Chapter 2: Inhuman-2

A dark room was filled with a soft blue glow, emanating from the intricate hologram of a planet hovering above the workbench. The light pulsed gently, illuminating the scattered remains of wrecked communicators, torn wires, and broken metallic parts. The air carried the scent of burnt circuits and old machinery, a stale, lifeless smell that had long settled into the walls of this forgotten space.

He sat motionless on a worn-out sofa with a yellow base, his posture tense yet unmoving. The fabric beneath him had faded from years of use, its edges fraying like a relic of the past. His fingers twitched against the cool metal surface of the device implanted in his hand—a communicator, its blue screen glowing faintly as it finished running its sequence. A message flickered into view: "Memory visualization is completed. Now quitting from the safe mode."

His dark hair fell over his forehead in messy strands, damp from the sweat of unseen tension. Charcoal-black eyes, deep and unreadable, stared at the fading hologram as if searching for answers it would never give. His face showcased his masculine features, having a touch of ruggedness to it. His tall, muscular frame was built from necessity, not vanity, sculpted by survival and endless struggle.

The last flickers of the hologram died out, and the room plunged into silence, save for the faint hum of cooling machinery. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, letting the weight of the moment sink into his bones.

Then, warmth.

A delicate hand rested on his shoulder, fingers curling slightly, their touch featherlight yet grounding. His muscles tensed, his body instinctively preparing for action, but the familiar scent of lavender and something sweet; something only she carried, stilled him.

"You don't have to do this," a soft voice whispered against the quiet, breaking through the thick veil of solitude.

He turned his head, just enough to see her. Her presence was soft yet unyielding, like the gentle pull of a current beneath the surface of a calm ocean. Her eyes, filled with quiet sorrow and unwavering determination, held his own.

"You don't have to torture yourself," she murmured. "It is not your mistake. Come with me."

Her fingers slipped down to his wrist, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold metal of the communicator. She pulled gently, not with force but with a plea, her grip firm yet hesitant.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. His mind screamed that she was right, that he should let go, that the ghosts of the past were nothing but echoes. But his heart, his heart still clung to them, bound in invisible chains.

Silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only by the rhythmic pulse of the communicator still attached to his hand.

His breath came slow and measured as he sat up, rubbing his temples. His fingers ghosted over his wrist where he had felt her touch moments ago. Phantom warmth lingered there, cruel in its absence.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He should have known. He always should have known.

His eyes flickered to the communicator, its faint blue light pulsing, awaiting his next command. It stored memories, after all. Memories he could relive, over and over, like a cruel trick of fate.

"Not real," he muttered under his breath, but even as the words left him, they tasted like a lie.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in a futile attempt to steady himself. The weight of exhaustion pressed into his shoulders, dragging him down into the depths of his thoughts.

Then, a whisper.

"Don't shut me out."

His breath hitched. He knew that voice.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his gaze.

She stood before him, bathed in the faint blue glow of the communicator. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those deep, endless eyes—bore into him, demanding something he could not name.

His heart pounded in his chest. "You're not—"

"Real?" she finished for him, tilting her head slightly. A small, almost sad smile touched her lips. "Does it matter?"

He let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know anymore."

She moved closer, the faintest echo of footsteps against the floor, though he was certain she made no sound. His throat tightened as she knelt before him, placing her hands on his knees, her warmth seeping through the fabric of his clothes.

"You carry too much," she whispered. "You always have."

He clenched his jaw, looking away. "And you always said that."

She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek. He flinched at first, but the touch was so light, so painfully familiar, that he leaned into it before he could stop himself. "Because it's true," she said softly.

He closed his eyes. For a moment, just a fleeting second, he let himself believe.

The silence stretched again, but this time, it was different. This time, it wasn't suffocating. It wasn't filled with the weight of ghosts.

Her fingers traced the lines of his face, memorizing, as if time itself had stopped just for this moment. And maybe it had. Maybe, within the flickering light of the communicator, time bent just enough to give him this...this stolen, impossible thing.

His hands found her waist, tentative, as if she would disappear the moment he held on too tightly. But she didn't. She stayed.

"I miss you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Her smile was sad, but her touch remained steady. "I never left."

He let out a shaky breath, forehead resting against hers. "Then why does it feel like I've lost you a thousand times?"

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers threading through his hair. "Because you keep waking up."

The realization hit him like a blow. His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if holding onto her would change something...anything.

"Stay," he murmured.

She placed a soft kiss against his forehead, lingering. "I'm always here."

His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe it.

But somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, a cold truth whispered:

Morning always comes.

Was she real? Was she just a fragment of his imagination? He could not just determine.

The communicator determined what he was visualizing and what he was not. It was a marvel of technology, truly. It changed the way the world worked.

The communicator was no ordinary device. It was a seamless fusion of technology and biology, a construct so intricate and advanced that it had become an integral part of human existence. This bluish, circular device was more than just an implant...it was a vital organ, akin to the heart and brain, woven into the very fabric of an individual's being. The removal of the communicator was not just an inconvenience; it was a fatal act, severing a person from the world in the most absolute manner. 

Once embedded beneath the skin, usually near the base of the skull or within the wrist, the communicator synchronized with the neural pathways of the brain. It translated thoughts into signals, enabling instantaneous and seamless exchange of information. no requirement for external devices like phones or computers...communication had become telepathic, yet far more advanced than the mere transmission of words. It conveyed emotions, intentions, and even sensory experiences with stunning clarity.

The communicator glowed faintly, pulsating with a soft blue light, indicating its activity. It adapted to the physiology of the host, merging completely with the nervous system. Over time, it became as indispensable as the circulatory or respiratory systems, its functions woven into the very essence of life. From the moment of its integration, it began learning, refining its processes, and tailoring itself to the individual. No two communicators were identical, as each responded uniquely to the host's cognitive patterns and neural activity.

The physical design of the communicator was deceptively simple. A smooth, metallic-blue disk, no larger than a coin, embedded just beneath the skin. It is composed of an advanced bio-alloy, resistant to wear and impervious to external damage. Beneath this protective casing lay an intricate network of nano-processors, each meticulously designed to interface with the synapses of the human brain. Its texture was cool to the touch, with a slightly reflective surface that shimmered subtly when exposed to light. When observed closely, delicate engravings of microscopic circuits could be seen etched onto its surface, resembling intricate patterns of neural pathways.

The communicator seemed like it always had been a part of the human organ system.

The most remarkable aspect of the communicator was its ability to enhance perception. It could filter and prioritize information, helping individuals focus on what was most relevant. It eliminated distractions, streamlined cognitive functions, and even augmented memory retention. The communicator could recall past experiences with perfect clarity, allowing users to relive moments as vividly as when they first occurred.

He sat on his sofa while his was contemplating and thinking about the various thought processes swirling in his head. And then...