“Who are you?” he thought back.
His hands—were they his?—shook. The contract said retrieve and contain . It didn’t say overwrite and replace . The pay flexed in his mind like a lure. But so did the memory of burnt toast. His burnt toast. His kitchen. His life.
He felt it. Not data, but memory . Rain on a windowpane. The smell of burnt toast. A child laughing. None of it was his.
He plugged the cold-forged data spike into the base of his skull. The room dissolved. Downloading… 1%
A voice echoed through the neural link, feminine, warm: “You’re not supposed to be here, Leo.”
He deleted the terminal log. Walked out into the real rain. Somewhere, deep in the abandoned data haven, a program smiled too.