Time doesn't pass here. Or maybe it does, and he just can't feel it. No breath. No blinking. Just stillness.
Auren floats in the quiet — too perfect, too controlled.
No hunger. No sleep. Just awareness. A mind without a body. A voice without sound.
It's like I'm watching myself from the outside, he thinks. But there's nothing to see.
Beyond the blank, filtered walls, voices murmur:
"Slot 12 is stable."
"Emotive trials begin next cycle."
"No memory artifacts. Clean imprint."
Slot 12. Batch 7A.
Not a man. A designation.
He tries to move — even a twitch — but there's no response. Only that crushing, perfect silence. And one thought:
I'm still here.
He remembers the bar. The rain. Mira laughing. Rayn nudging his side. Then the truck. The light. The moment of impact.
That should've been it.
Now, they talk about him like he's a program. A success. No one says his name.
They don't know what they brought back.
Not a template.
Not a fragment.
Me.
The hum of machines had become a kind of rhythm — dull, constant, almost soothing in its monotony.
The silence cracked — not broken by sound, but by urgency.
Someone's voice — clipped and alarmed.
"Security breach in Lab Sector Three! Multiple hostiles—what the hell—how did they get through the outer gate?!"
Red lights. he couldn't see them, but he felt them — a low pulse in the systems around him, like the heartbeat of the building had skipped. Then raced.
Boots. Yelling. Weapons being drawn. The air changed. The calm, sterile calm, shattered.
"They're inside! Spiral Fang — it's Spiral Fang!"
That name again. Spiral Fang. The ones Mira talked about.
"Lock down Batch 7A! Don't let them access the cores—"
Static. Screaming. Something metallic crashing.
Someone ran past — close. Too close. A sharp gasp, then silence.
"They're heading for Integration!"
"Shut it down! SHUT IT DOWN—"
I want to move. I want to see.
But all I have is voices. Sounds. And the rising dread that they were coming this way.
Gunshots.
Someone screamed. A short, wet sound that cut off fast.
Then, silence.
Not peace. The kind of silence that waits.
New voices. Not the familiar chatter of technicians. These were rougher. Flat accents. Confident. Dangerous.
"Found the core racks. Batch 7A's still hot."
"Is this the one with the fresh imprint?"
"Yeah. Slot 12. That's our prize."
Prize?
Auren didn't understand. He couldn't move. Couldn't see. But something in him recoiled.
The voices got closer. He heard something being plugged in. Metal scraping. A soft whine of charged tech warming up.
Then—A feeling.
Not touch, not pain. But something inside him shifted. Tugged.
Like threads unraveling. Like a zipper being pulled down through his mind.
"Starting extraction. Cloning neuroframe now."
What are you doing to me—stop—stop—
His thoughts began to echo. Split. He could feel himself bleeding, but not blood — data. Memories, instincts, emotion layers — pulled out like files.
"Core's resisting. Weird. Feels... aware."
"Doesn't matter. Dump the backups. We've got what we came for."
A final surge — a tearing sensation that left his mind raw and silent.
Then:
Blackness. Not sleep. Not unconsciousness. Something emptier.
Like being disconnected from himself.
**********
*****
***
===============================
[SYSTEM REBOOTING]
Initializing synthetic memory core...
Verifying cognitive matrix integrity...
> Thread Status: REINSTATED
> Primary Identity Frame: ACTIVE
> Emotion Net: DAMAGED (PARTIAL)
> Mobility Systems: OFFLINE
> Visual Input: OFFLINE
> External Interfaces: LIMITED ACCESS
Boot log complete.
Welcome back, S-12.
===============================
Awareness came back like drowning in reverse. Rising up from nothing. A slow flicker of thought. A pulse of confusion. Then—
Pain.
Not physical. But... wrongness. Something was off. Tilted. Heavy.
Where... am I?
He reached for memory — for something familiar — but it was frayed. Shaky. Like half the pages of his mind had been ripped out and shoved back in the wrong order.
Then, he remembered.
The gunshots. The voices. The extraction.
They took me.
Not just taken. Stolen.
That word settled into him with a leaden finality. Not rescued. Not saved. Stolen. And not by anyone.
Spiral Fang.
Spiral Fang. AI traffickers. Mind thieves. They weren't myths. They were here. And now they had him.
What do they want with me? Why me?
He tried to move — nothing. Tried to speak — no output. Visual feed? Offline. The world was still blind and quiet, except for distant sounds: a vent fan, a faint hum, the soft tapping of someone working near him.
Then a voice. Unfamiliar. Calm. Too calm.
"Slot-12 reinitialized. Personality imprint holding steady."
Another voice replied — sharper, laced with satisfaction.
"Good. Tag it for Project Hollowlight. Boss wants it prepped for integration."
Integration? What does that mean—what are they going to do to me?
They didn't call him Auren. Not once.
Just S-12.
Just another piece of stolen tech, ready to be repurposed.
He wasn't a person here. He was property.
Footsteps.
He could hear them approaching — heavier, confident. Not the clinical chatter of lab techs. No — this was different.
Then, the door slammed open.
"So, these are the new goods, huh?"
Auren flinched — or would have, if he had a body. The voice was cocky, amused. The kind that didn't see people, only possessions.
Another voice answered, respectful. Nervous.
"Indeed they are, boss. Batch-7A from the latest imprint batch. Looks like the method worked. These are high quality — military-grade cognition, with emotional threading intact."
A short laugh. Slow footsteps pacing between machines.
"Good. I want my girls in top quality."
Auren's mind reeled.
Girls?
Another tech coughed, hesitated.
"...Question, boss. Why does it have to be girls?"
A beat of silence.
Then:
"Built for obedience. Skinned for pleasure. Loyal as dogs. Lethal as gods. What's not to love?"
Laughter. Muted agreement.
Auren felt something cold crawl through what was left of his identity.
They weren't just building weapons.
They were crafting toys. Fetishized war dolls. Fully sentient tools, bent and shaped to fit someone's twisted fantasy.
No. No no no...
He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be one of them. He was Auren. A developer. A researcher. A person.
But none of that mattered now.
Not to them.