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The screen didn't show a menu. Instead, a surge of static hissed from his speakers, blooming into a rhythmic pulsing. Suddenly, his vision fractured. He wasn't in his apartment anymore. He saw a laboratory in Zurich, the smell of ozone, and a woman in a white coat calling him "Subject Alexander."

“Memory is a compressed file, Adrian. It’s time to extract.” He hesitated, then hit Enter.

Twenty years of memories—his childhood in Ohio, his degree from MIT, his first heartbreak—began to pixelate and dissolve like a corrupted video. They were placeholders. Dummy data.

Adrian Alexander stood up, his eyes glowing with a cold, blue light. He didn't need the computer anymore. He was finally online.