The hush that follows a storm fell over Meridian's experimental ward, broken only by the steady hiss of cryogenic coolant. Ivy Shen stood before the frosted glass of the preservation chamber, heart clenched, as technicians completed the final protocol. Inside, Lucian Shen's body lay encased in a silver-lined sarcophagus, neural tissue data streaming into secure servers.
Ivy drew a steadying breath, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Around her, the cryo‑lab's soft blue glow lent everything an otherworldly calm—an antiseptic counterpoint to the grief coiling in her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, recalling Lucian's final words: *“My death is proof. Let me give you time."*
Dr. Gabriel Wren approached, expression solemn. “Ivy, the neural boot sequence logs are intac
