Chapter 1
The Clinic
I decide I will survive this the same way I survive physical exams and bra fittings and going dateless to school dances, by pretending I’m fine.
I am exceptional at pretending I’m fine.
I smile when Dr. Kasian congratulates me. I nod when Dad tells me I’m doing the right thing. I thank everyone at the Cloudkind clinic when the word “opportunity” gets said like a blessing instead of a warning.
If I were honest, I’d admit this feels less like a door opening and more like a floor giving way.
But honesty is not what got me here.
Leo’s message buzzes against my wrist: “Good luck Ava, your new job’s gonna be fire. Also, you HAVE to tell me what it smells like in there.”
I smile, hovering my finger over my watch’s reply window. Good sisters answer right away. Good sisters don’t cower behind tech, no matter how tempting it may be.
“Sure,” I mutter, watching it transcribe my words in slow, punctuated beats. “Bet it smells like old batteries and indentured servitude.”
Too honest. I cut it like a clean incision.
“Bet it smells shiny and new.” I hit send.
I paste on a smile for no one, more out of habit. The clinic machinery hums around me like it knows when I’m faking it.
Dad paces in precise, clipped steps and I can read the tension in his jaw. Only he sees through my smile, through the way I pretend this is celebration and not sentencing. His worried glance ricochets off of the curved walls: Don’t mess this up.
Everyone treats tonight like it’s my birthday and graduation rolled into one. I’m supposed to be thrilled for the upgrade. I nod and play my part, but it feels less like a milestone and more like an execution chamber built just for me, where applause replaces the final prayer.
Maybe it won’t be completely soul-crushing. Maybe the first night will be like this room—small and clean and manageable. Just logging in, learning the rules, getting shown around like a normal new hire.
“That’ll need to come off now,” Dr. Kasian says, nodding at my wrist.
My watch. It’s a scratched-up, passed-down relic that barely texts and keeps worse time.
I hesitate. “It’s just an old watch,” I manage. Admitting what it truly means would split me open.
“Sorry. It’ll interfere with the mapping.”
I unbuckle it slowly, almost expecting the thing to fight back. I wore it the first time Leo collapsed in the yard. I wore it when our family sat in waiting rooms, while the minutes dragged like years. It was how Leo and I stayed tethered—me glancing at it between classes, him sending me texts from a hospital bed, both of us measuring the same hours apart when everything started unraveling. Now I’m supposed to hand it over like it’s just meaningless metal and plastic. Not the last fragile thread between us.
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a small smile.
Dad takes it from me and tucks it in his pocket with the same absent care he’d give a plastic trinket from a birthday goodie bag, already forgetting it was ever in his hand. His eyes are fixed instead on the computer Dr. Kasian begins typing on.
“She starts tonight, then?” Dad clears his throat. “And the first paycheck?”
My shoulders tense at this question, bearing more of the heavy guilt that’s been crushing me ever since we found out about the treatment Leo needs. I could have applied for this job months ago. I could have already earned enough to cover the costs. Instead, in true Luddite fashion, I’ve avoided the microchip and everything related to Senium.
Dr. Kasian doesn’t look up from her screen, fingers still moving.
“She starts immediately. First paycheck in a week.”
Dad exhales, slow and careful, shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Good. That’s good.”
Of course, Dad thinks this is all good. He thinks the implant is some kind of bodily enhancement, not a shackle. He doesn’t care that I despise virtual reality. I’d rather live inside a book than in a synthetic world stitched into my skin.
“Seventeen is on the younger side for our Workforce program. You must be excited,” Dr. Kasian says, trying for small talk, the kind that’s supposed to distract me from the moment about to split my life in two.
“It’s a big opportunity,” I say.
“And no prior VR use,” she says, sounding impressed. “That makes you a perfect candidate.”
“Lucky me,” I whisper. I don’t mean it at all.
Dad doesn’t beam with pride or thank me. He doesn’t even acknowledge what I’m giving up, only what I’ve delayed.
“We could have used the extra paycheck,” he says, his voice a guilt-laced needle poking me, “I still can’t believe you missed the first interview.”
I flinch and stare at my hands, wishing I could fold myself small enough to disappear from the room.
He scheduled the first interview for me last year. The one I no-showed for, and he forgot all about. With Leo being in and out of the hospital, it was just one more thing of mine that fell through the cracks.
I swallow and say nothing, letting his version of the story stand. I don’t need a lecture. I already know I messed up.
“Forget it.” Thankfully, he waves it off. “You’re getting it done now. That’s all that matters.”
After Leo’s last hospitalization, the doctors gave us five months. They said it gently, like kindness could change the math. If Leo doesn’t get the new treatment by January, there’s almost no chance he’ll make it.
I breathe in. The antiseptic smell stabs my nose like the clinic’s offended I’m still 100% human. Dr. Kasian’s fingers fly across the keyboard, checking and rechecking something on the screen, probably making sure the shiny new chip won’t fry my brain on first boot-up.
Dad launches into a detailed description of a treasure hunt he found in Senium last night. Something about floating ships and hidden maps. I barely register any of it. His voice drifts past me, relaying adventures of a world I don’t want, while I’m trying not to panic in this one.
“So, I say to him,” Dad rambles, “you think you’re Levi Sen or something? The idiot dives into the sea and swims all the way to the sinking ship. Just like that. So, I’m thinking must be some Sen Academy type, right?”
Dr. Kasian humors him with a polite nod. “Must be.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He already lives half his life in Senium. If that didn’t disqualify him, he could be the one sitting in this chair. He could be the one earning. Instead, it’s me—because I’m the only one in this family who stayed stubbornly unimplanted. The only one untouched enough to be useful.
He’d pay for it if he could, I know that. He already burned through everything on my brother. Every doctor, every test, every hospital stay that was supposed to fix it, all of it stacked into a mountain of debt so high he can’t even pretend to see over it anymore. My employment in the Workforce program is his last resort. I’m Leo’s last resort.
I sit rigid in the prep chair as Dr. Kasian lifts a sleek, ring-shaped scanner, the metal glinting under the lights before it hovers above my head. The hum isn’t gentle at all, it’s sharp and needling, like a swarm that knows exactly where to sting. My palms sweat against the armrests, but I keep my face still. I’m supposed to act like this is routine, like a trip to the dentist, I remind myself. Even though no dentist ever made me feel like I was about to be erased and rewritten at the same time.
“Stay very still,” Dr. Kasian says. “We’re mapping your neural patterns. It’s like fitting custom software.”
Custom software. I almost laugh. That’ll make this totally fine.
She lowers the scanner until it almost touches my hairline, and a dozen cool, metal tendrils unfold from its edge, gently pressing against my scalp.
I take a deep inhale. I can do this. It’s just an implant. A tool.
The scanner hums louder.
Dr. Kasian has me blink in patterns, do mental math, think of a happy memory. Lights blink on a nearby screen. A stream of code scrolls alongside it like my consciousness is being debugged in real time.
“We’ll begin the procedure soon,” she says.
The humming intensifies. I glance toward Dr. Kasian and dad off to the side of the room.
Dr. Kasian lowers her voice, not quite a whisper, but not meant for me either. “She’s aware of the side effects?”
Dad doesn’t blink. “Of course.”
The humming stops, replaced by a tight, shrill ding.
Dr. Kasian hesitates just long enough to make it obvious. Then she taps something on the screen. A soft chime echoes through the room. “You’re synced.”
I’m still processing what I just overheard.
“Wait,” I say. “What kind of side effects?”
Dr. Kasian glances at my dad, then back to me. She’s good at the soft face adults use to make difficult things sound manageable.
“Microseizures. Chronic migraines. Cognitive lock-in. Memory distortion, in rare cases.”
Dad clears his throat. “Ava. We talked about this.”
We didn’t. He talked while I nodded until my jaw cramped. I never got to ask the questions I wanted to ask.
“Your mom would be so proud of you,” he says softly, and it catches me off-guard. He never talks about her and the surprising mention makes me fold.
He adds, “And you’ll be helping your brother.” That alone justifies everything. Leo may only be my half-brother, but he’s the whole world to me. After Leo’s mom left, dad and I are his whole world too.
I press my hands between my knees to stop them from shaking. My fingers need something to do that isn’t spiraling into panic.
“Can I ask something else?”
Dr. Kasian nods patiently as Dad sighs. He gives me that tight, stretched smile. The one that screams to just go along with it
“What kind of things will I be testing?” I ask. “It’s not… dangerous, right?”
They were tight-lipped and vague about it in the interview, and I needed the job badly enough not to press for details.
“The implant is calibrated exclusively for Senium. You’ll be entering a controlled, tightly monitored sector,” she explains with a reassuring smile. “Your job is to test new features, explore environments and scenarios before they reach the public, and report anomalies.”
There’s a knock at the door and a nurse enters with a tray, a needle ready. I hate needles.
Dad says too quickly, “She’s ready.”
“You’ll feel drowsy in seconds,” Dr. Kasian says, like that’s a comfort. “If everything looks good after your first night of observation, you’ll be able to sleep back at home.”
Dr. Kasian explains the microinjection and guided fusion like she’s talking about gluing two Lego pieces together. No scalpels. Minimally invasive, the consent form said in neat typed words. The needle is in her hand.
The heaviness sinks in.
I hear Leo’s voice, bright with curiosity: Tell me what it smells like in there.
I wish I could lie. But there’s no smell I can describe as I fade—no treasure hunt scent or battery-stench, nothing cinematic. No sound.
It’s hollow, like the space before a scream.