The nerve interface in the back of my neck was still bleeding, and a shoddy pain pump filled my vision with noise. The old man at the black clinic picked up the silver chip stained with brain tissue with tweezers, and grinned to reveal his gold teeth with circuit boards: "This is the twelfth time, little girl, if you forcefully remove the memory, your amygdala will turn into tofu."
The holographic screen bounced back in the filthy air, and I stared at the surveillance record I uploaded three hours ago: In the screen, "I" was stabbing my boyfriend's eye socket with a table knife, and my movements were as standard as a slaughterhouse assembly line. But here's the thing—the real me is lying on the operating table right now, with the bruise on my left arm from his bite last week.
"The cerebral cortex copying technology matured three years ago." The old man suddenly immersed the chip in the petri dish, and the floating eyeballs inside suddenly opened, "Someone created a pirated soul in your memory palace, and now that fake..." He paused deliberately, and the turbid prosthetic eye flashed through the blue data stream, "It is living for you."
When the funeral home called, pink nutrient solution was oozing out of the freezer. The voice assistant mechanically announced: "Customer Lin You, death time 22
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
