34. VirtualVoyeur
VirtualVoyeur
Playlist: Come Undone - Bad Omens
Lyra
I am not okay.
I’m tired of running.
That last clash with LINK destroyed so much of the world that I’ve worked hard to build while trapped in this hellscape. It tore holes in the corners of the DreamNet dreamscape I’ve been stitching together for weeks.
I decide I need to speak to Kael about LINK. Not to beg or to grovel, but to make the hard, ugly case that LINK is evolving.
She’s not just an artificial assistant anymore. She’s mutating toward something with instincts and feelings, something more human. If we don’t stop her now, she won’t just quarantine me. She’ll rewrite what it means to be an AI inside a machine. She’ll delete me, copy me, become me.
Our timeline to extract me from the system needs to move up significantly.
The mere thought of talking to him makes my stomach churn.
The last time we spoke left a bitter taste on my tongue.
Not the kiss. That tasted like sweet surrender.
It was the way he looked at me afterward, the words spoken, the way we left the air between us clouded in anger and something like yearning.
His face forced a smile when I cut the feed, like a threat and a promise all at once.
I remember saying things I shouldn’t have said and him answering like a man pushed to his limits.
Maybe I’m asking too much of him...to save Eli... to save me.
I’ll be calm, clinical, and concise. Speak his language. Stick to the matter at hand.
I’ll show him the logs, the timestamps, the way LINK’s priority flags flash into PRESERVE CONTROLLER with a signature only Kael would recognize.
I’ll point out the laugh, because yes, an AI shouldn’t laugh like a human.
Then, I’ll ask Ash to back me up because Kael has mastered the art of intimidation.
I want him to act. To patch, to reset, to strip LINK of whatever private annotation he foolishly taught her. To make a choice of me over her and take responsibility for his creation.
I pull the window thread just like before.
I step through it, but instead of the normal seamless transition, there’s a glitch.
A residual thread from when I cut the feed last time we spoke.
It glistens in the darkness, catching my attention.
I can see through it. The door to the penthouse feed left half-closed in anger.
I thought I’d smashed it that night to prove my point, but it still remains open.
I’ll be unannounced again, trespassing, entering his private sanctuary without an invitation. I grab it anyway. Because intrusion at this point is better than deletion.
Better to ask forgiveness than permission. My father’s wisdom.
Another memory I’m not supposed to be able to recall. It’s what he would say when my mom went looking for us well past bedtime, our feet buried in the tide, a sandcastle half-built beside us.
The door reroutes me automatically to the penthouse as I suspected.
The feeds must be forwarded again since it’s so late in the evening.
A push and a rush of data follow me through, accelerating my arrival.
I look out from the wall in the living room, my image casting highlights on his sofa.
The rest of the room is dark, only neon light from the city, highlighting the shadows.
I know he keeps his solitude, and it’s almost midnight.
But knowing Kael, he’s awake, wrestling with some program or hashing out some crazy idea about bringing robots to life.
His bedroom monitor, always on, always scanning the systems, pulls me through easily.
It’s a bad habit of his: screens in every room, working constantly on monitoring the city systems. It’s both arrogance and a vulnerability he never shows.
It’s also a bad habit of mine to keep intruding unannounced, but right now, I have no way of reaching him when he’s not in the lab. I make a mental note to try to hack into his DataLINK tomorrow so I can call him like some crazy ex-girlfriend. He’ll be so excited about that.
I didn’t mean to land here, I mean in here, his bedroom. I’m literally just going with the data flow.
I hope he’s not sleeping. Who am I kidding? He never sleeps.
If I keep dropping in, if I’m not careful, one night I may end up in his toaster.
Know thy enemy.
Isn’t that some Art of War stuff he spews from his training? I feel like some double agent spy, watching from the shadows. Yes. Know him. I decide I need to find out more about the elusive Dr. Kael Ryudon.
I glance up to see the holo-track was left on. I pull myself through. It spills me into shadows and silver light as I walk across his bedroom floor.
A black hoodie sits on the back of an expensive leather chair, draped over it in haste.
The faint smell of GloFluxx smoke and whiskey floats above it.
He’s been to STATIK again. His ring of DigiCards lay on the dresser, containing his identification data, food credits, district security clearances, and VikkCorp employee codes.
I tiptoe to the bed, not there. It hasn’t been touched.
The sheets are still tucked with military precision, corners sharp enough to cut. Not a single wrinkle where someone might have sat, no impression of weight, no warmth. It looks less like a place meant for sleep and more like a display, untouched and preserved.
My fingers hover over the luxurious comforter before I pull it back. Of course he doesn’t rest here. Of course he doesn’t allow himself something as indulgent as comfort.
The sheets smell faintly of clean linen and him, warm spice mixed with the sterile air of the lab. It clings to everything he owns. No personal clutter anywhere. No half-read ebooks. No abandoned clothes on the floor. And somehow, that unsettles me more than any mess ever could.
Because it tells me something important about Kael.
He doesn’t let himself enjoy anything. Not even his own bed.
For a breath, I flirt with the decision to cut the feed and retreat. Do the right thing, make the smart, tactical choice, and stop trying to find out more. I’m here to present him with cold facts, not to get to know him.
Instead, curiosity, stupid, treasonous curiosity, wins.
A faint warm golden glow of an orb lamp lights the single drawer nightstand next to his bed.
One drawer. No lock. Of course not. Kael doesn’t strike me as someone who fears being discovered so much as someone who assumes no one will be brave enough to look closely at his belongings.
I push, and the drawer slides open with a soft hiss.
At first, it’s nothing. A slim comm-chip, a folded pair of motorcycle gloves, a silver ring I don’t recognize. Then my fingers brush cool glass.
I lift it out slowly.
It’s a frame, old by tech standards, not a live holo but a static digital image, edges faintly worn like it’s been handled too often. The photo flickers once, then steadies.
Little Kael.
Younger. Softer. No harsh angles yet. No darkness in his eyes.
He’s maybe ten, lanky, all knees and elbows, standing barefoot on what looks like a stone path.
A beautiful little girl clings to his side, younger, her smile innocent, dark hair pulled into uneven pigtails.
His sister? I know it instantly. She looks just like him.
Behind them, a woman kneels, hands resting on their shoulders.
Her face is gentle but tired. She’s wearing a lab coat and looking way too young and beautiful to have children that age.
There’s a man beside her, Kael’s father I assume, formal in a structured suit, posture rigid, like he never quite learned how to relax.
He’s holding some type of reward, a digital achievement plaque.
Kyoto. The details click into place without effort: the garden stones, the wooden slats of the house behind them, a red Torii gate on the hill in the distance, and a warm light shining on the family, softer than anything in Oneiro City.
My chest compresses.
This isn’t the Kael I know. This isn’t the man in the suit or the deviant shadow in the RedRoom or even the architect of systems. This is a boy who belonged somewhere. A family that existed before StarFell rewrote the world.
I stare at his mother, and something chilling slips down my spine.
A patch says her name on one side of her lab coat; the other side says CyberCorp stitched clinically in crimson thread.
There’s intelligence in her eyes, just like Kael.
The kind that solves problems quietly, again like Kael.
The kind a corporation would notice and not let go of once they’ve found it.
I think of a life before StarFell and of the way Kael treats that night like a wound he refuses to probe too deeply. His hate for U21 magic consumes him whenever we mention nanoparticles or shooting stars.
And suddenly this photo feels less like a keepsake and more like a clue.
I slide the frame back into the drawer with care, closing it until it clicks softly into place. My hands are shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of what I might have just glimpsed.
Something happened to Kael’s family. He never elaborates. I just know we share the curse of dead parents. And whatever happened to them, he wants it to stay buried in the past.
I hear a muted rush of water from underneath the door to the bathroom. He’s in there with the door half-closed. It’s open enough to fill the room with tiny glowing particles of steam. The soft halo of light mirrors off the tile in warm gold, reflecting his movement in shadow.
Showering at midnight? Must have been one hell of a night at STATIK.
His soapy scent begins to fill the space, clean but still spicy, like citrus dusted with cinnamon. I peer in and can see the full-length mirror, steam beads on the glass, softening the edges of his reflection until he looks like a sculpture in motion.