My finger tightened on the trigger, my body operating on a cold, pre-programmed instinct while the real part of my mind screamed in terror from deep within the dark, receding corners of my own skull.

Emily didn’t run. She stood on the mud-slick bank of the swelling creek, rain washing the soot from her face, staring directly into my eyes with a raw, heartbreaking mixture of grief and trust.

“I know you’re still in there, Julian,” she whispered, her voice barely cutting through the rush of the water and the digital hum vibrating in my ears. “Look at me. Not the overlay. Look at me.”

The HUD in my field of vision flared bright crimson, locking onto her chest with a steady, blinking reticle. Target acquired. Execute. My right arm locked like steel. Every nerve in my forearm fired in sequence, preparing to squeeze the lever.

Eighty-eight percent.

“Delete!” the synthesized voice in my head commanded, sharp and absolute.

I fought it with everything I had left. I didn’t try to pull my arm back; I knew the mechanical override in my nervous system was too strong. Instead, I diverted every remaining ounce of my own conscious willpower to my left hand—the numb, twitching hand that had just been shocked by the dummy binder.

I slammed my left fist into my own throat.

The impact crushed my windpipe, breaking the fluid connection between the signal at the base of my neck and my motor cortex. My right arm violently jerked sideways just as the hammer fell.

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the quiet of the woods, the muzzle flash illuminating the pouring rain for a fraction of a second. The bullet whined past Emily’s shoulder, striking a heavy oak tree behind her.

I collapsed onto my knees, clutching my throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The digital overlay flickered violently, turning into static before fading back into the natural dark of the forest.

Transfer interrupted. Signal lost. Recalibrating.

“Julian!” Emily dropped beside me, grabbing my wrists and pulling the revolver from my unresisting fingers.

“Go…” I managed to rasp, coughing up dark blood into the mud. “I can’t… control it. Run, Emily!”

“Not without you,” she snapped, slinging my right arm over her shoulder and hauling me to my feet with a strength born of pure desperation.

Behind us, heavy boots crunched through the underbrush. Searchlight beams crisscrossed through the trees, closing in on our position.

“Over here!” a voice called out—cold, tactical, and familiar. Marcus. “He’s glitching! Take the girl, bring the vessel in alive!”

We stumbled down the slippery embankment into the icy water of the creek. The current was fast and fierce, pulling at our legs as we waded across to the far bank. Halfway across, the searchlights hit the water around us, turning the foam into blinding white ribbons.

A volley of silenced gunshots peppered the water—thwip, thwip, thwip—sending up sharp geysers of spray.

We dragged ourselves up the opposite bank, scrambling into the dense thicket on the far side just as a grenade bounced off a boulder behind us and detonated with a muted, underwater thud, showering us in mud and freezing water.

We didn’t stop. We ran on sheer adrenaline, navigating the pitch-black woods by feel as the rain turned into a blinding downpour. My head pounded with a rhythmic, sickening heat, but the digital voice remained silent for now, locked in a boot-loop caused by the trauma to my trachea.

After ten grueling minutes of running uphill, the trees suddenly gave way.

We tumbled out of the brush and onto a narrow, asphalt backroad winding through the ridge. Parked on the shoulder, completely dark with its hazards off, was a faded blue pickup truck.

Emily ran to the driver’s side, pulling on the handle. Locked. Without hesitating, she gripped the heavy brass key from her pocket and shattered the driver’s window, reaching inside to pop the lock.

“Get in!” she shouted, pushing me into the passenger seat before climbing over the console into the driver’s side.

She reached under the steering column, ripping down the panel and pulling out the wiring harness. Her hands were precise, moving with a practiced speed that didn’t match the terrified tears streaming down her face. Within seconds, sparks flew, the engine turned over, and the old V8 roared to life.

She slammed the truck into drive, spraying gravel as we accelerated down the winding mountain road, leaving the burning estate and the searching headlights far behind in the valley.

For ten minutes, neither of us spoke. The heater blew cold air, and the rhythmic sweep of the squeaking windshield wipers was the only sound in the cab.

I leaned my head against the cold glass, staring at my reflection. Underneath my left ear, the surgical line was no longer glowing, but the skin around it had turned a bruised, necrotic purple.

“Where did you learn to hotwire a truck like that, Emily?” I asked softly, my voice still ruined from punching myself in the throat.

Emily didn’t answer right away. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Emily?”

“In the facility,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. “The same place they kept you.”

I turned my head to look at her, a cold dread pooling in my chest. “You told me you were my father’s assistant. You said you met him at the university.”

“I lied, Julian,” she said, tears overflowing and tracing clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. “I was never his assistant. I was patient zero. I’m the only reason your dad knew how to build the receiver in your neck.”

Before I could process her words, the radio display on the truck’s dashboard flickered on, despite the power knob being turned off.

Static filled the cab, followed by a crisp, clear chime.

The same synthesized voice that had been inside my head suddenly blasted through the truck’s speakers, loud and reverberating.

“Vehicle location confirmed,” the speaker crackled. “Emily, step on the brakes immediately, or we will initiate the secondary protocol in your drive unit.”

Emily’s face went entirely pale.

Suddenly, her own left hand jerked violently off the steering wheel. Her fingers locked up, fighting against her own wrist as her arm reached down and slammed the gear shift straight into Reverse while we were speeding at sixty miles an hour down the mountain pass.

The transmission screeched in a violent spray of metal teeth, and the truck violently lost control, fishtailing toward the sheer cliff edge.