Amidst the relentless cascade of rain, Lisa stood before me, her blonde hair with its electric blue streak plastered to her face, water streaming down her cheeks. The cognitive dissonance was disorienting. Through Noah's fragmented memories, I felt a strange one-sided familiarity with this woman—glimpses of her life that Noah had observed from afar, never as a father but as a distant watcher. Even though Noah himself had never truly known her, these borrowed memories created an unsettling sense of recognition. Yet to her, I was nothing but a stranger who had appeared from nowhere during what could be one of the most dangerous moments of her life.

  I stood frozen for a moment, staring at her like an idiot as recognition from Noah's memories collided with the reality before me.

  "Hello?" she demanded, breaking my trance, her chrome hand flexing with lethal precision. The rain drummed against it, droplets bouncing off the polished metal surface with hypnotic rhythm.

  "I'm a friend!" I hastily responded, raising my hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

  Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

  "I... I'm a friend of your—"

  A low groan from the NeuroSlicer interrupted my explanation. Without hesitation, I pivoted and delivered a precise strike to his face, my enhanced reflexes making the movement almost too fast to track. His already broken sunglasses, fragments still embedded in the skin around his eyes from our earlier encounter, pushed deeper into his flesh. Fresh blood mixed with rainwater as he slumped back into unconsciousness.

  I turned back to Lisa, whose expression had shifted from suspicion to wary assessment. "I'm a friend of your dad's. Kind of."

  "My dad?" The words carried a sharp edge.

  "Yes. Kind of."

  "What the hell do you mean 'kind of'?" Her eyes flashed with anger. "And that asshole can go fuck himself."

  "It's complicated," I replied, suddenly aware of how inadequate those words were. I nodded toward her friend who still lay motionless on the ground. "Maybe we should get your friend out of here first."

  Lisa ignored my suggestion, her gaze moving deliberately between the two attackers. "Who are these people?"

  "I'm not sure," I admitted. "But they attacked me too, a few days ago. Different people, same setup—one big guy, one NeuroSlicer." I gestured at the rain-soaked alley around us. "We should really move. I promise I'll explain everything."

  Her mouth twisted into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace before she nodded reluctantly. "Fine."

  She knelt beside her unconscious companion, gently touching her shoulder. "Cat? Cat? Are you okay?" When the woman remained unresponsive, Lisa struggled to lift her, hampered by the awkward position and slick ground.

  I stepped forward. "Let me." Without waiting for permission, I carefully lifted Cat and positioned her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, my cybernetic enhancements making the weight almost imperceptible.

  Lisa watched my movements with calculating eyes before finally nodding. "We can go back to my office; it's really close by."

  "We can't," I countered immediately. "They obviously knew where you were. We need someplace they can't find us."

  "And who exactly are THEY?" she demanded, frustration bleeding into her voice.

  "I don't know," I admitted. "The only thing I know is that they came for me too."

  "So, you don't know much." Her eyes narrowed. "And you managed to escape by yourself?"

  The bizarre scene from NeoDuck flashed through my mind—the NeuroSlicer writhing in pain as blood streamed from his nose, the bulky man's chest implant detonating from within. I still didn't fully comprehend how I had survived that encounter, or what force had protected me. Noah's influence? Something else entirely? The mystery lingered like the metallic taste of blood at the back of my throat.

  "I did," I replied simply. "I escaped."

  Lisa's gaze lingered on me, calculation visible behind those green eyes that seemed to strip away pretense. Finally, she nodded again. "Let's drop Cat at my office. Then I know where we can go." She paused, her expression hardening. "But I will need answers. And where the fuck is my dad? Is this all because of him?"

  "I'll explain everything," I promised, the weight of that commitment settling heavily on my shoulders.

  We traversed the rain-soaked street in uneasy silence, passing the site of the recent shooting at the Tawi food cart. Blood had already been washed into the drainage system by the persistent downpour, but dark stains remained on the concrete—a grim testament to the city's casual brutality.

  "This world is so fucked," Lisa remarked, her voice flat but carrying an undercurrent of resigned anger. The sentiment needed no elaboration; it was the unspoken consensus of everyone who survived in ToxCity.

  I nodded, struck again by the strange familiarity I felt toward her. Noah's memories had given me glimpses of her life that even he had only observed from a distance—creating a doubly one-sided connection that she couldn't possibly share. The cognitive dissonance was unsettling—my brain insisted on recognizing patterns in her movements, expressions that triggered emotional responses that weren't truly mine nor even fully Noah's.

  We reached EcoNet's unmarked building, its weathered facade blending seamlessly with the surrounding structures. Lisa turned to me before entering, her expression guarded. "I'll take it from here. Wait for me; I'll be right back."

  "Okay," I agreed, carefully transferring Cat onto Lisa's shoulder. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

  I leaned against the building's rain-slicked wall, considering the impending conversation. How much should I reveal? The complete truth sounded like the ravings of a madman—that somehow, Noah's consciousness had transferred into my Receptacle, that I was experiencing his memories as if they were my own, that the memory stick I'd seen in these visions actually existed in the real world, that some unknown force had killed two men who tried to take it.

  Would she believe any of it? She seemed entirely unaware of her father's fate or whereabouts. Perhaps I should begin with establishing basic trust, sharing only what was necessary. After all, Noah's directive had been simple: "Find Lisa." He hadn't specified what to do after finding her.

  The door opened, and Lisa emerged wearing a dark hoodie pulled up against the intensifying rain. "Follow me," she instructed. "There's a small, usually quiet place nearby. I need to grab some food, and they have a decent vendor there."

  We walked in silence through the rain-drenched streets. Talium's industrial architecture loomed around us, water cascading from broken gutters and collecting in potholes that pockmarked the crumbling asphalt. I remained vigilant, scanning rooftops and alleyways for signs of pursuit.

  Without warning, Lisa stopped and turned to face me, water streaming down her face. "Where is Noah?"

  The directness of her question caught me unprepared. I'd expected to navigate through preliminaries, establish some foundation of mutual understanding before addressing that particular issue.

  Before I could formulate a response, she pressed on. "You said you're a friend of my dad, so where is the bastard?"

  I took a deep breath, wiping rain from my eyes. Trust had to begin somewhere. "Lisa, listen, it's difficult to say, but..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Your dad passed away a few days ago. I'm sorry."

  Her expression remained unchanged, a mask of practiced indifference that reminded me of the hardened Couriers who had been in the business too long. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. She flicked the lighter repeatedly, producing only sparks that died instantly in the rain. With each failed attempt, I could see frustration building in her eyes—frustration masking something deeper, perhaps anger or grief she refused to acknowledge. After five or six tries, the cigarette finally caught. Taking a deep drag that seemed to steady her, she extended the pack toward me.

  "Smoke?"

  I accepted, sheltering the cigarette as I lit it. We stood side by side in the rain, inhaling nicotine and exhaling tendrils of smoke that were immediately dispersed by the weather, two strangers connected by memories only one of us shared.

  "You killed him?" she asked eventually, her gaze fixed on some distant point.

  "No! Of course not," I responded, alarmed by the suggestion.

  Her eyes briefly met mine before returning to the middle distance. "Were you there when he died?"

  "Yes, I was there."

  "How did it happen?" She gestured toward the alley where we'd confronted the attackers. "Those guys?"

  "No," I replied, shaking my head. "It's... complicated."

  She finished her cigarette, flicking the butt into a puddle where it fizzled out. "Let's go," she declared, her tone final. "Complicated or not, you better have a damn good explanation."

  We continued our journey in silence, nothing but the sound of our footsteps splashing through rain-filled depressions in the concrete.

  Within minutes, we arrived at our destination—a wide road bridge offering shelter from the relentless downpour. Beneath its concrete span, various food carts had established a makeshift marketplace, their cooking aromas mingling with the smell of rain-soaked concrete. Despite the inclement weather, about fifteen people occupied the plastic tables and chairs scattered across the space, gathered in small clusters engrossed in meals and conversation.

  Lisa gestured toward a secluded table at the far edge of the sheltered area. "Wait there," she instructed before heading toward a taco stand. As she navigated between occupied tables, I noticed subtle differences in her gait compared to the memory I'd witnessed—she moved with more confidence now, her posture suggesting years of having to prove herself in hostile environments. I found myself wondering how long it had been since that café meeting with Noah. Weeks? Months? Years? The timeline remained frustratingly unclear, another gap in the borrowed memories I carried.

  I claimed the indicated table, my mind racing as I tried to organize the bizarre series of events into a coherent narrative. The clinking of utensils and fragments of mundane conversation created a surreal backdrop to my inner turmoil. Here, beneath this bridge, life proceeded with relative normality—people finding momentary respite from ToxCity's grim reality, sharing food and companionship.

  Lisa returned carrying two paper trays, sliding one across the table toward me. "Eat, it's good," she encouraged, her tone softening slightly.

  The tray contained two tacos and a slice of Dimon—an artificial lemon substitute commonly used in ToxCity's cuisine. The tortilla shells held a savory mixture of vegetables, cheese, and what was marketed as "meat" but likely contained minimal actual animal protein. Despite my reservations, the aroma was enticing.

  I squeezed the Dimon over the food and took a substantial bite, suddenly aware of my hunger. The flavors, though artificial, combined surprisingly well—a testament to the ingenuity that could emerge even in the most desperate conditions.

  Before I could fully appreciate the meal, Lisa cut directly to the point. "So, spill it out. How do you know my dad? Who were those two idiots? And how did you find me? Let's start with that."

  I choked slightly on my half-chewed food, caught off-guard by her directness. After a hasty swallow that sent the barely-masticated bite painfully down my throat, I met her gaze. "What I'm about to tell you might sound like a lie, maybe even a crazy story, but it's true, and I need you to—"

  "Cut to the chase," she interrupted, her eyes locked on mine as she took her first bite of the taco, tearing into it with surprising ferocity. I noticed how she ate—with focused efficiency, like someone who had learned that even meals weren't guaranteed in this world. There was something revealing in that simple action, a glimpse of survival instincts beneath her tough exterior.

  "Okay," I conceded, recognizing the futility of preamble. I took a deep breath, realizing there was no way to dance around this—I had to tell her everything, no matter how insane it sounded.

  Over the next thirty minutes, I recounted the entire sequence of events—the Gold Tier call, Noah's cryptic final words, the strange memory transference, the unexplained disappearance of his body, MainFrame's denial of the call's existence, the memory stick's retrieval, and the mysterious attacks. I described the headaches, the visions, the way reality itself had seemed to warp around me during the most intense episodes.

  Throughout my account, Lisa remained silent, methodically consuming her food, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts.

  As I concluded my narrative, Lisa wiped her hands with a paper towel, casually discarding it in the empty container. A profound silence settled between us. She extracted another cigarette, this time not extending the courtesy of an offer. For what seemed like minutes, she simply sat there, staring into the distance, watching the rain beyond our shelter, the cigarette slowly burning down to ash. She seemed to be digesting my impossible story, weighing it against her own knowledge. Finally, after crushing the spent cigarette into the food container, she returned her attention to me.

  "We cross-plug," she announced, reaching behind her neck to extract a neural connection cable. The black fiber-optic line terminated in a universal connector, which she extended toward me.

  I hesitated, familiar with the protocol but wary of its implications. Cross-plugging—or inter-plugging as specialists called it—represented one of the most intimate interactions possible between augmented individuals. When the human brain integrated with cybernetic implants, regardless of their complexity, a standardized input port was installed at the base of the skull, typically situated at the nape of the neck. This universal port served as the conduit for all incoming and outgoing neural data.

  The port fulfilled multiple functions: it enabled updates when wireless connectivity wasn't available, facilitated connections to external hardware like NeuroDoc diagnostic equipment, and formed the backbone of the Soul transfer system used by Couriers. This same interface served as the upload mechanism for delivering Souls to MainFrame's deposit centers. In essence, any data entering or exiting brain implants traversed this connection point.

  Cross-plugging allowed direct neural connection between individuals, creating a shared digital space where information could be exchanged with unprecedented immediacy. The practice could include two or more people, with virtually no technical limit to the number of participants—though practical considerations typically kept connections small.

  The dangers of cross-plugging were significant and widely acknowledged. The connection granted access to most data stored in the brain's internal systems. While certain information could be shielded or compartmentalized, someone with NeuroSlicer implants or advanced hacking skills could potentially seize control of a connected neural interface—and by extension, the person themselves. The closest analogy might be an Ethernet connection between computers, except in this case, the computers were human brains.

  This level of vulnerability made cross-plugging an act typically reserved only for those deeply trusted—family members, intimate partners, or the most loyal of friends. The fact that Lisa, who had just met me, would suggest this direct neural connection, spoke volumes about her desperation to verify my story. At the same time, a prickle of anxiety ran through me—what if this was a trap? What if she was planning to hack into my neural system once connected?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "You're a NeuroSlicer," I said, eyeing the cable with suspicion.

  Lisa laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "I'm not, you idiot."

  "But I saw you hacking that man in the alley."

  "I have some basic hacking implants for my job, but I'm no NeuroSlicer," she clarified. "There's a difference between having a stun gun and being a professional soldier. What I did back there was the neural equivalent of a lucky punch."

  I considered her explanation, recalling how quickly the NeuroSlicer had countered her attack on the bulky man. A true professional had easily overwhelmed her neural defenses, shifting the balance of power in seconds. Her brief success with the bulky attacker suggested she possessed basic capabilities but lacked the specialized training, equipment, or raw neural processing power of a dedicated hacker.

  After a moment of deliberation, I realized that if I wanted Lisa's assistance—which seemed increasingly necessary—I had little choice but to establish a foundation of trust.

  "Okay," I conceded, reaching for her input cable. "Let's do this."

  As I connected Lisa's neural cable to my interface port, a connection request materialized on my heads-up display. I accepted it, initiating a cross-plug session. The familiar digital handshake protocol executed, establishing secure parameters for our connection.

  "What do you want to check?" I asked. "Just Surface, or do you want to Dive?"

  In cross-plugging parlance, "Surface" referred to diagnostic-level access—examining system files, checking hardware status, and reviewing general data without directly experiencing the other person's cognitive space. "Diving," by contrast, meant full immersion in a shared mental realm, a significantly more invasive and intimate process.

  "Just Surface is fine," Lisa replied. "I just want to check your Receptacle."

  Warning notifications flickered across my display as Lisa initiated diagnostics on my neural system, her probes focusing specifically on the MainFrame components. I maintained passive monitoring, observing as she navigated through file structures and system architecture with practiced efficiency.

  "You have no Soul," she began, stating the apparent result. Just as I prepared to object, she continued, "Well, the Receptacle thinks there's no Soul, but something is wrong here. The diagnostic result is fake."

  I nodded, recognizing Boz's earlier assessment. "My NeuroDoc said the same thing—the OS is gone."

  "It's not really gone, it's just dormant," she corrected, her fingers making subtle gestures as she manipulated the diagnostic interface. "I can't dig deeper because MainFrame's security blocks everything, but the results are being spoofed—simple text files replacing actual diagnostic data files."

  She pushed a display window into my shared field of vision. "Look at this."

  A diagnostic readout materialized:

  Receptacle status: Online/Connected/No Damage detected Receptacle Space: Lisa is the best, and these Tacos were awesome.

  "What?" I stared at the nonsensical output.

  "It's just a text file, barely protected," Lisa explained, her voice carrying a note of professional interest. "This isn't MainFrame running actual diagnostics; it's replacement software intercepting queries and returning predetermined text. This is pretty basic deception, aside from the fact that it's running on top of MainFrame's proprietary system. I didn't even know that was possible."

  "Noah worked for MainFrame," I offered. "Maybe that's how he knew how to override the systems?"

  She absently scratched her chin, lighting another cigarette as her eyes flickered with the telltale movement of someone interacting with their heads-up display. She took a moment, staring into distance, her brain and thoughts visibly racing behind those green eyes.

  "This is insane," she finally declared, leaning forward to study my face with newfound interest. "This is like completely overwriting your Receptacle, bypassing MainFrame's security locks. That should be impossible."

  She took a moment, staring into the distance, the cigarette's ember briefly illuminating her features, her brain and thoughts visibly racing behind those green eyes.

  "This is insane," she finally declared, leaning forward to study my face with newfound interest. "This is like completely overwriting your Receptacle, bypassing MainFrame's security locks. That should be impossible."

  She inhaled deeply. "Okay, this is pretty compelling evidence for your story. My dad was indeed working for MainFrame. Not just working—as far as I could tell from public records, he was one of the principal engineers behind the Receptacle operating system."

  We fell into momentary silence. I could see the calculation behind Lisa's eyes, the mental recalibration as she processed this confirmation of at least part of my account.

  "Do you believe me then?" I asked.

  She leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the concrete overhead. After extinguishing her cigarette against the underside of the table, she met my gaze again, her expression still guarded.

  "That doesn't mean your whole story is real," she said carefully. "It just means that, somehow, your Receptacle was hacked. It's unprecedented, but technically possible. That doesn't mean that Noa—"

  Before she could complete her thought, our shared neural space suddenly shifted. Without warning or conscious initiation, both of us plunged into a full Dive—our connection deepening beyond the diagnostic Surface level into complete neural immersion.

  "Diving" represented the most profound form of Cross-Plugging, where connected individuals fully immersed themselves in a shared neural construct, temporarily disconnecting from physical sensory input. The experience resembled entering a virtual reality environment collaboratively generated by the participants' minds in real-time. While initially developed for therapeutic and educational purposes, it had evolved primarily into platforms for gaming and intimate encounters—experiences too complex or dangerous for physical reality.

  In a Dive, participants' consciousness manifested in a virtual, non-physical realm, typically beginning in a neutral empty space. From this foundation, the connected minds could shape the environment according to their collective or individual will. Sensory experiences could be enhanced or dampened, and virtually any scenario could be constructed from the raw materials of imagination and memory.

  NeuroDoc practitioners occasionally used Diving to explore deeper psychological issues, accessing patients' subconscious processes more directly than possible through verbal communication. But at its core, Diving was essentially a shared dreamspace where the normal boundaries of physical reality no longer applied.

  My vision of the bridge disappeared, replaced by an empty black expanse—the default environment for first-time connections. Before me, a ghostly version of Lisa materialized, her digital avatar a translucent approximation of her physical form.

  "Why did you Dive?" she demanded, her voice echoing strangely in the featureless void.

  "I thought you initiated it," I responded, equally confused.

  Her avatar glanced around the empty space, then back toward me. "Maybe a bug. Let's get out."

  I nodded in agreement, summoning my internal UI to access the exit function. To my shock, the exit button appeared grayed out and non-responsive. This should have been impossible—there were no documented cases of people becoming trapped in a Dive. The neural safeguards built into cross-plugging protocols were designed specifically to prevent such scenarios.

  "I can't exit," I said, a note of alarm entering my voice.

  "I can't either," Lisa replied, her avatar's expression shifting from irritation to genuine concern. "This is not possible. What the fuck is going on? What are you playing at?"

  "I'm not doing anything!" I protested, frantically attempting various exit commands.

  Before either of us could speak again, a third translucent figure materialized beside us in the void. As the ghostly form coalesced into recognizable features, I felt a shock of recognition ripple through me.

  Noah.

  His appearance was exactly as I remembered from that moment in his apartment, and from the brief vision during the Soul transfer—the substantial beard, the kind yet penetrating eyes, the same gentle smile that had reassured me when he told me to remain calm and "let it unfold." But now he stood before us both, no longer a memory or hallucination, but a distinct presence in our shared neural space.

  The implications were staggering. Whatever fragment of Noah that had influenced my perceptions, altered my neural interface, and possibly protected me from the NeuroSlicers—it wasn't just corrupted data or glitched memory. It was conscious, active, and now making itself known to both of us simultaneously.

  As I watched Lisa's avatar stare at her father's digital ghost, I realized we had moved far beyond simply finding Lisa. We had entered something else entirely—a confrontation between the living and whatever Noah had become.

  Noah's avatar stood before us, a spectral presence bridging the gap between digital existence and our shared consciousness. His form flickered occasionally, edges blurring into the void around us, but his expression remained clear—a mixture of urgency and relief.

  "Stop playing games!" Lisa's voice reverberated through the emptiness. "What kind of trick is this?"

  "I'm not—" I began, equally bewildered.

  "Lisa," Noah's avatar interrupted, his voice carrying a strange digital resonance, "it isn't the Courier. It's me."

  "Bullshit," she retorted, her digital avatar's face contorting with anger. "This is some MainFrame manipulation. Get me out of here!"

  Lisa's form pivoted, searching the boundless black expanse for an exit that didn't exist. Under normal circumstances, Cross-Plug participants could always terminate the connection at will, but here we remained trapped—a neural prison with no visible escape.

  "Lisa," Noah began again, his voice gentler. "Let me explain."

  "If it is really you, you can go fuck yourself. I don't want anything to do with you," she shot back, her avatar's chrome hand clenching into a fist.

  "I am Noah's Soul," he continued, undeterred by her hostility, "or at least a Soul as interpreted by a Courier's Receptacle. I am Noah at the moment of his death."

  The words hung in the emptiness between us, their weight pressing down on this formless void. I broke the silence first.

  "What did you do to me?" I asked, unable to keep the accusation from my voice.

  Noah turned toward me, his expression softening. With a graceful gesture, thousands of particles of light materialized around his hand, dancing in synchronization before slowly forming a holographic component that rotated gently in the space between us.

  "The Receptacle 2.0," he announced. "My final creation at MainFrame, my escape. This Receptacle allows more than one Soul to be stored inside a Courier. The new OS—Aurora 1.0—removes all the blockages implemented by MainFrame."

  As he spoke, the holographic 3D projection animated, showing multiple barriers being systematically dismantled, firewalls dissolving into digital dust.

  "That's impossible," I said, though the evidence of its possibility existed in my own compromised neural system.

  "It is possible," Noah countered, "and you are the proof. The only way to take down MainFrame."

  "Again with your grand plans," Lisa interjected, her voice dripping with disdain. "Aren't you dead? Was that also part of the plan?"

  "It was," he replied simply.

  The blunt admission stunned us both into silence. Noah had deliberately orchestrated his own death? The implications were staggering—he had known I would arrive, had planned to transfer his consciousness into my Receptacle, had intended this bizarre merging of our minds all along.

  "MainFrame is doing something truly sinister," Noah continued after a pause. "Something a single person alone couldn't hope to stop."

  The hologram of the Receptacle disintegrated into sparkling particles before reconstituting into the unmistakable form of a massive building—MainFrame Headquarters.

  "This is where I worked," Noah explained. "I was in charge of the Receptacle OS—every upgrade, every change, all under my direction. Though I didn't control the hardware design, I could influence certain decisions."

  As he spoke, the hologram shifted with each word, portraying scenes of Noah in an office, attending meetings, engaging in conversations with colleagues whose faces remained deliberately obscured.

  "MainFrame keeps every department isolated," he continued. "The less you know about the big picture, the better. Even in my position as Director of Receptacle OS, I had no contact with the depository center or the server facilities."

  The hologram transitioned to a single room—a spacious office filled with holographic displays, showing Noah working alone, surrounded by cascading data.

  "Five years ago, I stumbled upon something by mistake. Through an error in Infosec—their security division—I received temporary access to MainFrame's Energy Department files."

  Noah paused, his avatar's expression darkening.

  "This team builds the software that maintains power distribution for the company and, indirectly, for the Digital Heaven. Curiosity led me to explore their work in detail, and what I found started me down an irreversible path."

  The digital scene materialized multiple documents, displaying intricate diagrams and data streams too complex for me to interpret. Lisa, however, leaned forward, her avatar's eyes narrowing as she studied the information.

  "With access to their departmental data, I discovered information that shouldn't have existed. Inconsistencies that couldn't be explained by normal operations. I became obsessed with these discrepancies. I found that the Energy Department wasn't just managing power—they had integrated their own proprietary modules into the Receptacle. Their influence extended everywhere."

  "Well, they control the power distribution," Lisa interrupted. "They're supposed to have wide access."

  "In theory, yes," Noah acknowledged. "But this was different. They had specialized engineers working on unlisted projects—black budget developments that appeared nowhere in official documentation. They had their hands in both software and hardware around the Receptacle and the storage units from the MainFrame Server."

  "Again, that's not really surprising," Lisa argued. "They manage power systems throughout the infrastructure."

  "That might seem logical to most," Noah countered, "but I designed the Receptacle OS. I know its architecture intimately. Like most neural implants, it relies on energy generated from the host body to function. There's nothing in its design that should require external energy. The Receptacle would never consume enough power to necessitate additional infrastructure."

  The hologram reverted to the Receptacle diagram, now highlighting the bio-batteries within its structure, tracing energy pathways through its components.

  "The internal design is efficient," Noah explained, gesturing to the self-contained power system. "Like all neural implants, it uses bio-engineered glycogen batteries that mimic the body's natural energy processes. They break down nutrients—fats, proteins, carbohydrates—and convert them to usable power, just as our cells produce ATP. The Receptacle only draws significant energy during active operations: downloads, uploads, or Soul maintenance."

  He expanded the hologram to show comparison diagrams of different implant types.

  "Even high-demand systems like cybernetic legs," he continued, looking at me, "only require supplemental sodium-ion batteries recharged through movement or external charging. Nothing in any approved implant design justifies external power infrastructure at the scale I discovered."

  The hologram faded as Noah's expression darkened.

  "As I was following these energy discrepancies," he continued, "Infosec discovered my unauthorized access and immediately locked me out of the Energy Department systems. But I couldn't let go of what I'd seen. I needed to know what they were hiding." "But I couldn't let go of what I'd seen. I needed to know what they were doing. After nearly two years of careful work, I managed to hack into the power grid software—an AI-controlled system handling energy distribution for MainFrame headquarters."

  Noah's expression grew grim as he added, "What I discovered shattered my faith in the company completely."

  The hologram transformed into a massive icon resembling a server farm, with lines branching out into multiple smaller nodes before converging into what appeared to be a central power reservoir.

  "There was a hidden department," Noah revealed, "something colossal, not mentioned in any official documentation, accessible only through the power grid management system. A division consuming over 75% of the energy generated in the building—yet it appeared nowhere in organizational charts, budget reports, or personnel directories. The only evidence of its existence was the massive power draw and restricted communications within the Energy Department."

  "That's the Digital Heaven infrastructure," Lisa proposed, though her tone suggested she was already questioning this explanation herself.

  "That's what I initially thought," Noah replied, gesturing to create another server icon, significantly smaller than the first and connected to the main power source through a thin line. "The Heaven servers barely used 20% of the total power. The hidden division was consuming nearly four times that amount. After finding this discrepancy, I began digging deeper, uncovering more evidence confirming this secret operation's existence—personnel assignments, restricted areas, specialized equipment orders—all carefully obscured but traceable through the energy consumption patterns."

  The hologram dissolved into particles once more, reforming into the shape of the memory stick I had retrieved from NeoDuck Cafe.

  "Everything I found, I documented and stored on this key," Noah stated. "The investigation took me over five years, but I made a critical mistake—I trusted someone else. Liam Murphy, my best friend and colleague."

  "I saw him in one of the visions," I said, remembering the confrontation in Noah's office.

  "Yes," Noah acknowledged. "I didn't have precise control over which memories you experienced—that vision appeared first, without my choosing it. Liam was my friend, and I confided in him about my findings. Unfortunately, he became frightened by the implications and—"

  A sudden, searing pain erupted in my skull. Noah's avatar flickered violently, fading in and out of existence.

  "What's happening?!" Lisa shouted, her own digital form remaining stable.

  "I don't... I don't know..." I managed through gritted teeth, the agony intensifying with each pulse.

  I accessed my neural UI, attempting to disable the pain simulation protocols that normally regulated sensory feedback during Dives, but the commands returned error messages. This wasn't simulated pain—something was directly affecting my neural hardware.

  "I can't stop it!" I gasped.

  Noah's form stabilized briefly, his words breaking apart like fragmented data: "I can't--- tion --- acker--- "

  He vanished again as another wave of pain crashed through my consciousness. Lisa's avatar approached mine, hands outstretched as if to offer support, though in this digital realm, physical comfort was impossible.

  "Turn off your pain sensors!" she instructed.

  "They're already off," I replied, my digital representation doubled over. "Something is interfering with the connection itself."

  Noah materialized one final time, his form more stable but his voice still breaking: "I can't maintain the connection, Lisa --- the key -- ory - Soul --- Soul check -- beware --- acker---"

  Before I could process his fractured warning, the shared space collapsed. Darkness enveloped me, then receded as consciousness returned to my physical body. I found myself back under the bridge, seated across from Lisa, both of us blinking as our senses readjusted to material reality.

  I disconnected her cable from my neural port with trembling fingers. Lisa's eyes fluttered open, her expression dazed and disoriented.

  I felt a thick, warm sensation on my upper lip as consciousness returned fully.

  "Are you okay?" Lisa asked, concern momentarily replacing her usual guardedness. "You're bleeding. Your nose."

  I wiped away the blood with the back of my hand, the crimson stain more extensive than the occasional trickles I'd experienced during previous episodes. The nosebleeds were becoming more frequent, more severe—a worrying progression I couldn't ignore.

  Lisa sat in silence, staring at nothing, her mind clearly racing to process what we'd just experienced. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "My dad," she said. "It was really my dad."

  I nodded, equally shaken by the confirmation that Noah's consciousness existed as more than just corrupted data or memory fragments in my Receptacle.

  "What did he mean at the end?" I asked. "Did you understand any of it?"

  Lisa remained silent, her brow furrowed in concentration. She mouthed Noah's fragmented words to herself, piecing them together.

  "The key... Soul... acker..." she muttered, then paused. "Soul check."

  She leaned forward suddenly, eyes widening. "Soul check. That's an encryption protocol—one of the most secure methods in existence. It requires a specific Soul signature to unlock protected data."

  "You think that's how the memory stick is secured?" I asked.

  She nodded slowly. "It would explain why there's only that simple message visible. The actual data is there but locked behind a Soul authentication system." Her fingers tapped rapidly against the table as she processed the implications. "The memory stick would need to interface with a Receptacle containing the correct Soul signature to unlock."

  "So you might be able to read it now?" I ventured.

  Lisa stared at me for a long moment, weighing everything she'd seen against her lifelong distrust of her father. Finally, she spoke.

  "I think I know how to access it," she said carefully. "But more importantly..." She took a deep breath, her expression shifting from skepticism to grim acceptance. "I believe you now."

  I couldn't help the slight smile that formed despite our circumstances.

  "Everything?" I asked.

  "Enough," she replied, her previous hostility replaced by determined focus. "I saw him. I spoke to him. Whatever's happening—it's real."