#GAOL

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, trapped in this limbo that felt more real than any simulation he'd ever inhabited. The room contained nothing but sterile white walls bleeding into a white floor that stretched toward a white ceiling overhead. Unlike the rest of the system's sprawling network, these surfaces didn't glow with active code or hum with electric heartbeats. Everything was still, dead like a corrupted cell in what should have been a living organism. Marcus found himself alone with a body that didn't crave food or water, and a mind that was starving for stimulation. The silence pressed against him like atmospheric pressure, broken only by the sound of his own breathing in this acoustic void.

First he tried counting. Then he tried pacing the perimeter like a caged animal, measuring his prison in careful steps that led nowhere. Finally he tried lying down and rising at what he imagined were regular intervals, as if imposing structure on the void would somehow make sense of his confinement. It didn't work, of course. Entirely separate thoughts started overlapping, creating recursive loops that fed on themselves. While his memories were gradually fading like corrupted data blocks, the raw emotions remained sharp: rage, regret, panic. Those feelings coursed through his mind stronger than ever.

He talked out loud for a while, his voice strange and hollow in the acoustic deadness. Asked if anyone was monitoring his feed, made bitter jokes to the invisible surveillance systems embedded in these seamless walls. Called Reiss every slur he knew from his flesh days and invented six new ones that felt appropriate for a digital tyrant. The silence that came back made everything worse—not even the courtesy of an automated response or system ping to acknowledge his existence.

They'd locked him here like a file they couldn't delete yet, as if they were saving him for something. Or maybe… maybe they wanted him to go mad before they scrubbed what was left. The uncertainty gnawed at him worse than any physical torture could have managed.

He sat now in the geometric center of the floor, eyes closed, cross-legged like some meditation app avatar. The questions circled through his processor like vultures: Was the signal lost? Did they intercept his transmission? Does Melissa even exist on the other end of that desperate connection, or was she just another phantom in his deteriorating memory banks? The thought slithered through his neural pathways, cold and relentless.

Maybe she really was Reiss's muse now. A perfectly trained toy with soft eyes and a sweet voice and nothing left inside.

He opened his eyes and stared at the wall again, feeling the weight of isolation press against his consciousness. One bitter word escaped him, sharp and final in the sterile air.

"Fuck."

Then, cutting through the oppressive silence, came a sound. Metal against metal. Marcus shot to his feet so fast his balance protocols struggled to compensate. Hands clenched into fists, body tensed and ready to fight something, anything, even if it was just another layer of torment designed to break him down further.

The wall in front of him opened with a soft pneumatic click, revealing technology that had been seamlessly hidden. A sliver of darkness appeared, and a chrome-smooth platform extended forward like a metallic tongue. The mechanism moved with the kind of engineering that spoke of expensive design and careful planning.

On the platform sat a folded garment that seemed to catch light from sources that didn't exist. Iridescent fabric rippled with embedded LEDs, finely detailed with circuitry patterns that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. The entire thing was trimmed in white-gold lattice work that looked like it had been crafted by machines that understood aesthetics better than most humans. It was the kind of ceremonial clothing you'd see in New Life's propaganda broadcasts, designed to make the wearer look transcendent and willing.

He stepped back. "No."

The walls didn't react. The platform just held still, patient and waiting as if it knew he would struggle.

He stared at the garment, seeing all the implications folded into its fabric. "You think I'm gonna wear that? You think I'll perform for you like some dancing monkey in your circus?"

Silence answered him.

He paced once. Twice. Then slammed a fist into the nearest wall. "You could've just fragmented me. But no. You want a fucking show!"

And then the hiss came, soft at first like a whisper of escaping air. He looked around frantically, scanning walls that had seemed solid moments before. All of a sudden, from the ceiling, nozzles he hadn't noticed before descended on silent actuators, their chrome surfaces reflecting his panicked expression in warped fragments.

Then came the mist—cool and chemical-sweet, enveloping the air like a thick blanket.

His knees wobbled. Vision smeared at the edges like a corrupt display driver. "Fuck—no—"

His legs gave out. His voice slurred as he dropped to the floor, hands scrabbling against synthetic white tile, and the last thing he saw before everything softened was the garment sliding closer.