?? This chapter contains emotionally intense and potentially disturbing imagery, including simulated violence and vulnerable intimacy.

  The mind reveals more than we want it to. Read with care.

  

  Virtual paradise. Real deaths.

  PULSAR promised connection, love — even purpose.

  But when seven people died after logging in, the system needed bait.

  Today is Evan McKay’s first day.

  It may also be his last.

  Seven dead. One team. One week.

  They all logged in. Within a week, they were dead.

  Evan McKay’s first day as a detective. No one warned him he’d step into a digital nightmare.

  The alarm pierced the dark.

  "Arise, my Count. Great deeds await thee!” said a voice in a light Chinese accent.

  Evan grimaced, yawned, and sat up straight. His first day on the job.

  Senior detective.

  Not bad for a kid with no connections, just out of the academy.

  Captain Richard Downey didn’t believe in luck. Or people.

  Downey didn’t need rank. He needed someone who could see between the lines.

  Through emotion. Through silence. Through synthetic smiles.

  Someone who could read digital ghosts.

  Evan was that someone.

  He was a top student, a cyber bloodhound — the kind who sniffed out needles in server farms.

  His thesis on cybersecurity got passed around the department like gospel.

  During his internship, he found a vulnerability no one else had noticed. Not even the original devs. Downey had noticed that.

  Evan lived in a one-bedroom apartment on Brooklyn Avenue. First floor. Drafts, rotten floors, cracked walls. A couch with scars. A shelf full of books: criminalistics, psychology, digital forensics. Bottom shelf — crushed beer cans and an unread Dostoevsky.

  Two photos on the wall: one with his parents on a ski trip. The other from graduation. He stood tall in the back row, shoulders square, calm smile.

  In the bathroom, he stared into the mirror.

  "Well, McKay. Get used to it. You’re a detective now.”

  The reflection answered with a crooked smile. Tousled red hair. Eyes still burning. A scar on his chin from a moped crash. Made his face look harder. Like the innocence had been filed off.

  He rubbed his stubble. Turned on the shaver. The hum drowned out his thoughts.

  After his shower, he stared at the biker suit in the closet. Then chose dark blue chinos, a pale shirt, and a leather jacket. Pulled out polished boots. They gleamed like an aging diva with perfect eyeliner.

  He paused at the helmet on the way out. His Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 was waiting in the garage. A gift from his father. A machine meant to be free. But outside — rain. Puddles. Slush.

  He grabbed an umbrella. Sighed.

  "No bravado today."

  The city was already awake.

  People rushed. Students headed toward the university. Cars hissed through the rain, leaving trails of spray.

  In the subway, Evan stood by the window. Tunnels flashed by. Then streetlights. Then tunnels again.

  Passengers wore the same early-morning mask: half-asleep, screen-glued, caffeine-driven.

  At Pioneer Square, he got off and walked toward the station. Seattle Police Department. Modest. But solid. Glass and stone. Like it meant something.

  He shook the umbrella at the door, stepped inside. Second floor. Narrow hallway. A small plaque: Criminal Division. A door.

  His new life waited behind it.

  The briefing room was silent. Detectives took their seats like ghosts. No small talk. Just coffee and tablets.

  Captain Downey arrived last. No tie. Wrinkled shirt. Red eyes.

  "Morning,” he said. "If you can call it that.”

  He turned on the projector. One word filled the screen.

  PULSAR.

  "A name that needs no introduction,” Downey said. "The world’s most popular virtual dating platform. Used by everyone—from acne-ridden teens to washed-up senators. And probably aliens. Assuming they’ve got Wi-Fi.”

  No one laughed.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When Downey joked, it meant something was already on fire. The smoke just hadn’t shown yet.

  He paused. Then:

  "Seven dead.”

  The air in the room got heavier.

  "All of them worked for NeuroVista. Six men. One woman. Same department. Same project. PULSAR.”

  He brought up a chart. Faces. Names.

  "They logged in. Then they killed themselves.

  All seven. Different methods. Same week.

  We don’t know why.”

  Downey looked at the list like it was a casualty report. Just numbers. Just names.

  "Investors are panicking. They want answers.”

  He scanned the room.

  "Why us, not the Feds? Because right now, it’s still domestic. Still suicide. If it turns into something else, they’ll take over. And we’ll be done.”

  A fly buzzed past his head. The only living thing in the room that didn’t care.

  "This is priority. Everything else waits. Today, you’re bait. Set up profiles. Log anything that twitches.”

  Chairs creaked. Someone coughed.

  "No leaks. If the press gets wind, we’re out. No ceremony. No pensions.”

  A quick glance at Evan.

  "Questions?”

  Silence.

  Downey looked at each of them in turn.

  "We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. Could be a glitch. Could be something worse. But seven dead in one week? That’s not a bug.”

  Evan felt something cold climb his spine.

  "McKay. You’re the rookie. Time to prove yourself.”

  Evan stood. His throat dry.

  "Yes, sir.”

  The horror movie feeling didn’t go away. Only this time, there was no screen. No ending. Even Downey didn’t know what the hell was going on.

  The detectives scattered. Evan walked into his new office.

  A laptop on the desk. And next to it — a VR headset. Clean. Sleek. Alien.

  He touched its surface. The NeuroVista logo was etched so fine it seemed to vanish. The casing was smooth, halfway between metal and plastic. Warm to the touch.

  No buttons. No ports. Just the shell and the silence.

  Tiny sensors blinked.

  Neural mapping initiated.

  Magnetic resonance patterns synced.

  Cognitive signature detected.

  The headset wasn’t just scanning his thoughts.

  It was building a mirror.

  A digital twin — shaped not by who he pretended to be,

  but by who he really was.

  He slipped the headset on.

  The world disappeared.

  Not darkness. Dissolution. No sound. No time. No scent.

  Something pulsed.

  A faint blue shimmer. Then a star. Spinning rings around it. The PULSAR logo. It moved like it was breathing.

  "Welcome to PULSAR,” said a woman’s voice.

  Soft. Velvet-smooth. It flowed into his mind like warm code.

  "My name is Nira. I am your personal digital assistant.”

  The interface opened in front of him. A profile form. Evan began filling it in.

  

  
• Name: Evan


  
• Age: 24


  
• Interests: Motorcycles. Cybernetics. Jogging. Swimming. Reading.


  
• Goals: Family. Romance. Travel. Flirting. No-strings sex.


  

  The system felt alive.

  Her voice wasn’t robotic — it was calm, precise, trustworthy.

  She didn’t push. She didn’t rush. She guided.

  "How do you like to spend your free time?”

  "How important are family values to you?”

  The answers flowed.

  Easy. Natural.

  Like they came from somewhere deeper.

  "Are you a night owl or an early bird?”

  "What’s your view on vegetarianism?”

  "Would you date someone from a different race or culture?”

  The questions felt random —

  but something about the flow felt calculated.

  Like she already knew the answers.

  Then something shifted.

  The questions grew more personal.

  Like layers of armor peeling away — slow, patient, inevitable.

  “If you’re open to it,” Nira whispered, “I’d like to know the desires you hide even from yourself.”

  "What age range excites you the most?”

  "What kind of touch brings you pleasure — the kind that feels like trust?”

  "What turns you on the most in a partner?”

  His cheeks grew hot.

  "Let’s go a little deeper," Nira said gently. "Into the desires you’ve never dared to speak."

  A pause.

  Like the system waited for him to nod.

  Even if only in thought.

  "Do you prefer to lead or follow in a relationship?”

  "What fantasies do you keep locked away — even when you're alone?”

  "Are there desires you’ve never shared — not even in bed?”

  His heart stumbled.

  The answers were already there —

  before he even understood the questions.

  "Be honest, Evan,” she whispered. "I’m here to understand you. Deeper than anyone else ever has.”

  He filled in the last field.

  Hit Done.

  His hands moved on their own.

  "Thank you, Evan. You’ve done well.”

  Her voice was warmer now.

  "I will now create your digital twin.”

  His breath slowed.

  The form vanished.

  The space darkened.

  Then came the images.

  At first, just flickers. Like old film. Faces. Streets. Beaches. Snow. A girl on a bike. A man with a dog. Laughter. Grief.

  It felt like memory—but deeper. Like it wasn’t being shown to him. Like it was being pulled from him.

  "Don’t be afraid," Nira said.

  "I’m only observing. Looking for what moves you."

  He closed his eyes.

  The images stayed.

  They weren’t out there.

  They were inside.

  A flash — sharp and sudden, like memory clawing its way up.

  A girl—naked, trembling, wild-eyed—crashing through the forest.

  She stumbled. Fell. Her scream ripped out of her — sharp, vertebral, primitive.

  Then he seized her—sudden, brutal.

  He didn’t recognize the girl. Or did he?

  Maybe PULSAR had pulled this from somewhere he never meant to remember.

  A surge of something raw. Feral. Starving.

  His thoughts dissolved. Instinct took the wheel. He wasn’t Evan anymore. Just a beast.

  Evan flinched — like surfacing from icy water.

  Was that his mind? Or was PULSAR digging too deep?

  What the hell was that?

  "Everything’s fine," Nira said. Calm.*

  "I needed to see what your instincts would reveal — beyond anything you’d ever admit."

  He sat frozen. Heart pounding—but what he felt wasn’t panic.

  It was something heavier.

  Deeper.

  A strange, magnetic exhaustion.

  "Analysis complete."

  Her voice was warmer now.

  "Your digital twin is ready. Ideal matches have been selected."

  Panels appeared in front of him. Faces. Bios. Photos. All perfect. Too perfect.

  He opened the first one without thinking.

  Stephanie. Long platinum-blond hair. A perfect smile — until it flickered. For a split second, her eyes widened in real fear. Then the mask slid back. "No strings, no drama. Just champagne, sunburns, and orgasms." "If you catch feelings, call your therapist."

  Too flawless. Too sharp. Too... scripted.

  But something in the way she looked at the camera — just for a heartbeat — didn’t match the script.

  A park appeared. Empty swings. Stephanie’s twin rocked gently, dress fluttering in the breeze. Tanned legs. Sweet voice.

  But something was off. Too smooth. Too polished. Too... fake.

  Her profile: high income. Sports car. Vacation house.

  Goal: casual sex. No attachments.

  It felt autogenerated.

  A doll, he thought.

  Stephanie offered a video call.

  He closed the profile.

  "Thanks, sweetheart. Not in this life."

  Another face. Then another. Then another.

  All flawless. All empty.

  He muttered:

  "Is that all you’ve got, PULSAR?"

  Nira’s voice dropped lower.

  Gentle. Almost tender.

  "I’ve found someone..." she whispered.

  "Someone unlike the others."

  

  Author’s Note:

  Next: Chapter 2 — The Weight of Ghosts (available now!)

  Some memories are code.

  Others are shadows.

  Evan just gave the system both.

  And Leithe?

  She hasn’t even said hello yet.

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