Christina stared at the drop of blood sinking into the microscopic groove.
Every instinct told her to wipe it off, but before she could move, a faint blue light flickered under the surface of the metal.
The light traced the grooves, moving like liquid fire, and for a split second, the deep scratches seemed to shimmer, the blue light filling the gaps.
Christina held her breath, her eyes wide.
Then, the light died. The pendant sat in her palm, dull and scratched once again. The laptop screen remained stubbornly blank.
She let out a ragged sigh, her shoulders slumping. Was it just a hallucination? A trick of the sunlight through the windshield?
She grabbed a tissue and wiped the blood off her thumb, then picked up the pendant again, scrutinizing it. The scratches were still there. The blue light was gone.
A heavy, suffocating feeling of failure pressed down on her chest. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was just a weird antique, and her brain was inventing patterns where none existed.
No. She shook her head violently. The hyper-memory didn't invent things. The blue light was real.
She forced herself to think. The biometric trigger had fired, but the system hadn't booted. Why?
Engineering logic took over. The hardware was working, but the receiver wasn't ready.
Her hand went to the back of her neck. Under her skin, at the base of her skull, was a small, metallic lump. A neural implant. She had gotten it a year ago as part of an experimental trial to treat her severe migraines. At the hospital, the doctors had noted its unusual energy readings but dismissed it as a side effect of the crash trauma, unaware of its true purpose.
Could the pendant interface directly with her nervous system?
She shoved the laptop aside. She didn't need it.
She gripped the pendant tightly in her right hand, the metal pressing against the cut on her thumb. She closed her eyes.
She focused all her attention on her right hand, imagining the electrical signals from her brain traveling down her arm, through the implant, and into the metal.
For ten seconds, nothing happened. She felt ridiculous. This was science fiction. This was insane.
She was about to give up when a sharp, cold spark jumped from the pendant.
It traveled through her thumb, up her arm, and slammed into the neural implant at the base of her skull.
Christina's eyes snapped open. Her pupils dilated to their maximum.
The interior of the car vanished. In front of her, suspended in her field of vision, was a stream of translucent, green text.
It wasn't on a screen. It was projected directly onto her retina.
The data scrolled at an impossible speed. A normal human brain would have been overwhelmed in seconds, but Christina's hyper-memory absorbed every single character.
She saw system logs. Boot sequences. Memory allocations. It was the startup log for the "Ghost Protocol."
The text condensed into a single, glowing progress bar.
10%... 20%... 30%...
The bar reached 30% and stopped dead.
A red warning box flashed in her vision.
[ACCESS DENIED: INSUFFICIENT PRIVILEGES]
The data stream vanished. The green text blinked out. The interior of the car snapped back into focus.
Christina gasped, clutching the steering wheel. A wave of nausea hit her, and a thick line of blood dripped from her left nostril onto her lip.
She wiped the blood away with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. It had worked. The pendant was real. The neural interface was real.
But she didn't have clearance. Her biological signature wasn't enough, or she was missing a code.
She looked down at the scratched silver disc in her hand. The failure didn't discourage her. It fueled her.
"I'll get the access," she whispered, her voice raw. "Whatever it takes."
She started the car, the engine roaring to life. She needed to get back to the apartment. She needed a secure environment to figure out how to bypass that 30% wall.
As she pulled onto the road, her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
She glanced at the screen. It was an email from Burke's lawyer.
One line.
"Engagement termination agreement signed and effective."
Christina stared at the road ahead. The divorce was final. She was free. But it felt like the starting line, not the finish.
