The memory-bridge was a fragile, shimmering paradox. Beneath our tires, the surface flickered with scenes from the night we first met the smell of rain on hot asphalt, the frantic neon of the Under-Net, and the moment our eyes locked across the handle of a wrench. It was a bridge built from our shared history, but Silas stood at the far end, his obsidian blade drawing a dark, jagged line through the light.
"You think your 'connection' is a shield," Silas said, his voice echoing through the vacuum of the High-Band. He took a step forward, the red circuits in his skin pulsing like a dying star. "But memory is just data, and data can be corrupted."
Dax dismounted the Norton with a slow, heavy grace. He didn't look back at me, but I felt the weight of his resolve through the link. He unstrap
