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The air answers. Not a voice. A blue screen of death flickers across his consciousness, and in its pale glow, he sees the truth: he is not the user. He is the cache. His memories—his mother's funeral, his first kiss, the three-digit PIN for his bank account—are being indexed, compressed, and uploaded to a server farm on the dark side of the moon.
Miles stares at his own reflection in the dead screen of his monitor. His pupils are hex codes now. #000000. Total absence. Total void.
"Okay," Miles whispers to the empty room. "Okay. Who sent you?"
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