The sphere did not just shatter. It imploded. Great fissures spider-webbed across the pressurized gel, turning the translucent prison into a jagged mosaic of light and shadow. As the containment failed, the viscous fluid poured out, carrying the ancient, frail body of Aris Thorne with it. He slumped onto the grating of the maintenance catwalk, coughing up coolant and stale air, his eyes wide and unfocused as the sudden intrusion of reality hit his senses.
Elian did not let go. His hand was locked onto the neural interface, his body acting as the bridge for the catastrophic feedback loop. He was no longer just a man. He was a conduit for a billion corrupted memories. He watched as the avatar on the balcony began to dissolve, its blue-lit form flickering like a dying fluorescent tube. Every
