.” Her voice held no disbelief, only cold acceptance. “And I’d bet everything that Nile has a hand in this. What did you expect?”

  Orson pursed his lips, as if he had hoped for a slightly different reaction.

  Viora barely gave him a moment to process before she straightened up. “Alright, I have to go. Let me know if there’s any development on him.” Her tone shifted, taking on that edge of command. “I need him back to work. The sooner, the better. Do your best.”

  Before Orson could even acknowledge the order, the call cut out—Viora disappearing in a flicker of green light.

  He sat there, staring at the empty holographic space for a few seconds, then let out a slow breath.

  “…Classic,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

  With that, he pushed back from the workstation, carefully placing the sample tray where it belonged before heading out. He still had to swing by his office, grab his things, and—finally—call it a night.

  —

  Nye jolted awake, his body seizing violently as his mind dragged itself out of the same goddamn nightmare. The dark water swallowed him whole, its weight crushing, suffocating—until a hand reached down. His brother’s. Desperate. Straining. But just like every other time, Nye never made it to the surface.

  By the time his consciousness fully aligned with reality, he was still trapped—his muscles locked, his lungs burning with the phantom sensation of drowning. The seizure held him hostage for a moment longer before finally relenting, leaving him utterly drained despite what should have been a full night’s rest. His breath came in ragged gulps as he lay motionless, disappointment coiling in his chest like a living thing. Another failure. Another reminder that even with a second chance at life, he was still shackled to the past.

  A few minutes passed before Eve's voice, smooth and disarmingly cheerful, echoed from the ceiling.

  “Nye. Are you able to talk? How are you feeling?”

  "Grand." His voice dripped with sarcasm as he exhaled a quiet, weary sigh. "Eve, those IV prescriptions I’ve been getting since the seizures started—do they even work?"

  "To some extent, sure," Eve responded, her tone neutral. "Prime human neurochemistry is... intricate. Not all treatments work the same way on every Prime."

  "Then remind me why I should get the chip instead of just sticking to the meds?" He asked, rubbing a hand down his face.

  Eve’s synthetic voice emitted what almost sounded like a chuckle. "Well, if you had started your medication earlier, perhaps today would have been different, Nye." There was a teasing lilt to her words.

  He rolled his eyes. "Just answer the question, will you?"

  "Certainly!" Eve’s tone took on a performative enthusiasm. "The reason you should opt for the NeuroHalcyon Chip over traditional medication is quite simple—medicine can't cure loneliness."

  Nye frowned. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

  "Oh, just an observation." There was an unmistakable sarcasm in her voice. "For someone who once claimed that loneliness was a luxury of the lazy, you seem to be... reconsidering that stance. The emotional pandemic has finally gotten under your skin too, huh?"

  He scoffed, shaking his head. "I hope you're enjoying your passive-aggressive analysis."

  "Immensely," Eve replied.

  Nye sighed. "Fine. Call Aeternum. See if they can slot me in as soon as possible. I’ll check the catalog in the meantime." He forced himself upright, groaning as his muscles, stiff and perpetually sore, protested against the movement.

  "On it," Eve chirped.

  Dragging himself out of bed felt like an accomplishment in itself. Every step to the bathroom sent dull aches rippling through his body, a reminder that no matter how far science had come, pain was still a universal truth. A hot shower helped loosen the tension, but the exhaustion clung to him, unshaken. He fixed himself a simple breakfast, though the food might as well have been tasteless paste. It all tasted the same.

  As he sipped his coffee—strong enough to jolt a corpse awake—he pulled up the NeuroHalcyon Chip catalog. The screen projected a sleek interface, displaying the six models his medical team had shortlisted for him. Eve guided him through the specifications, detailing the neural enhancement levels, cognitive optimization, and—of course—the price points.

  Unsurprisingly, the better the chip, the more it cost.

  Nye leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as he weighed his options. Then, without another second of deliberation, he selected the most expensive one—just over five million Cryonics. It was, without debate, the most advanced NeuroHalcyon Chip in existence.

  "Excellent choice, Nye!" Eve chimed, ever the optimist.

  He scoffed, chewing the last bite of his meal—flavorless, just like everything else these days.

  Later that night, Nye sat on the patio, wine glass in hand, watching the neon wilderness of his back garden shimmer beneath a fresh layer of snow. The mutated flora pulsed faintly, their bioluminescence flickering like distant signals, casting eerie glows against the frost-laden ground. Some plants twisted toward the sky, their warped forms a testament to generations of survival in a world poisoned by radiation. Snowflakes drifted down in slow, deliberate spirals, vanishing into the residual warmth of the stone patio before they could settle.

  A light drizzle mixed with the snow, steaming as it met the heated surface. The night stretched on, long and unbroken—Neryon Veil had more darkness than daylight, and winter only deepened its gloom. Somewhere in the distance, something rustled through the undergrowth, too large to be a rodent but too cautious to be anything dangerous.

  Behind him, the cleaning unit beeped and chirped, shuffling about in its obsessive quest to purge disorder. Nye ignored it by sheer willpower, refusing to acknowledge its presence as it tidied the already spotless space.

  His Voxlet crackled. Eve’s voice came through, smooth and detached.

  “We have a date confirmation, Nye. The night after tomorrow. There’ll be daylight in Echelon, but Neryon Veil remains dark per the forecast.”

  Nye exhaled slowly, pressing the rim of the glass against his lower lip before downing the last of the wine. He said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

  For all his contempt toward the chip, he couldn’t deny his own hypocrisy—he was waiting for the procedure as much as he loathed it. The very thing he’d scorned likely his entire life had become his only option. It patronized him, but what choice did he have? He had let the window for traditional treatment slip away, and the seizures had only worsened. Frequent. Violent. Unrelenting. He had waited too long. The IV medications had been a gamble at best, and in the end, he had never believed in them anyway.

  The day of the implantation arrived sooner than he would’ve liked.

  Nye had kept his decision to himself, unwilling to invite opinions from his friends just yet. He needed to see if the chip actually worked before dealing with their reactions.

  At the crack of dawn, he left Neryon Veil behind. The city remained in perpetual twilight, its skyline jagged and uneven, crammed to the brim. The snowfall had thickened overnight, turning the streets into a ghostly expanse of untouched white. His breath curled in the freezing air as he made his way to the transit station, the cold biting through his coat.

  By the time he reached Aeternum, morning had fully arrived—though in Echelon, winter dulled the sun to a mere smudge behind thick gray clouds. Snow blanketed the streets in uneven heaps, stained from the pollution clinging to the sky.

  Despite the cold, Nye was sweating beneath his coat. He pulled it tighter, gripping his crutch as he navigated the building’s entrance.

  Inside, the air was sterile, almost artificial in its stillness. The walls gleamed with embedded displays, faint streaks of data flowing in steady currents beneath their surfaces. A nurse in Aeternum’s slate-gray uniform greeted him with professional efficiency, wasting no time in escorting him to the ninth floor.

  He was grateful for the levitation chair this time. Walking with his crutch was slow, and this place made him feel slower. The corridors were pristine, unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional automated voice chiming out status updates.

  In the pre-op room, Nye lay on the medical bed, IVs already hooked into his arm, the cold fluids seeping into his veins. He stared at the ceiling, watching the slow crawl of condensation on the reinforced glass panels above. They have taken his Voxlet and made him change into a patient jumpsuit. No personal belongings allowed till he is discharged post procedure.

  Then a familiar voice broke through his haze.

  "Good morning, Nye. So good to see you made it back!"

  Orson stood beside him, his usual enthusiasm intact.

  Nye’s gaze flickered toward him. "Morning." A faint smirk. "So who’s actually performing the procedure?"

  "This is a robotic operation," Orson explained, his tone as bright as ever. "State-of-the-art precision. The machine does everything flawlessly in under fifteen minutes—under my supervision, of course." He patted Nye’s shoulder before glancing at the attending nurse. "Is he prepped?"

  "Yes, doctor," she confirmed with a nod.

  "Excellent! Let’s bring him to the chamber." Orson grinned before heading toward the door. He seemed far more excited about the chip than Nye himself.

  Nye let out a quiet sigh as he was moved onto a levitating bed, the medical team guiding him through the corridors. The walls flickered with shifting light as they passed—muted blue pulses, reflecting silent calculations running behind the scenes.

  The operating chamber was more advanced than he’d expected. Not that he’d expected much. Clean, white, futuristic—every surface gleamed under sterile lighting. Orson had already joined the rest of the medical team in a conjoined room, separated by glass panels. He waved once, then leaned toward the mic.

  "Ready, Nye?"

  Nye gave a single nod.

  "Good. Nurse Helga will administer the anesthesia now. It’s an odorless gas. You’ll be under soon—no need to panic."

  "I’m not panicking." Nye’s voice was flat. He wasn’t sure if that was true.

  The nurse placed the mask over his face, murmuring instructions. Nye inhaled. The scentless gas flooded his lungs, and before he could process anything further—

  The world diminished to nothingness.

  -

  Viora walked in sync with Kaha, her sharp heels tapping rhythmically against the polished floor as she commended him on his recent mission. Kaha, towering over most of the staff with his sculpted frame and unfairly symmetrical face, absorbed every word with the kind of focus one would expect from someone decoding classified intelligence—except, of course, his mission at the moment was basking in well-earned praise.

  His aquamarine skin shimmered over the contours of his structure. His hair and eyes were an equally complementing shade of sky blue. The effect of his presence was immediate and predictable. As they passed, human staff members blushed, stammered, or outright fumbled whatever they were holding. The humanoid workers, however, remained entirely unaffected—either due to their programmed indifference or an internal firewall against distractions labeled . Ironically, Kaha himself remained indifferent to the attention. Not out of humility, but because his focus was elsewhere.

  Viora was pleased with his work. There was talk of a promotion.

  The word lingered tantalizingly in his mind.

  For nearly two years, the position had remained vacant—left open like an unclaimed throne after Nye’s fall from grace. Even a month ago, Nye showed up battered at that Federal employee’s burial. And the whispers had started, growing bolder with time. The thought excited Kaha, and why wouldn’t it? He had served the Federal Interplanetary Defense Force of Earth

  And now, standing beside Viora, listening to her voice laced with satisfaction, he indulged in every syllable. Mentally bathing in her approval.

  Halfway down the corridor, he hesitated. A fleeting pause in his step—subtle, but enough to signal that he wanted to speak.

  Viora, perceptive as always, stopped as well. She arched an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “Yes?”

  A hopeful smile tugged at Kaha’s lips, his usual composure intact despite the unmistakable flicker of excitement in his eyes.

  “Viora, I just want to say how much it means to me, knowing that both you and the Federation recognize my efforts.” He let out a breath, his grin widening. “I want to do better. I do better. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  His voice was smooth, measured—exuding just the right amount of gratitude without sounding desperate.

  Viora chuckled, a genuine, throaty sound. “Don’t go running your mouth about the promotion just yet.” A glint of amusement crossed her gaze. “Alright? Keep this up, and I’ll make sure things move along soon enough.” She gave his arm a light pat—acknowledgment, reassurance.

  Before Kaha could respond, a female staff member materialized from seemingly nowhere. Or maybe she had been there all along, unnoticed, because Kaha had been too engrossed in what he assumed would be the best moment of his professional life.

  “Chief, sorry to interrupt,” the woman said hurriedly, addressing Viora with the kind of urgency that made Kaha instantly dislike her. “They’re saying it’s done.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Viora’s attention snapped to her immediately. “When?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Kaha clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. personally praised at work before, and now? Interrupted. Just like that.

  Viora’s lips curled ever so slightly. Not a friendly smile—a different one. smile. The one she wore when she was about to pull off something calculated, something sharp.

  Kaha recognized it instantly.

  His patience snapped, if only a little. “I’m sorry, is that all?” His tone was edged with restrained irritation, directed at the woman who had just his moment.

  The staffer blinked as if only now realizing Kaha existed. “Ye... yes,” she stammered, clearly taken aback.

  She turned back to Viora and gave a quick nod, regaining composure. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

  Kaha exhaled, then turned back to Viora, eager to reclaim the moment. “Right, so where were we?”

  But something had changed.

  Viora’s gaze had drifted elsewhere, not physically, but inward. A contemplative stillness settled over her features, her usual sharpness momentarily veiled.

  “Hey. Viora?” Kaha called again.

  She blinked. Just once. Then turned to him with an almost too-perfect smile, a feigned brightness that immediately set off alarm bells in his head.

  “Kaha.” She placed a hand on his bicep again, but this time, it felt dismissive rather than reassuring. “Let’s catch up later, yeah? I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

  And just like that, she was gone.

  Kaha stood there, jaw tight, watching her retreating figure as disbelief flickered across his expression.

  He this.

  Never enough attention. Never enough recognition. Always a step away from something greater, only for it to be snatched away at the last second.

  He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before turning on his heel and heading toward the cafeteria.

  He could really use something sweet right now.

  The moment Kaha stepped into the cafeteria, he was nearly sent sprawling to the side as another staff member—also a Prime—barreled past him, moving like she had the entire sector to herself. The impact was enough to jostle him, which, given his size and stature, was saying something.

  His patience, already threadbare from the earlier interruptions, snapped. “Hey, watch it!” he barked, his voice cutting through the low hum of chatter and clinking cutlery.

  The woman paused mid-stride, turned her head just enough to flash a wide, unapologetic grin. “Sorry, Kaha. Viora sent me. Urgently.” And just like that, she pivoted away, disappearing deeper into the cafeteria before he could retaliate with anything more scathing.

  Kaha exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering a string of words under his breath that, if verbalized properly, might have gotten him written up for . The sheer .

  The cafeteria itself was a sprawling, state-of-the-art space—lavish, sleek, and designed with a level of sophistication that would make any high-ranking official feel at home. Over three hundred dishes lined the automated buffet, a testament to the Federation’s limitless resources. The ceilings stretched impossibly high, fitted with luminescent panels that mimicked a gentle daylight effect, while the far walls projected an artificial skyline of Earth and the other exoplanets Earth has established contact with. Despite its vastness, the space was engineered for discretion. Shadows pooled in the unoccupied corners, and with the right positioning, one could sit and observe without ever being noticed.

  Kaha, still simmering, picked a seat near the buffet—strategically chosen for optimal food access. With an annoyed sigh, he unfastened the sonic gun from his waist, placing it on the table with a metallic before heading toward the buffet. His gaze, however, never strayed from the second staff member of the day.

  She was scanning the room now, her sharp eyes combing through the clusters of personnel.

  After a few minutes, she seemed to find her target—Kiera.

  Adjusting her stance, she made her way over, adopting a polite, almost hesitant demeanor. “Hello, Kiera. Am I interrupting?”

  Kiera, however, didn’t bother looking up from her meal. She cut into her plate with precision, responding with blunt disinterest. “Yes. I’m having lunch.”

  The staffer hesitated before pressing on. “Viora is asking for you. In her office.”

  Still, Kiera didn’t look up. “She couldn’t ping my Voxlet?” Her tone was flat, absent of curiosity, as if the very act of being spoken to was a mild inconvenience.

  The staffer shifted uncomfortably. “She said it was about .”

  That word alone was enough to make Kiera pause. Her hand stilled mid-cut, the knife resting against her plate. The name unspoken yet unmistakable.

  Nye.

  Viora didn’t want a digital trace of this conversation.

  Now was interesting.

  Kiera finally lifted her gaze, studying the messenger for a moment before offering a short, curt nod. “I’ll be on my way shortly. Thanks.”

  The woman gave a relieved nod and quickly excused herself.

  All the while, Kaha had been watching the exchange from the buffet area, chewing on a strip of something grilled while his eyes tracked every nuance of the interaction.

  Shortly after, Kiera pushed her tray forward, signaling the end of her meal. She stood and reached for her overcoat—draped casually over the backrest of her chair—and slipped it on over her fitted high-neck t-shirt, cinching the belt at her waist. Then, without a second glance at her plate, she walked away, her boots clicking against the cafeteria floor as she moved toward the exit.

  Kaha, still leaning near the buffet, called out, “Hey, everything okay?”

  Kiera didn’t even slow down. “Please don’t talk to me. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” Her voice was unwavering, carrying the kind of deadpan certainty that made it clear this was not up for negotiation.

  Kaha exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.

  Nobody ever paid him enough attention.

  Nobody ever him the way they should.

  And it was getting annoying.

  Grumbling under his breath, he turned back to the buffet, scooping up items onto his plate with an exaggerated level of disinterest. If his colleagues refused to give him the recognition he deserved, at the very least, he was going to treat himself to a damn good meal.

  Kiera stopped in front of Viora’s office. The biometric sensors registered her presence, and the metallic door slid open with a faint hiss. She stepped inside, her gaze immediately locking onto Viora.

  “You called,” she said flatly from across the room.

  Viora looked up from her holo-screen, her expression shifting into something syrupy and insincere. “Kiera! Pleased to see you. Please, join me,” she said, her voice dripping with manufactured warmth.

  Kiera remained utterly unmoved. Viora’s saccharine pleasantries had long lost their effect. She walked over and dropped into the chair opposite her, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate ease. “The staff said you wanted to talk about Nye. Is that correct?”

  Viora’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. She leaned back in her ergonomic chair, the high-tech fabric adjusting seamlessly to her posture. “Indeed,” she purred. “I think I have a little work for you.”

  Kiera exhaled noisily, already dreading where this was going. “Look, he’ll recognize me immediately. You know that we’ve spoken before, right? He knows I used to be Nile’s girlfriend.”

  Viora’s smirk deepened, a glint of amusement flashing in her eyes. “He knows about Nile?” Her eyebrow arched in feigned surprise.

  Kiera looked away, her arms folding across her chest. “Yes.”

  Viora hummed, the sound low and full of intrigue. “Hmm. I wonder who told him.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with venomous curiosity.

  Kiera’s response was immediate, unapologetic. “I did. He should’ve known sooner rather than later—in case his memories and primabilities return. It was only cautious and reasonable.”

  Viora chuckled, a slow, calculated sound. “I’m glad to hear you hold as much hope for him as we do, Kiera.” She leaned forward now, her elbows resting on the sleek black desk, fingers interlaced. “With that in mind, I’d like to inform you that Nye has undergone the brain implant procedure today.”

  Kiera stiffened, her expression twisting into disbelief. “Wait… hang on… Nye? got the NH Chip? ?”

  Viora’s grin widened. “Yes! Nye got the chip. We finally have a shot at bringing him back to work.” She stood then, moving with the slow precision of a strategist mid-play. Walking around the desk, she came to a stop beside Kiera, leaning against the edge with a casual arrogance.

  Then, lowering herself slightly, she ducked down just enough to meet Kiera’s eye level. “I need you to see him as soon as he’s released. But not at his place.” Her voice softened, but the weight behind it did not. “You’ll meet him at a local restaurant in Neryon. Make it look like you know about the chip. Keep the visits consistent—until you can convince him to rejoin the FIDFE.”

  Kiera barely heard the rest of the sentence. Her mind reeled, trying to process Nye had ended up needing a neural implant in the first place. He had been , too stubborn, too to ever require the chip.

  Had the coma really changed him that much?

  After a few beats of recalibration, she finally looked up at Viora. “What if he’s still not ready?”

  Viora shrugged. “Then you space out the visits. Keep in contact. Keep tabs on him. And if he starts showing signs of his primabilities returning, you do what you do best.” She tapped the side of her head lightly. “Use your wit.”

  Kiera inhaled slowly and then let out the air as frustratingly as possible, pushing her chair back as she stood. “You’re asking me to on Nye.”

  Viora’s expression didn’t shift. “Your .

  Then, as if the conversation had already concluded, she turned and walked back to her seat, settling in with a practiced elegance. The holo-screen flickered back to life as her focus returned to whatever classified task had occupied her before Kiera arrived.

  “Details will be sent to your device,” she said dismissively, her fingers gliding over the holographic interface. “You can see yourself out now.”

  Kiera’s jaw tightened. “You don’t actually about Nye’s well-being, do you?” She shook her head, disgust evident in every syllable. “Why do you even need him back? You have ten people on the team to get the work done.”

  “Nine,” Viora corrected without missing a beat. “Ferro’s dead. We’ll be announcing it shortly.” She didn’t even look up. “And you bunch are headed nowhere without a Helmsprime.”

  Kiera scoffed. “You could still select one of us and let him be, you know.”

  Viora’s gaze finally lifted, her eyes sharp and resolute. “Nobody’s replacing Nye. Not while he’s alive.”

  Kiera’s frustration boiled over. “”

  “He .” Viora’s tone was calm, assured, final.

  Kiera rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply as she turned and stormed out, her frustration echoing in every measured step.

  Meanwhile at Aeternum’s recovery chamber, Nye stirred to the sound of his name, an unfamiliar voice threading through the haze of unconsciousness. His fingers twitched, eyelids fluttering as his mind clawed its way back to awareness. The voice repeated, a firm yet professional warmth behind it, and Nye’s consciousness finally surfaced.

  His eyes cracked open, pupils adjusting to the dim yet clinically pristine lighting. A male nurse stood at his bedside, offering him an affable but detached smile—the kind perfected through years of medical training.

  "Can you hear me, Nye?" the nurse asked again, tilting his head slightly as he studied him.

  Nye blinked slowly, his gaze scanning the room as his memories rushed back—the implant procedure, the agreement, the vague promise of something better. Then, something unexpected settled over him—rest. Real, uninterrupted sleep. He couldn't recall the last time he’d felt this… unstirred. His mind, for once, wasn’t a battlefield. He exhaled, allowing himself a fleeting, amused smile before responding.

  "I can hear you. Stop shouting." His voice was hoarse, and his words carried an unusual edge of irritation.

  The nurse chuckled, though his expression betrayed mild confusion. "I wasn't… shouting."

  Nye wasn’t convinced. The man was loud—unnecessarily so. Had no one ever told him that? Did he always project his voice like he was addressing a crowded hall?

  "How are you feeling?" the nurse continued, undeterred. "Can you sit up?"

  Nye groaned, shifting slightly against the sheets. "I don’t know. Am I supposed to?" The words came out sharper than intended, but for all the mental rest he’d supposedly gotten, his nerves felt like raw wires.

  "You should be able to," the nurse assured him, pressing a button on the bedside panel. The bed’s upper half whirred to life, elevating slowly. He then leaned in, slipping a hand beneath Nye’s upper back to help him adjust against the incline.

  "Thanks," Nye muttered, testing the weight of his own body as he settled.

  "You’re very welcome." The nurse flashed another rehearsed smile. "Can you tell me where you are?"

  Nye gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "Aeternum."

  "What city?"

  His eyes narrowed. "What kind of question is that?"

  "Just a standard post-procedure cognitive assessment," the nurse replied smoothly. "We need to ensure there’s no memory impairment."

  Nye sighed, already impatient with the process. "Echelon. And if your next question is whether I remember why I’m here, the answer is yes. I remember showing up at Aeternum like a desperate loser, begging for help. Pathetic."

  The nurse blinked, then laughed—a genuine, bemused chuckle. "Well, good to know your memory’s intact. But how do you feel now? Do you still feel… pathetic?"

  Nye’s scowl deepened, but the question hung in the air, needling at something unexpected. How he feel?

  He tried to summon the usual dread, the crushing weight that had been his constant companion. But instead of pain, there was… nothing. Not numbness, not avoidance—just absence. The grief that once wrapped around his ribs like a vice was simply .

  He tilted his head, attempting to recall Mia, to pull her back into focus. Her laughter. The way it used to claw at him, leaving his chest twisted, his stomach in knots. But now, it was just—there. Clear. Unburdened. Like a distant echo in a vast, empty room. The sound of it still made him smile, but it didn’t .

  His fingers twitched at the revelation. His thoughts felt… rewired.

  He looked up at the nurse, suspicion creeping in. "How long has it been since the procedure?"

  "Almost four hours," the nurse answered, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Nye’s eyes. "Your brain has adapted to the chip remarkably well—and fast, I must say." He straightened, smoothing his uniform. "I’ll get Orson. Sit tight, okay?"

  Nye barely nodded, his mind racing, unraveling the implications.

  Four hours.

  Four hours, and already, something fundamental had shifted. The nurse’s departure left a welcome silence in its wake. Nye exhaled slowly, savoring the stillness. The man had been unreasonably loud—his voice bouncing around the sterile white walls like a poorly calibrated synthwave track. With the noise gone, Nye could finally take in his surroundings properly. The room was sleek, minimalistic, and bathed in a soft blue luminescence emanating from the walls—Aeternum’s signature ambient lighting, designed to soothe recovering patients. He shifted slightly, and that’s when he felt it—a subtle discomfort just behind his right ear.

  His fingers instinctively found the small adhesive patch behind his right ear. A moment of confusion flickered through his mind before realization dawned—this was where the chip had been implanted. Right, the mastoid process. The catalog had mentioned that location was chosen for optimal integration with the nervous system. More importantly, it meant he didn’t have to shave any part of his head. That had been a dealbreaker before, and he smirked at his own vanity.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the door sliding open with a smooth hiss. The nurse had returned, this time with Orson in tow.

  “Nye! Welcome back,” Orson greeted him with an enthusiasm that felt like it belonged to a game show host rather than a neuroscientist. His sharp, angular features were alight with excitement, and he wasted no time placing a firm hand on Nye’s back. “You’re officially part of the Emotionally Enhanced community now. How do you feel?”

  Nye huffed a soft chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Why does everyone keep asking me how I feel? Should I be experiencing some kind of divine epiphany?”

  Orson’s grin widened. “Hah! Fair point. I won’t rush you. You let me know when you’re ready to chat about it.” His tone carried the kind of patience that suggested he already knew the answer—he just enjoyed watching Nye get there on his own. “For now, standard protocol. We’ll keep you under observation for seventy-two hours. But given your—” Orson gestured vaguely at him, “—adaptive biology, I’d say you’ll be out sooner than that.”

  Nye narrowed his eyes. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Absolutely.” Orson clapped him on the shoulder before heading for the door. The nurse followed, and the two of them exchanged hushed—no, actually, unreasonably loud—whispers as they left. Nye rubbed his temple. Has the entire world always been this noisy?

  His answer came within hours.

  He adapted to the implant at an alarming rate. In just five hours from the procedure, he was standing, then walking under supervision, and soon enough, pacing the halls on his own. His appetite surged. They tested for nausea with a simple meal, but Nye devoured the sandwich like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. Then he asked for another. When they brought him two more, he finished those as well.

  Heightened metabolism and sensations. Of course. The integration process was accelerating his biological functions. His muscles no longer felt weak; in fact, he felt stronger than he had in months. The dull aches he had learned to live with were gone. The sluggishness, the fatigue—it had all evaporated. By the twelfth hour, he was jogging on a treadmill and pushing himself through a cycling routine on a stationary bike, and the exhilaration was unlike anything he had felt before.

  But it wasn’t just his body. His mind was razor-sharp, thoughts flowing with effortless clarity. He processed conversations faster, picked up on the tiniest inflections in voices, and—most notably—everything around him sounded louder. It wasn’t just the nurse. His visual, auditory, and olfactory perceptions had expanded. The quiet hum of machines, the distant murmurs of staff, even the subtle variations in the air pressure—they were all amplified. It should have been overwhelming, but instead, it felt like he had just been tuned into a frequency he was always meant to hear.

  By the fourteenth hour, Orson had seen enough. He was impressed—maybe even a little unnerved. “You’re a damn anomaly, Nye,” he muttered, shaking his head as he signed off on the discharge papers.

  Sixteen hours post-surgery, Nye was free.

  They returned his belongings—his clothes, his Voxlet, and his other accessories. He had spent the entire day in a high-end patient jumpsuit, insulated against the winter chill. He was more than ready to be back in his own attire. Instead of changing, he simply threw his overcoat on the jumpsuit and made his way to the exit.

  The moment he stepped outside, he was hit with a crisp gust of cold air and the familiar bite of falling snow.

  Freedom.

  He didn’t walk to his glider—he ran. His boots crunched against the snow-dusted pavement, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he was moving without hesitation, without strain. He wasn’t just running—he was flying across the parking lot, his speed exhilarating. By the time he reached the vehicle, he wasn’t even out of breath. He grinned, standing there for a moment as snowflakes landed on his skin, melting against the warmth of his renewed body.

  Then he climbed into the glider and spoke as soon as the hatch sealed shut. “Eve?”

  A playful voice crackled through his Voxlet. “Welcome back, Nye! And congratulations on your upgrade to the elite community.”

  He let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable, Eve.”

  “I aim to entertain.”

  The glider hummed to life beneath him, rising steadily into the night sky.

  Destination: Neryon Veil.

  Two nights later.

  Nye stood in the kitchen, orchestrating a culinary symphony of sizzling meats, intergalactic spices, and rich, velvety sauces. The aroma of charred protein mixed with fragrant alien herbs filled the air, intertwining with the soft hum of a song playing on a holo-screen mounted near the counter. He found himself humming along absentmindedly, his movements fluid, almost meditative. The scents were overwhelming yet intoxicatingly pleasant—had food always smelled this good, or was it the chip amplifying his senses? He wondered.

  As he stirred the final dish, a fleeting memory surfaced—Mia, alive and well, laughing at the way he used to get carried away with his cooking. He tried to hold onto it, but the details felt smudged, like a dream slipping through his fingers. It was odd, because he was sharper than ever—his senses, his stamina, his mind. Everything had been dialed up. His workouts lasted for hours without fatigue; he barely sweated. His sleep had been uninterrupted, free of the usual nightmares. Even now, his appetite was skyrocketing—hence, the seven-course meal he was preparing for himself.

  He reached for a bottle of wine from the overhead cabinet when Eve’s voice interjected, smooth but firm, from the ceiling speakers.

  “Nye, no alcohol or stimulants for four more nights. EE Post-Procedure Guidelines.”

  He exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering, “Okay, whatever.” He swapped the wine for a carbonated beverage from the fridge instead, then slid onto a kitchen stool and dug into his feast.

  Halfway through his meal, the emergency alarms embedded in the walls erupted in a shrill, pulsating wail. Red warning lights flickered throughout the living space, bathing everything in a crimson hue. The abrupt sensory overload made him wince as his enhanced hearing caught the frequency at an almost painful intensity.

  “Is that an emergency call?” He asked, momentarily setting down his spoon.

  “It appears so,” Eve confirmed, the usual neutrality in her voice edged with curiosity. “Someone has overridden your Do-Not-Disturb protocol.”

  Nye arched a brow. It took a lot to override that. The last time he received an emergency call was the day Mia ended her life. But it didn't stir any trauma response in him, to his own astonishment. Lifting his wrist, he flicked his fingers through the air, summoning a holographic interface. Kiera’s name pulsed on the screen. He hesitated. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve ignored it. But Kiera wasn’t the type to call for no reason.

  With a swipe, he answered. “Kiera?”

  Her face materialized mid-air, projected in crisp clarity.

  “Hey, Nye. Sorry for overriding your DND,” she said without a trace of actual remorse. “You weren’t responding to my calls or messages yesterday, and I’m too busy and impatient to wait for you to get back.”

  Nye chuckled, shaking his head. “That tracks. So how are you?”

  “Listen, let’s skip the small talk.” She leaned forward slightly, her expression casual but intent. “I’m in Neryon Veil for work, leaving the night after tomorrow. You wanna meet up? Thought I’d make it up to you for not visiting enough.”

  He hadn’t realized until now how little he had spoken to anyone since the funeral—except for that one run-in with Bret at CosmoBrews.

  “Oh… sure,” he replied, shifting in his seat. “When and where?”

  “I’ll send you the location. Let’s meet at four. See you soon.” And just like that, she disconnected, not even waiting for his agreement.

  Nye blinked at the abruptly terminated call but shrugged, unfazed. He picked up his utensils and resumed eating.

  Eve chimed in. “That is approximately ninety minutes from now. She has sent the address of a well-rated micro-diner in the heart of Neryon Veil’s lower district. Considering the meal you just prepared, do you plan to finish it or save room for dinner?”

  Nye, mid-bite, barely paused. “I could eat more.”

  Eve let out a sound that could only be described as an amused scoff. “The chip has officially turned you into a food monster. Congratulations.”

  Nye smirked and took another bite.

  Soon after polishing off his feast, Nye leaned back in his chair, momentarily basking in the satisfying ache of a full stomach before forcing himself up. He took a quick shower, the hot water doing little to shake the lingering crispness of the cold air outside.

  Dressing was a calculated affair. He slipped into a pair of warm black pants woven from a flexible, high-resistance fiber designed to withstand Neryon’s volatile climate. His dark brown high-neck sweatshirt, made of synthetic thermal material, clung comfortably to his frame, shielding him from both the biting cold and the radiation lacing the air. Over that, he threw on a thick black overcoat—long enough to billow slightly as he walked, but not so dramatic that he’d look like a brooding villain in a low-budget holo-drama. He pulled on a pair of dark brown ankle-high boots, their reinforced soles clicking softly against the floor as he moved.

  For a change, he decided to wear a beanie, tugging it down over his ears as his damp, mid-back length hair cascaded in loose waves down his back. A final touch—two spritzes of a cologne that screamed wealth, subtle but unmistakable. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, tilting his head slightly. He wasn’t at Trent’s level of effortless high fashion, but at least he wasn’t looking like he just crawled out of cryo-sleep anymore. .

  By the time he stepped outside, the world was blanketed in icy serenity. Snow coated the trees and rolling lands of his secluded estate, turning the landscape into a frozen wonderland. The eerie calls of mutated creatures echoed from the darkness beyond the estate’s perimeter—somewhere in the distance, a howl cut through the silence, deep and guttural. Nye barely spared it a glance as he stepped onto the waiting glider.

  The ride into the city was smooth, the glider slicing through the air with precision, weaving past towering skyscrapers with neon-lit edges that cut into the almost perpetual night sky. Neryon Veil barely saw daylight—illuminated only by flickering neon signs, holographic advertisements, and the occasional streetlamp that barely pierced the haze.

  The glider docked a couple of blocks from his destination, forcing him to make the rest of the trek on foot. He strode confidently through the narrow alleys, navigating the maze-like streets with ease. The crutch? A distant memory. His pace was quick, purposeful. The old ache in his bones? Long gone.

  By the time he arrived at Void & Vine, a sleek but slightly rundown local eatery perched on the second level of a stacked, multi-layered market complex, it was already past 4:20 PM. The place was buzzing—locals hunched over steaming bowls of food, flickering holo-menus projected above the tables, waitstaff maneuvering through the crowd with efficiency. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meat, exotic spices, and the ever-present tang of industrial-grade air filtration.

  Nye scanned the space, easily spotting Kiera. She had claimed a corner seat on the second floor, giving her a prime vantage point of the entire restaurant. She was engrossed in the holographic menu, scrolling through when Nye approached.

  “Hey,” he greeted casually.

  Kiera glanced up, her lips curving into a smile as she swiped away the screen. She stood, reaching out to pull him into a brief hug.

  “Nye,” she murmured, holding onto his shoulders a second longer than necessary. Her brown eyes flickered over his features, lingering on the faint scar marring the left side of his face. She didn’t comment on it, but Nye could tell she was cataloging the details, filing it away for later.

  “You look great,” she noted before smirking. “But you seriously need a haircut. You’re about two inches away from outgrowing any woman’s average hair length at this point.”

  Nye chuckled, running a hand through his still-damp locks. “Yeah, I think I do need to cut it. Been ignoring it like a fictional concept.” He slid into the seat across from her. “So, what brings you to Neryon?”

  Kiera leaned back, arms crossed. “Mostly work. And visiting you, obviously. No other sensible reason for anyone to willingly come here. It’s depressing here—always dark and shit.”

  Nye scoffed. “Shut up, I love the nights! Have you seen the wild creatures out there?” His eyes lit up with genuine excitement.

  Kiera made a face. “No, thanks. I prefer being mauled by night-stalking horrors.”

  Nye shook his head in mock disappointment. “Your loss.”

  She rolled her eyes but softened slightly. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

  Nye hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Great, actually. You’re not going to believe this, but…” He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got chipped.”

  Kiera blinked, then gave him an exaggerated, wide-eyed expression of feigned surprise. “Oh wow. That’s… unlike you. Shit got bad, huh?”

  “Yeah…” His voice carried a weight that neither of them acknowledged.

  Kiera’s teasing faded into sincerity. “I’m sorry, Nye. Hope you’re feeling better now. You were the only one at work who wasn’t chipped. Even Nile got it when he was young. Must’ve been tough for you to finally do it.”

  Nye sat up a little straighter, his casual air momentarily cracking. “Wait—Nile was chipped?”

  Kiera arched a brow. “Mm-hm. You didn’t know?”

  His mind started spinning, gears turning at full speed at the mention of Nile. Another thread in the tangled mess of his past that he still hadn’t unraveled. He made a mental note to start digging into it again.

  Kiera watched him closely. “So? Any luck with the memory?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. But I feeling better—physically and mentally. And…” He smirked. “I’ve been hungry.”

  Kiera laughed softly, shaking her head. “Good for you, Nye.”

  “Thanks. Let's order, shall we?” Nye suggested, tilting his Voxlet toward Kiera as they scrolled through the holographic menu together.

  It didn’t take long before they'd racked up an order that would’ve fed a small crew. Kiera, of course, didn’t bat an eye at his monstrous appetite—she knew exactly why he was always ravenous since getting chipped. Nye, however, deliberately avoided mentioning how much he had already eaten back home. No need to invite any unnecessary commentary about his newly acquired black hole of a stomach.

  Once their order was placed, the conversation drifted into easy, familiar territory—catching up on trivial things, exchanging random gossip like how Penn dropped by sometime ago and Kiera offering some of her own opinions in return, and making the occasional sarcastic remarks about Neryon’s perpetual gloom.

  The food arrived sooner than expected, an efficiency that neither of them questioned. They shared the kind of silence that only people with mutual respect for good food could maintain, focusing on their plates with a reverence that bordered on religious.

  By the time they were finishing up—Kiera swirling her wine in slow, contemplative motions while Nye sipped a spiced, carbonated drink that crackled faintly against his tongue—he decided to casually slip in a subject that had been bothering him.

  “So, how well do you know Lycan?” His tone was deceptively light, but his gaze was sharp, scrutinizing every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. “I know he was Nile’s best friend, in case you feel inclined to lie or conveniently withhold information. Just trying to save you some embarrassment upfront.”

  Kiera’s hand froze mid-sip before she set her glass down, fingers resting lightly around the stem. Her expression was controlled, but Nye caught the flicker of reluctance in her brown eyes.

  “I’m usually drowning in work. I met Lycan a few times, sure. But Nile was the one glued to his side. Why?”

  Nye leaned back, stretching out his legs under the table, feigning indifference. “It’s just… he showed up once after I woke up, then vanished like a ghost. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. So, I’ve been wondering—am I misjudging him as an obnoxious asshole, or did he, like… die?”

  Kiera let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head at his grim sense of humor. “Dark. The chip’s definitely doing its job, huh?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s enhancing my cynicism,” Nye admitted, smirking.

  “Well, if you’re really asking—he’s very much alive, just kind of an asshole.” She shrugged. “He and Nile were basically cut from the same cloth. Reserved. Intense. Preferred action over words.”

  Something about that struck an off-key note within Nye, though he kept his expression neutral. The more he learned about his brother, the more it felt like he was staring at the outline of a person he never understood.

  “They were partners in crime, really. I’m not shocked Lycan didn’t check in on you.”

  Nye’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Crime?” His voice held a lilt of curiosity. “Figure of speech, or are we talking actual criminal records here?”

  Kiera gave him a side glance, as if debating how much to say, before letting out a short exhale. “They were constantly on the interplanetary defense watchlist.”

  That got his attention. His brows twitched upward. “Excuse me?” He let out a short laugh, unsure if she was joking.

  Kiera took another slow sip of her wine before replying, “Oh, they weren’t criminals per se. More like… professional nuisances. Always where they weren’t supposed to be. Always getting involved in things bigger than them. Nile especially—he had this compulsive need to challenge the authority whenever he saw injustice.”

  Nye narrowed his eyes slightly, considering her words. “That sounds like a good way to get killed.”

  “It was.” Kiera’s tone was oddly fond, but tinged with something heavier. “But he thrived on it. Loved the danger. Lived for it.”

  Nye shook his head, holding up a finger mid air. “And you dated him? Even though you work for the Feds?”

  Kiera’s lips curled into a small, melancholic smile. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stared at the remnants of her wine, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful motions. “He had the guts to do and say things I never could,” she admitted softly. “I admired that about him.”

  There was something distant in her voice, something nostalgic yet painful, as if she was allowing herself a brief moment to indulge in memories she usually kept locked away. But then she sighed, straightening her posture, as if snapping herself out of it. “Can we not talk about this?”

  Nye tilted his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I figured you were already committing treason by talking this much about your ex to me.”

  Kiera scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Shut up, Nye.”

  They both laughed, the tension dissolving into a lighter mood.

  They lingered a little longer, their conversation shifting back into more casual banter. Nye shared pieces of his own recent spiral, throwing in a mix of dark humor and self-awareness that made Kiera snort more than once. He wasn’t sure if she actually found it funny or if she was just entertained by how absurd his life had become, but he appreciated her listening.

  Eventually, they wrapped up the night, standing outside the restaurant as they exchanged a brief, comfortable hug. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it held weight.

  Outside, just as Nye was about to approach his glider, Kiera’s voice called out behind him.

  “Hey, Nye.”

  He turned, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

  “Happy birthday in advance,” she said, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips.

  He blinked, slightly caught off guard. It took him a second to register. “Wait—what date is it?”

  “December 29,” Kiera replied. “Oh, and happy New Year in advance too. I’ll be leaving on the 31st, so I figured I should say it now.” She shrugged.

  A laugh burst out of him, a mix of disbelief and amusement. He had barely processed how the year had slipped past him, let alone that he was nearing the one-year mark since waking from the coma.

  “Thanks, Kiera,” he said, stepping back and pulling her into one last quick hug.

  It wasn’t much, but the simple fact that someone had remembered his birthday—that someone had bothered—meant more than he cared to admit.

  As he finally climbed into the glider, its sleek, no-so-silent propulsion lifting him above the cold neon glow of Neryon, he found himself reflecting on the night. This was likely the lightest conversation he ever had with Kiera. She didn't seem as intimidating as she usually does.

  The city stretched beneath him in an endless sprawl of artificial lights and shifting shadows, but for once, he felt like he was starting to see things just a little more clearly.

  As Nye’s glider approached the perimeter of his residence, an unexpected sight made his brows knit together in suspicion. A sleek, charcoal-black glider sat parked at his doorstep, its reflective surface catching the neon glow of the wilderness. His gaze sharpened as he leaned closer to the curved, transparent windshield. Vin’s.

  “Vin?” he muttered under his breath, feeling a twinge of guilt. Had he ignored Vin’s messages long enough to warrant an ambush?

  As the automated landing sequence engaged, his glider hovered down onto the driveway with a soft hum. He climbed out, adjusting the collar of his coat as he moved past the illuminated strips lining the front garden. When he reached the entrance, he spotted two figures lingering on his porch.

  Bret, ever the opportunist, had his ear pressed against the door, straining to hear movement inside. At their feet, there were bunches of meal packages, wine cartons, and other boxes wrapped with aesthetic synthetic wraps.

  Nye smirked, hands slipping into his pockets. “Uh… guys?”

  Both turned with a start, surprise flashing across their faces.

  “Nye?” Bret’s voice pitched in disbelief. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes!” He threw up his hands, his tone a mixture of irritation and relief.

  Vin, always the composed one, stepped down the porch, his expression etched with concern. “Hey, you okay?”

  Nye gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Just grabbed a bite in the city.” He sidestepped Bret’s grumbling and met Vin halfway. The two walked back up the porch in tandem, Vin eyeing him carefully.

  “You look good,” Vin noted, giving him a once-over.

  The door unlocked the moment Nye’s palm grazed the sensor, and the three stepped inside. The duplex was faintly illuminated. Nye shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it onto the couch with his beanie before heading toward the kitchen.

  “So what brings you guys here?” He cracked open the fridge. “Want anything?”

  “Lirothian beer, please!” Bret flopped onto the couch, stretching out like he owned the place.

  Vin followed Nye into the kitchen, placing all the bags on the counter. He scanned the cabinets before reaching for the coffee beans. “I’ll make myself some coffee.” He spoke mid task, “How have you been, Nye? You’ve been shutting us all out since the funeral. How are you holding up?”

  Nye grabbed a cold bottle and turned, his expression unreadable. “Sorry for not responding. I just needed some space, man.”

  Vin stopped mid-action, arms folding across his chest as he studied Nye’s face. “What do you mean?” His tone was measured, cautious. “You’ve been putting off meeting up, and we respected that. But—” His brows furrowed. “Wait. You told us to postpone plans yourself.”

  Nye blinked, confused. “No, I didn’t…” He trailed off, realization dawning. His jaw clenched. “Oh. Eve.”

  Vin arched a brow. “So Eve’s been responding for you? Not you?”

  Nye crossed his arms, scowling. “Looks like it.” His voice was tight. “I guess she decided to handle my social life while I was… distracted.” He hadn’t even noticed Eve overriding his instructions. She had assessed his mental state and taken the liberty of managing his communications without so much as notifying him.

  Vin didn’t look convinced. But he let it slide. “Well, thanks to Eve. At least we knew you were alive.” He exhaled. “So how are you really? Any more convulsions?”

  Nye hesitated, then exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, about that…” He chuckled sheepishly. “Uh… I got chipped.”

  Vin and Bret spoke in unison. “What?!” Their voices overlapped, not in judgment, but sheer shock.

  “When?” Vin demanded.

  “A few days ago,” Nye admitted. “I’m doing better, though. No more convulsions.”

  “Oh, Nye, my sweet, sweet, Nye! I’m so proud of you!” Bret sprang from the couch, arms outstretched in an alarming display of affection.

  Unfortunately, Nye’s advanced sensory systems chose that exact moment to betray him. As Bret charged forward, the air around him carried a wave of pure olfactory horror. A toxic concoction of sweat, synthetic cologne, and what could only be described as a personal war crime hit Nye like a freight train. His stomach lurched.

  His body reacted before his brain could issue a cease-and-desist order. A violent gag ripped from his throat.

  Vin turned, concerned. “Nye?”

  But it was too late. Nye’s legs carried him to the sink in record time, where he unceremoniously expelled everything he had eaten that day. A cascade of undignified retching followed.

  Vin, torn between amusement and sympathy, grabbed a tissue and handed it to him. “Uh… you good?”

  Nye wiped his mouth, his voice hoarse. “For the love of all things holy, don’t let him near me.” He muttered to Vin.

  Vin glanced at Bret, realization dawning. . The first signs were there already. . Then, he laughed. Loud.

  Bret, still standing several feet away, gestured wildly. “What the hell? What just happened?!”

  Nye groaned, rinsing his face under the faucet.

  Vin, barely able to contain himself, patted Nye’s back. “Nothing. Nye just ate something funny.”

  Bret grimaced, “Why do I not believe that?”

  Nye shot Vin a glare, voice laced with suffering. “Please don't make it obvious.”

  Vin wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Let’s head out to the backyard.”

  Bret folded his arms, indignant. “Unbelievable. First, I get shut down mid-hug, and now you're playing secrets with me.” He grumbled under his breath as he stomped toward the patio. “This is discrimination.”

  Still recovering, Nye grabbed a cold drink for himself and followed Vin outside. “Don’t do that. He's too sensitive.” He hissed.

  Vin chuckled, shaking his head. “You bet.”

  The moment Nye stepped onto the patio, he carefully positioned himself at the farthest possible chair from Bret, subtly but effectively shielding himself from the offensive odor radiating off the man. Vin, while less dramatic, also maintained a reasonable buffer zone, his body language just casual enough to avoid making it obvious.

  “Bret, catch,” Nye called out, tossing the chilled beer bottle his way.

  Bret, mid-slouch, scrambled upright just in time to snatch the bottle out of the air, barely avoiding an embarrassing fumble.

  Vin set his steaming coffee cup on the table and leaned back into his chair, exhaling as if finally settling in.

  Bret, eyeing the cup with open skepticism, made a face. “Why are you having coffee at dinnertime?” His tone was thick with judgment.

  Vin barely glanced at him, shrugging. “Because it’s been a shitty day.”

  Bret scoffed, gesturing vaguely. “You were with me. Shopping. Half the damn day.”

  “Exactly,” Vin replied, deadpan, before taking a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee.

  Nye snorted at the sarcasm, his amusement slipping past his usual reserve.

  “Anyway,” Vin continued, shifting his focus back to Nye, “we wanted to surprise you with a pre-birthday celebration.” His voice carried genuine excitement, a rare warmth in his typically sarcastic demeanor.

  “Men only,” Bret interjected from the background, as if it were the most important part of the plan.

  Vin ignored him and clapped a supportive hand on Nye’s back. “We wanted to cheer you up, but—hey, I’m glad you got chipped. Whatever helps, man.”

  Nye’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s very thoughtful. But just a question—why before my birthday and not on the day?”

  Bret sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because we wanted a celebration. want to take you partying on the 31st.” He rolled his eyes at the thought, as if offended by the mere concept of their inclusion.

  “The ladies?” Nye raised a brow.

  “Gema and Liz,” Vin clarified.

  Nye nodded, mouthing a quick to Vin before shifting the conversation. “Speaking of which, how’s Gema?”

  Vin smirked. “She’s good. You’re always in her thoughts.” He paused, then added with a mockingly serious tone, “Probably because you’re the good-looking friend.”

  Nye chuckled. “I think that’s the reason too.”

  Both men laughed, their easy camaraderie momentarily washing away the weight of recent weeks.

  Meanwhile, Bret had wandered inside in search of Nye’s Mary stash. With a simple command, Eve illuminated subtle guiding arrows along the floor and walls, leading him straight to the compartment where Nye kept his Mary. He disappeared into the house, leaving Nye and Vin to enjoy a moment of odorless tranquility.

  A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional distant noises of Bret rummaging through Nye’s cabinets inside.

  The backyard had become a natural spectacle under the snow—bioluminescent flora bathed the snow in an eerie, shifting glow, casting neon veins of green, teal, and blue across the patio. It looked more like an upscale vacation resort than a private residence.

  Vin spoke again, his voice softer this time. “You sure you’re good, Nye?”

  Nye exhaled, stretching his legs out. “As good as I can be.”

  A pause.

  Vin nodded, accepting the answer for now.

  Bret eventually reappeared, arms loaded with everything needed to roll a joint. He plopped back into his chair, smirking smugly. “Looks like someone got a new cleaning unit. you that you had better things to do.”

  “Oh yeah,” Nye drawled, cracking open his drink. “Never ceases to piss me off. How do you people even live with it? Why is it so… animated?”

  Vin and Bret exchanged knowing smirks.

  “The trick is to ignore it,” Bret answered with a sage-like nod.

  Nye scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, figured as much.”

  Within minutes, Bret expertly rolled the first joint. He lit it with a practiced flick of his lighter, took a slow, measured drag, and then passed it to Vin. The quiet ritual of it felt oddly sacred.

  As soon as Nye took his turn, Eve’s voice chimed from the Voxlet. “”

  Nye rolled his eyes, exasperated. “You said no alcohol and stimulants. isn’t a stimulant.”

  “I would still recommend—”

  “Shut up, Eve.”

  And with that, he took the first drag, earning snickers from his friends. A small cough followed, but he recovered quickly, inhaling deeply before handing the joint back to Vin.

  The trio smoked in unspoken comfort, the hazy tendrils of radioactive cannabis weaving through the air as they sank into a tranquil silence, their minds loosening under its mellow grip. Nye’s backyard provided the perfect level of natural trippy beauty to enjoy the high.

  “This is actually pretty trippy, man. Love what you did with the wild plants,” Bret mused at one point, his voice slow and contemplative, like he was still processing the neon-glowing chaos before him. The bioluminescent vines snaked up the metal lattice, their soft blue pulses mimicking a slow heartbeat, while strange fungi sprouted from the damp earth, glowing with an unnatural violet hue. The entire backyard looked like an overgrown alien jungle—untamed, surreal, and borderline sentient.

  Nye exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it twist and dissipate in the night air before nodding. “Wilderness is beautiful. Especially at night. I’ve grown addicted to it,” he answered, his tone bordering on the philosophical—mostly because he was absolutely, irreversibly stoned.

  “Aren’t you afraid of wild creatures or, you know... the whole insect situation?” Vin piped up, his voice laced with genuine concern. “Some of these things are poisonous.”

  Nye gave a lazy shrug. “Yeah, well. Still too marvelous to trim off.”

  Bret let out a low chuckle, the kind that came from someone who knew something they weren’t supposed to say but lacked the good sense to keep it inside. “Pretty sure Dyla wouldn’t approve of it.”

  Nye’s relaxed haze shattered instantly. His heightened senses—one of the many gifts (or curses) he had yet to fully understand—picked up the name like a gunshot in a silent room.

  “Who’s Dyla?” he asked, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the thick air.

  Vin’s head snapped toward Bret so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. His wide-eyed glare screamed , but Bret, in his blissfully altered state, didn’t seem to register the warning.

  Nye, however, didn’t miss a thing. The tension between his two friends was immediate and palpable. His brows knitted together as he leaned forward in his chair, his entire focus now locked onto them like a hunter tracking wounded prey. “Bret?” he called again, tone unwavering.

  Bret turned toward him, still slow on the uptake. “Yeah?”

  “Who’s Dyla?” Nye repeated.

  Something clicked in Bret’s hazy mind. His stoned daze wavered just enough for realization to creep in—Nye had him. Clearly. And now, there was no backing out of it.

  He cast a panicked glance at Vin, whose expression had darkened into something just shy of murderous disappointment. Nye caught that exchange, his curiosity spiking into something more dangerous.

  “Why are you guys acting like that?” he demanded. “Are you hiding something from me?” His voice had an accusatory edge now, slicing through their attempts at deflection.

  “What? No!” Vin interjected too quickly, too defensively. “Bret’s just a yapper. Don’t mind him.” He tried to steer the conversation away, but Nye wasn’t buying it. Bret, for once in his life, did not argue about being called a yapper—a red flag all on its own.

  Unconvinced, Nye stood up in one smooth motion and circled the table, his presence looming across from Bret. The flickering glow of the surrounding plants cast eerie patterns across his sharp features. His voice dropped to something quiet but no less menacing. “Who. Is. Dyla?” he asked, enunciating each word with precision. “And I swear, if you two try to dodge my question one more time, I lose it.”

  Bret swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He flicked another desperate look at Vin, who now just looked exhausted—like he had already accepted that they were past the point of no return.

  “We can’t talk about her, Nye,” Bret finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

  Nye arched a brow. “Why not?”

  “Uhhm… legal reasons?” Bret offered weakly. He looked like he’d rather be teleported into deep space than be having this conversation.

  Nye’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the NDA you all signed?”

  Vin’s head snapped up. “How do you know about the NDA?”

  A smirk tugged at Nye’s lips, a flicker of satisfaction at catching them off guard. “Doesn’t matter. Just tell me who Dyla is. I’ll make sure you guys don’t get in trouble.”

  Vin and Bret exchanged yet another look, this one heavier, weightier. A silent conversation passed between them—hesitation, reluctance, fear.

  Vin was the first to break the silence. “Nye… who have you been talking to?” His voice was cautious now, measured.

  Nye let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Please, .” His voice had risen now, the flicker of irritation turning into something more volatile.

  Bret shifted uncomfortably, then muttered under his breath, “I think we should tell him.”

  Vin turned on him like a rabid animal. “You’re a for fuck-ups, you know that?” he hissed.

  “Hey! That’s rude!” Bret shot back, momentarily forgetting the life-altering tension in the air.

  “Will you two shut up and ?” Nye snapped. His voice wasn’t just angry—it was final. There was a distinct, unmistakable edge to it, the kind that carried weight. “You’ve all lied and hidden enough from me. I’m done with it. Either you tell me everything you know, .”

  That landed. Hard.

  It wasn’t a threat, wasn’t some empty attempt at coercion. It was a statement of fact. Nye meant it.

  Bret sighed, rubbing his face with both hands, before finally looking Nye in the eye. “Dyla was your wife.”

  The words came out soft, but they hit like a wrecking ball.

  Vin’s jaw clenched. His gaze drifted away, a hand rubbing his temple, already bracing for the explosion about to come.

  For a long, stretched moment, Nye didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t . He just at Bret as if his brain had short-circuited.

  Wife?

  The word barely made sense. It clashed violently against every piece of his known history—his fragmented memories, his understanding of who he was.

  When it finally sank in, his head snapped back to Bret. “Where is she now?” His voice was sharp, urgent. “Is she dead? Suicide?”

  Vin shook his head. “No, no. Not suicide. She wasn’t one to end her life.”

  “Well, then?” Nye pressed.

  Bret inhaled deeply, bracing himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy. “Your brother, Nile, killed her. And your kids. Before he tried to kill you. Then he killed himself.”

  Silence.

  Nye’s pupils constricted.

  “What the fuck are you saying?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried a storm beneath it. “My wife? ? ?” His breath hitched, an incredulous laugh escaping him—short, sharp, . His eyes darted between his friends, searching for an explanation, a , anything that made more sense than what he had just heard.

  But neither of them said a word.

  Because it wasn’t a lie.

  And that made it worse.

  As much as Nye wanted the revelation to shatter him, to crack him open and let the grief spill out, it didn’t. It couldn’t. The cold chip embedded in his brain had ensured that. His body, however, knew better—muscles coiled, jaw clenched, fists trembling at his sides. His synthetic nervous system might have dulled the pain, but his flesh still remembered how to react. His twin, Nile, had tried to kill him before taking his own life—fine. That was history he had long accepted. But learning that Nile had wiped out his family first? That added a new, sickening weight to his existence. A weight his implant refused to let him process properly.

  Anger surged in its place—directionless, burning, suffocating. Who was he supposed to blame? Nile, for his monstrous betrayal? His so-called friends, for keeping this from him? Eve, for yet another well-guarded secret? How many more layers of deception were waiting to be peeled back?

  The more he thought about it, the more the logical part of his mind understood why his friends had remained silent about it. The NDA wasn’t just a technicality—it was a cage, one they couldn’t afford to break. But Eve? She had no legal obligation. She had deliberately kept Dyla and his children from him. Or did she not have those data in her archives anymore?

  Nye forced himself to stand straighter, shoulders squaring out of sheer instinct rather than emotion. He felt eerily composed, as if his system had already compartmentalized this horror and filed it away under . It was disturbing how easy it was to . He turned his gaze to his friends, his voice unsettlingly steady.

  “And Liz?” he asked, eyes flicking between them. “She knows too?”

  Another silent exchange of glances. It was getting on his nerves how often they did that.

  Vin sighed, locking his fingers. “Yes. She does. You actually met Liz through Dyla. They were friends.”

  Nye frowned. “So the she told me about… that was Dyla?”

  “In the flesh,” Bret confirmed, voice lower than usual.

  Nye let out a sharp huff, pushing his hair back with both hands, exhaling frustration through gritted teeth. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, pacing in a tight line. “You all lied to me. Kept things from me. Should I even trust you people anymore? Are you even my friends for real? Or is that a lie too?”

  “Nye, we’re sorry,” Vin said softly. “But we didn’t have a choice. You have to understand, we could’ve ended up in prison. None of us know exactly what happened that night, but we know Nile was here. You two probably fought. And knowing how unhinged he could be…” Vin hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “He must’ve snapped.”

  Nye barely registered the explanation. It felt like white noise against the chaos in his head. Instead, his voice came out sharp and to the point:

  “How many kids?”

  Bret swallowed, hesitant. “Twin daughters. And… Dyla was pregnant. A third.”

  The words didn’t hit like a train wreck. They should have. They barely left a dent.

  Twins. A third on the way. kids.

  A real family.

  In this godforsaken, tech-drenched dystopia where the concept of family was a relic, where trust was a luxury few could afford, he had it. He had built something real. And now, it was gone. Stripped from him by the same blood that had once shared his veins.

  His mind flickered between static and bitter curiosity. Why? Jealousy? Spite? Anger?

  “You okay, Nye?” Vin’s voice cut through the haze. It was gentle. Almost too gentle.

  Nye shook his head, barely aware that he was pacing. The more he tried to on the loss, the more digestible it became. That was the worst part. The chip was rewiring everything, streamlining his pain into something… . His world was crumbling, and yet, here he was—standing, thinking, .

  “What were their names?” His voice was low. Cold.

  Vin’s gaze dropped. “Elenyi and Eloise.”

  Something stirred in the void where grief should have been. A faint, hollow ache.

  “I’m sorry, Nye,” Vin continued, finally looking up again. “We should’ve told you. You deserved to know.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  Nye didn’t respond right away, but Vin’s invitation to ask more questions clung to his mind like a persistent whisper. He sifted through the wreckage of his thoughts, piecing together the questions that mattered most, the things he needed to know to make sense of the fractured past everyone else seemed determined to keep from him.

  When he finally settled on one, he locked eyes with Vin, his voice sharp and deliberate.

  “Yes, actually. I know I fought with Nile the night I showed up at your bar. What was it about?”

  Vin’s reaction was immediate—his eyebrows shot up, a flicker of surprise cracking through his usually composed demeanor. “How do you know that?” he asked, his voice measured but wary.

  Beside him, Bret suddenly found the shed overhead fascinating, his gaze shifting everywhere but at them. He knew exactly how Nye had found out. He was the one who let it slip the day Vin had announced his engagement at the bar.

  But Nye had no intention of selling him out. He simply leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “Does it really matter how I found out about myself anymore?”

  Vin studied him for a long moment before exhaling slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Alright,” he muttered. “You’re gonna need to sit down for this one.”

  Nye hesitated. His mind instinctively braced for impact, expecting another gut-wrenching revelation. Yet, once again, the anticipated emotional freefall never came. The storm of anger and frustration that should have surged within him remained eerily contained, smoothed over by the silent, invisible hand of his implant. It was unnatural—how seamlessly his emotions were being rerouted, how controlled he felt despite the gravity of everything unraveling around him.

  Still, he obeyed, settling back into his chair with an air of forced ease.

  Vin followed suit, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as if preparing to deliver a particularly unpleasant diagnosis. His voice was steady, but there was a weight to it, something more than just caution.

  “Okay,” he began. “How familiar are you with the term ?”

  Nye blinked. The word rolled off Vin’s tongue with an air of significance, but to him, it might as well have been static.

  “Not at all,” he admitted. “It’s the first time I’m hearing it.”

  Across the space, Bret let out a theatrical groan, throwing his arms up before crossing them over his belly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! He doesn’t even know what Primabilities ?!”

  Vin shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through steel. “Shut up, Bret. Just—shut your damn mouth for ten minutes.”

  Bret made a show of rolling his eyes but ultimately slumped back against the chair, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like .

  Vin turned back to Nye, his expression hardening. “Listen, Nye,” he said, voice dropping just enough to make the air feel heavier. “What I’m about to tell you is going to blow your Emotionally Enhanced mind. And I need you to know that no matter how ridiculous it sounds—I’m dead serious and it's all true.”

  Nye arched an eyebrow, offering Vin a brief, curt nod.

  Vin took it as permission to continue. “You know how humans evolved—or rather, —into Primes, Hybrids, and the... Deformed.” He glanced at Bret as he mentioned the last category, carefully avoiding any tone that could be taken as an insult. “All Primes are born with enhanced capabilities, but a select few—an elite, almost mythical subset—are classified as .”

  “The Primalis aren’t just enhanced; they’re the apex. The absolute pinnacle of what nature and science created in the Post-Grand Evolution Era. Their abilities go beyond augmentation—they're unique, unparalleled.”

  Vin paused briefly, scanning Nye’s face for any sign of reaction. But Nye remained still, his expression an unreadable void, as if processing data rather than emotion. There was no shock, no awe—just silent absorption, like a sponge absorbing water.

  Taking that as a green light, Vin pressed on. “You and Nile—both of you—were born with extraordinary abilities. Not just intellectual abilities but far beyond.”

  Still nothing from Nye.

  Vin continued. “You both completed your postgraduate programs at . Not only were you powerful—you were prodigies. Your knowledge, your skills, your tactical thinking—it put you on the radar of every major institution. The Federation practically threw themselves at you. You were offered jobs at the FIDFE—the —before you could even legally drink.”

  He let that sink in for a second before adding, “You took the job. But Nile didn’t.”

  Vin’s gaze drifted momentarily, as if recalling distant memories. “Nile wanted to the world—the galaxies and beyond. So he went freelance, taking contracts with private interplanetary defense firms, hopping from exoplanet to exoplanet. He was an activist, always railing against the Federation’s decisions, challenging their authority.”

  Vin allowed himself a wry smile. “To the Feds, he was just a troublemaker. But, if I’m being honest? I always thought he had a point.” He shrugged, half to himself. “Maybe he insane. Or maybe he was just too much of a genius for the rest of us to understand.”

  Another pause. Another opportunity for Nye to interject.

  Nothing.

  Nye sat as still as a statue, absorbing every detail with a quiet intensity that was almost unsettling. His presence was eerily weightless—like a man who had been untethered from his own emotions.

  So Vin kept going.

  “Now, about your abilities—your . Only Primalis have them. They’re not just enhancements, Nye. They’re—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, enough with the suspense!” Bret snapped, standing up from his chair. “Just what his damn powers are!”

  Vin clenched his jaw, exasperated. But before he could respond—

  “Bret, shut up.”

  Nye’s voice was calm. calm. A command, not a request.

  Bret stiffened, mid-rant, his jaw clicking shut. His irritation shifted into a huff as he threw himself back in his seat, rubbing his temple in frustration.

  Vin smirked slightly. “I see the leadership skills never left you.”

  Nye ignored him. “Go on.”

  And so Vin did.

  “Nye… You’re not just some high-ranking Federal employee with a fancy paycheck. You’re a —one of the strongest to have ever existed. You have powers beyond anything a normal Prime, hell, even a Primalis, could ever comprehend.”

  His gaze sharpened as he continued, measuring Nye’s reaction. “Your body? It’s built like a cosmic anomaly. You could punch holes through planets, rip through celestial bodies like they’re tissue paper. You don’t break. And if, by some miracle, something hurt you? You heal almost instantly. You can fly—faster than sound, faster than light, maybe even beyond that if you pushed it.”

  Vin leaned back, rubbing his temple as he continued, almost as if the sheer scope of Nye’s abilities exhausted instead. “Bro, you don’t even need Oxygen.” He chuckled, “Your body just adapts. You absorb whatever’s around you and turn it into raw strength. Your senses are sharper than any tech out there. You see through walls, hear a whisper from across a city, someone’s intentions before they even act. Your mind processes information so fast, it’s like the universe is running in slow motion for you.”

  He paused, knowing full well how all of this must sound—even to the person to handle it.

  Before Nye could react, Bret cut in, grinning. “Oh, oh! You forgot the weirdest part!” He pointed at Vin. “Tell him about the creepy twin shit.”

  Vin sighed. “, I was getting to that.”

  Bret ignored him and turned to Nye, eyes gleaming with the joy of delivering unsettling news. “You and Nile—your minds were . Like, linked. No words needed. You just what the other one was thinking, feeling. It was some next-level psychic twin-bond shit.” He shuddered. “Honestly? Creeped me the out.”

  Vin shot him a tired look but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to Nye, who remained completely stoic, absorbing every detail without the slightest change in expression.

  Then, at last, Nye moved—just barely. He sniffed dryly, his voice level, almost mechanical. “What were primabilities?”

  Vin let out a short chuckle. “Oh joy… Nile? He wasn’t like you. He didn’t punch through planets or inhale space dust for breakfast. His power wasn’t in his fists.” He tapped his temple. “It was up here.”

  “He could move things without touching them. Big things, small things, entire buildings if he felt like it. His telekinesis was off the charts. But that’s not what made him dangerous.”

  Vin’s expression darkened slightly. “It was his mind-reading. He didn’t what you were thinking—he . Every damn thought, every secret, every lie. If he wanted in, there was no stopping him. No barriers, no privacy. He didn’t need permission.”

  Bret let out a low whistle. “Dude was terrifying.”

  “And then there was the of you.” Vin gestured between Nye and the empty space beside him, as if Nile were still there. “That psychic twin-link? That was telepathy. You didn’t need words. Hell, you didn’t even need to be on the same planet. When one of you was in trouble, the other just… . It didn’t matter how far apart you were. No one ever figured out it worked, but the Feds? They considered Nile one of the most dangerous people in any room.”

  Vin let the words linger. “Because he always knew what was coming anyone else did.”

  Silence stretched between them. Nye blinked slowly, his gaze lowering as he processed the sheer weight of the revelation.

  Then, after a beat, he looked up again, his expression unchanged, his tone just as steady as before.

  “So back to my original question.” His eyes locked onto Vin’s. “What was the fight about that night?”

  “Right. The fight.” Vin nodded slightly before continuing.

  “Nile and Lycan were a well-known duo—activists, constantly challenging certain Federation policies. The Agriculture Division flagged some discrepancies in the extraterrestrial seed imports—data manipulations, unauthorized distributions. When Law Enforcement traced the source, it all led straight to Lycan. You were personally called in by the Chancellor to handle the matter.”

  Vin watched Nye carefully, but his expression remained calm and curious.

  “You went to Nile, told him what Lycan had done. And that’s when he confessed— was involved too. It wasn’t just Lycan; they did it . And Nile didn’t just admit it—he . He knew the Chancellor wouldn’t be happy, but he didn’t care. He argued that the Deformed had the right to grow their own extraterrestrial crops, to have access to proper food, so they distributed the seeds among them—for free.” Vin scoffed slightly. “Those seeds cheap, by the way.”

  He leaned back, his tone growing more measured. “You tried to convince him to back off. To drop the activism, let Lycan take the fall. But Nile refused. He defended his best friend—stood by him no matter what. And … that hurt you. You felt betrayed. The argument got , and that night marked the start of the distance between you two.”

  Vin let out a slow breath, finishing his explanation. “And well, you already know the part where you ended up in my bar—pissed off, brooding, and drinking the night away.”

  Silence hung in the air. Nye sat motionless, his gaze distant. He absorbed everything like a machine filing data into precise compartments—no visible turmoil, no storm of emotions. The chip kept him steady, controlled. He recognized that, and for the first time, he actually it. The past hour had been nothing but revelation after revelation, things about Nile, about , that he wouldn’t have imagined in a . And yet, here he was, calmly processing it all.

  A long beat passed before he finally spoke.

  “So… how do I not have my abilities anymore?” His brows knitted together.

  Vin and Bret exchanged glances before Bret took the lead this time.

  “You lost them with your memories, Nye. You were . Every bone in your body was broken.”

  “But—” Vin interjected, raising a finger, “It seems like your primabilities are returning. The chip is stabilizing any brain damage, or maybe even regulating your recovery speed so your body can actually handle it this time. Who knows?” He shrugged. “You already got your heightened senses back within of getting chipped. Have you noticed?”

  Nye’s frown deepened as realization hit. The sharper hearing, the heightened sense of smell, the constant hunger, the near-limitless stamina—he’d assumed they were just side effects of the chip. But now? He saw it for what it really was. The chip wasn’t giving him anything new. It was what had been lying dormant.

  He gave a small nod. “Yeah… I’ve noticed.”

  Vin spread his hands. “There you go.”

  Bret grinned, nudging him. “You realize you’re practically a celebrity, right? That’s why I keep telling you—chores aren’t thing. You’ve got bigger responsibilities. Your , Nye! Not everyone gets second chances like you.”

  Vin shot Bret an exasperated look. “Jealous much?”

  “What?” Bret scoffed, throwing his hands in the air.

  Nye exhaled sharply, pushing back from his seat. His movements were swift, deliberate. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he stood up and turned toward them.

  “Guys… I think we should call it a night.” His voice was steady, but there was an underlying finality to it. “This is… a lot to process. I need space.”

  Vin rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. He placed a firm hand on Nye’s shoulder, his expression softening. “You gonna be okay?” His voice carried genuine concern. “We’re sorry, Nye. That was a hell of a lot to drop on you all at once.”

  Nye shook his head. “No. Don’t apologize.” His tone was steady, unbothered. “But I need to know that I can come to you whenever I have questions.”

  Vin nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

  “But you need to protect us, man,” Bret chimed in, his usual dramatics creeping into his voice. “We could go to prison for trauma-dumping classified history onto a .”

  Nye gave a small smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Consider it handled. And… thanks. For telling me the truth.”

  “You bet.” Vin smiled, patting on his shoulder.

  With that, he turned back toward the house. Nye and Bret followed after him. As they stepped inside, Vin suddenly remembered something. “Shit—we never gave you your birthday gift.”

  Nye glanced at him, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I got the truth tonight. That’s enough of a gift.”

  Vin and Bret exchanged a look before shrugging. A moment later, they were pulling out a couple of neatly wrapped boxes from the kitchen counter, shoving them into Nye’s hands with an early “Happy Birthday.” Nye rolled his eyes but accepted them anyway, seeing them off shortly after. Bret had made sure to grab two bottles of wine for himself from the carton that they brought over.

  Left alone in the quiet, Nye expected his mind to spiral—to get lost in the whirlwind of everything he had just learned. But, to his surprise, it didn’t. For the first time, he felt like he had a solid grip on the truth, or at least enough of it that no future revelation could possibly him. After , what else could even come close?

  Instead of overanalyzing every word and stressing over what hurt, Nye found himself at the kitchen counter, unboxing some of the food Vin and Bret had brought over earlier. He ate in silence, finishing his late dinner before heading straight to bed, to his own surprise.

  Eve stirred as he settled in, her voice soft. “Want to talk?”

  Nye exhaled, already sinking into exhaustion. “Later.”

  And with that, sleep took him almost instantly, his mind finally——silent.

  Meanwhile, Vin's glider hummed softly as it descended toward an open playground, the landing thrusters barely disturbing the snow that had settled on the cracked pavement.

  "Alright, princess, end of the line," Vin quipped, glancing at Bret.

  Bret stretched dramatically before stepping out. “Ugh, could you drop me in the middle of an empty playground like some abandoned luggage? I have an to maintain.”

  Vin smirked. “Right, and what’s the worst that could happen? Some kid mistakes you for a lost pet and takes you home?”

  Bret scoffed, flipping an imaginary strand of hair over his shoulder. “Please, I am special. If anything, I’d be adopted by a wealthy socialite who recognizes my value.”

  Vin chuckled but didn’t linger. As soon as Bret was clear, he engaged the hover mode and took off, ascending smoothly before angling toward home. The city blurred past in streaks of blue and gold, towering structures casting long, shifting shadows as he weaved between them. The autopilot took over while he focused on more pressing matters.

  "Clara," Vin commanded, lifting his hand close to him. A soft chime confirmed the Voxlet was listening. "Send a message to Liz. Tell her—" He paused, rubbing a hand over his face before continuing. "Nye knows everything. Nile, Dyla, the kids, his primabilities—everything. We had no choice but to tell him after slipped up and mentioned Dyla." He exhaled sharply. "Also, he’s chipped now. And his primabilities are returning. Fast. So… maybe reconsider how you approach him if you’re still planning to drag him through a party for his birthday."

  The AI processed the message, repeating it back in its crisp, emotionless tone. Vin nodded. “Send it.”

  "Message delivered," Clara confirmed.

  Vin switched his focus back to the controls, flicking the navigation console with a practiced ease. The glider responded instantly, shifting trajectory as it shot forward, weaving effortlessly between the skyscrapers. He let his mind wander for a moment, staring at the endless sprawl of the city below.

  Nye was chipped. his abilities were coming back. That alone was enough to send a ripple through the underground networks. There were people out there—powerful, dangerous ones—who had spent almost two years banking on the idea that Nye’s potential was buried for good.

  They were about to be disappointed.