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Then he ripped the quantum modulator out, shorting the GhostGlass in a blinding flash of white light. The tablet went dark. The rain hissed. For a moment, the data-static in the air went silent.

He was looking at Lina’s profile. No. He was looking at the Lina. Not the curated, smiling version she posted for the world. This was the raw data skeleton. Her profile was a ghost ship, its decks cleared but its logs still running. fb viewer without account

The GhostGlass screamed. The screen didn't show a profile. It showed a live feed. A single, high-definition camera feed from somewhere in the Spire. The angle was low, looking up. And in the frame, strapped to a chair in a sterile white room, was Lina. Her eyes were closed. Her head was laced with a silver web of neural probes. She wasn't dead. She was archived. Her consciousness had been copied, analyzed, and her body was being kept in a suspended state as a backup drive. Then he ripped the quantum modulator out, shorting