I acted casually, as if I'd simply been stretching my legs rather than attempting to access confidential systems. A man entered with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to authority. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to his scalp and eyes that reflected a subtle prismatic sheen—the telltale mark of long-term exposure to dimensional energy. His clothing was simple but impeccably tailored, a charcoal suit with minimal B-tier insignia.

  "Hello, Mr. Kaine," he said, extending his hand. "I am Berill Arneo, Administrator of Moonstone Memorial Hospital and Research Center."

  My skin crawled at the use of my last name. Among raiders, last names were never spoken aloud—a taboo born from hard experience rather than superstition. Certain high-tier rift entities could manipulate individuals through true names, creating dimensional tethers that bypassed normal defenses. Even within Stability records, raiders were identified by call signs and first names only.

  The Administrator must have noticed my reaction. His expression shifted from professional courtesy to momentary chagrin.

  "My apologies," he said, withdrawing his hand. "Force of habit. These days I primarily work with blank researchers rather than active field personnel. It's been... some time since I raided myself."

  That caught my attention more than the name slip. "You no longer raid?"

  He gestured toward the seating area, moving past me to take a high-backed chair facing the windows. "Retired from active service approximately twelve years ago."

  I sat across from him, studying his features more carefully. "Why did you stop at B-tier?"

  A faint smile touched his lips. "You'll understand once you get there." He adjusted his position slightly, the fabric of his suit rippling like liquid. "Most people who manage our various offices are B-tier, in fact. Interesting pattern, isn't it? There isn't a single person of higher tier who personally manages anything within our organizational structure."

  He didn't elaborate further, leaving me to wonder at the implications. What happened at B-tier that made raiders stop advancing?

  The Administrator folded his hands neatly on his lap. "I understand you have many questions—about your condition, about why you're here, about what happens next."

  "That's an understatement," I replied.

  "I won't be answering any of them."

  I blinked. "You won't?"

  "Not that I can't," he clarified, "only that I won't. Everything I tell you and everything I do today comes by directive from Stability Central Command, not because I personally believe it's the correct course of action."

  That was refreshingly honest, at least. I'd dealt with enough bureaucrats to appreciate when one admitted they were just following orders.

  "Let me be clear about today's agenda," he continued. "First, we will upgrade your wrist implants from civilian to Stability grade. Second, we will install a neural implant that you'll need going forward. Neither of these procedures has anything to do with your system issue, which remains... unique."

  [ERROR: ENERGY SIGNATURE CORRUPTED. RECALCULATING...]

  As if responding to his mention, the error message flashed across my vision again.

  "And these upgrades require your personal attention because...?"

  "The technology is classified," he said simply. "In this entire facility, only I have the necessary access level to install these particular models. No one can assist in the procedure."

  A chill ran down my spine. I remembered my first implant installation—mandatory for all citizens at age ten, performed in a dingy medical facility with minimal anesthetic. The pain had been excruciating, the recovery worse. Having wrist implants upgraded was supposedly less traumatic, but neural implants were notorious for their complicated installation process.

  "We need to do this right now," the Administrator said, standing. "Please follow me."

  He moved behind his desk and placed his palm against the wall. A section of the seemingly solid surface rippled like water, then dissolved to reveal a hidden laboratory. The space beyond was clinically sterile, dominated by an operating chair surrounded by articulated mechanical arms ending in various surgical implements.

  "Please take a seat," he instructed, moving to a wall safe that materialized at his approach. He pressed his palm to its surface, then his right eye for a retinal scan. The safe opened with a soft hiss, revealing a large black case.

  I hesitated at the threshold of the hidden room. "Is this standard procedure?”

  "No, it is not, in fact this is the first time I am installing this model myself" he replied without looking up, removing the case from the safe. "The chair, please."

  My instincts screamed to run in approximately seventeen different directions at once. My better judgment—which had been suspiciously quiet lately—reminded me there was nowhere to go. I settled into the operating chair with all the enthusiasm of a Raider entering an unstable rift. The moment I leaned back, restraints activated around my wrists and ankles—not painfully tight, but secure enough to prevent movement. The mechanical arms hummed to life, extending various needles, drills, and other implements I couldn't identify. I fought the instinct to struggle against the restraints.

  "We can't use anesthesia," the Administrator informed me as he opened the black case beside the chair. Inside were two wrist modules and what appeared to be a neural interface plug—all made from material that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. "It would interfere with the signal calibration. This will be... uncomfortable."

  "Fantastic," I muttered, bracing myself.

  He activated a sequence on a nearby console. "Try to remain as still as possible."

  The first mechanical arm positioned itself above my right wrist, where my civilian implant created a barely noticeable bump beneath the skin. A laser activated, cutting a precise line along the old insertion scar. Blood welled up immediately, but a second device vaporized it before it could drip onto the chair.

  Pain lanced through my arm as the incision deepened, exposing the metallic surface of my standard-issue implant. A pair of precision forceps extracted the device with methodical efficiency, pulling it free from the neural connections that had grown around it over the years. Each severed connection sent white-hot agony shooting up my arm.

  I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to scream. My eyes watered involuntarily as the Administrator placed the extracted implant in a containment field and selected one of the new modules from his case.

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  "The Stability-grade units have additional functionality," he explained conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather rather than performing surgery without anesthesia. "Enhanced computational capacity, secure communication channels, and certain... defensive measures. They also integrate directly with the neural implant."

  The new implant—sleek, black, and slightly larger than my old one—descended toward the open incision in my wrist. As it made contact with exposed tissue, it seemed to come alive, extending microscopic filaments that sought out neural pathways.

  This time, I couldn't hold back a strangled cry as the filaments connected. It felt like molten metal being poured directly into my nervous system. The Administrator continued working, apparently untroubled by my distress.

  The process repeated with my left wrist, no less painful for being anticipated. By the time both wrist implants were upgraded, sweat drenched my clothing and my vision swam with black spots.

  "Now for the neural interface," the Administrator said, selecting the final component from his case.

  The mechanical arms repositioned, one extending toward the base of my skull. I felt cold metal against my skin, then a sharp burning sensation as it shaved a small section of hair.

  "This will be significantly more intense," he warned. "The interface needs to establish connections with your primary sensory cortex, motor pathways, and limbic system."

  Before I could respond, a drilling sound filled my ears, and pressure built at the base of my skull. The sensation rapidly transformed from pressure to searing pain as the drill penetrated bone. I screamed then, unable to maintain any pretense of composure. The sound echoed in the small laboratory as the neural implant burrowed into my brain, establishing connections that felt like electrical fires igniting throughout my nervous system.

  My vision whited out completely. For several seconds or minutes—time lost meaning—I existed purely as pain.

  When awareness returned, I found myself still in the chair, restraints retracted. The Administrator stood nearby, cleaning his hands with a sterile cloth.

  "Installation successful," he remarked, studying a holographic display hovering above his wrist. "Neural connections at 98.7% compatibility—exceptional for a first sync. Your system is remarkably adaptable, Volt."

  I tried to respond but could only manage a hoarse croak. My throat felt raw from screaming.

  "The discomfort will fade shortly," he assured me. "The implants are already producing localized analgesics."

  He helped me from the chair, supporting my weight as we exited the hidden laboratory. The wall sealed seamlessly behind us, once again presenting an unblemished surface. He guided me to the seating area where I collapsed into one of the chairs.

  True to his word, the pain began receding, replaced by a cool numbness that spread outward from the implant sites. Within minutes, I could think clearly again, though exhaustion weighed heavily on me.

  The Administrator produced two glasses filled with amber liquid from a hidden compartment in the side table. He handed one to me. "Drink. It will help with the neural integration."

  I accepted the glass without question, too tired to be suspicious. The liquid tasted like honey and citrus with an undertone of something medicinal. Warmth spread through me as I drank, chasing away the last of the pain.

  We sat in silence for several minutes, the Administrator seemingly content to wait while I recovered. Through the windows, Moonstone City continued its perfect existence, citizens moving along elevated walkways, energy transfers illuminating structures in patterns too complex to be random.

  I tried to access my status screen again.

  [ERROR: ENERGY SIGNATURE CORRUPTED. RECALCULATING...]

  Same error. Whatever the implants had changed, they hadn't fixed that problem.

  Eventually, the Administrator set down his empty glass and stood. "It's time to go."

  "Where?" I asked, rising unsteadily to my feet.

  He didn't answer, merely gestured toward the gravity lift. I followed, noting that my balance had already improved, the implants integrating with my nervous system with remarkable speed.

  The lift descended past the floors I'd seen earlier, continuing downward beyond what should have been ground level. The numbers on the display continued decreasing until we reached "SL-17"—seventeen levels below the surface.

  The doors opened to reveal a security checkpoint unlike anything I'd seen before. A series of scanners, force fields, and armed Stability agents created a gauntlet of verification measures that seemed excessive even by S-tier standards.

  The Administrator placed his palm on the first scanner. "Berill Arneo, Administrator, Authorization Epsilon-Nine-Zero."

  A feminine voice responded from hidden speakers: "Voiceprint confirmed. Biometric scan initiated."

  A beam of light passed over him from head to toe. "Biometric signature verified. Dimensional resonance within acceptable parameters. Proceeding to neural verification."

  A more focused beam targeted his neural implant specifically. "Neural signature confirmed. Welcome, Administrator Arneo."

  The first barrier dissolved, revealing another checkpoint five meters ahead. We repeated this process no fewer than seven times, each verification more intricate than the last. At the final checkpoint, the Administrator surrendered a sample of his blood, which a device analyzed at the molecular level before granting access.

  Beyond the last barrier lay a small, darkened room dominated by a massive black box. The container appeared to be a technological marvel in itself—covered in readouts, scanning interfaces, and locking mechanisms that glowed with faint blue light.

  The Administrator approached the box with reverence that bordered on religious. He began a methodical sequence of unlocking procedures, his movements precise and practiced. Palm prints, retinal scans, voice authorizations, and physical keys were all employed in a specific order that took nearly ten minutes to complete.

  Finally, with a soft hiss of equalizing pressure, the box opened. Inside, nestled in a form-fitting compartment, was a smaller box made of the same light-absorbing material as my new implants.

  The Administrator carefully removed the smaller container and turned to me. "This box is keyed to your biometric signature. Only you can open it."

  He handed it to me. The box felt surprisingly warm against my palms, as if alive.

  "The moment you open it," he continued, "its contents will be absorbed through your new implants. It contains what we call a memory sphere—a technology that exists at the intersection of dimensional science and neural engineering."

  My new neural implant pinged with information: *Memory Sphere—Classified Technology. Creator: Unknown. Only one human possesses the ability to manufacture these devices. Further information restricted.*

  "What's on it?" I asked, turning the box in my hands.

  "I don't know," the Administrator replied, and I believed him. "Even I don't have clearance for that information. What I can tell you is that you'll need to visit Main Stability Headquarters. There's a unique device there that will activate it properly. I heard rumors It was ‘relocated’ from a technologically superior civilization through an S-tier rift, but that information is above my security clearance."

  “Then why am I not being given this there?”

  “All I know is that these things can’t be stored in the approximate vicinity of the device.”

  I hesitated. The day had already been overwhelming—forced medical procedures, new implants, descending into what was clearly one of the most secure facilities in Moonstone City. Opening a mysterious box containing technology I'd never heard of seemed unwise.

  And yet, why go through such elaborate measures just to harm me? If Stability wanted me dead or compromised, there were far simpler methods available.

  "Go ahead," the Administrator said softly. "Open it."

  I took a deep breath and pressed my thumb against the seam of the box. It recognized me instantly, the seam glowing briefly before the top slid open with surgical precision.

  Inside lay a sphere about the size of a billiard ball. Its surface was midnight black but somehow not solid—shifts of milky texture moved beneath it like clouds in a night sky. It emanated no light, yet I could see it perfectly, as if it existed slightly out of phase with reality.

  As I stared at it, the sphere began to pulse. Once, twice—then it shimmered and simply vanished from the box, leaving no trace of its existence.

  Pain exploded through my nervous system, radiating outward from my neural implant. It felt like liquid fire pouring through every nerve ending simultaneously. The agony was absolute but mercifully brief—perhaps three seconds of unbearable intensity before it vanished as completely as the sphere itself.

  I found myself on my knees, the empty box still clutched in my hands. The Administrator stood watching me, his expression unreadable.

  "What... what was that?" I gasped, struggling to my feet.

  "The first step," he replied cryptically. "The sphere has been absorbed into your neural implant's secure storage. It will remain dormant until activated by the device at Stability Headquarters."

  I touched the back of my neck where the implant had been installed. It felt normal—no heat, no pain, no indication that it now contained some kind of dimensional memory technology.

  "When do I go to Headquarters?" I asked.

  The Administrator checked his wrist display. "A transport is waiting for you outside. You're expected within the hour."

  As we rode the gravity lift back to the main level, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just been irreversibly changed—not by the implants themselves, but by whatever information the sphere contained. Something important enough to warrant this level of security and specificity.

  Something that only I could access.

  [ERROR: ENERGY SIGNATURE CORRUPTED. RECALCULATING...]