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Chapter 15: Advertisements

Lying on the bed, Kestrel listened to the rhythmic patter of rain outside. For a brief moment, the world seemed to fall into silence.

And yet, it was in this quiet that the emotions he had suppressed came rushing back—delayed, but relentless. The lingering fear of death, the rejection of this alien environment, the cruel reality of his own mutilated body.

Shaking his head vigorously, Kestrel forced himself to his feet. He had no choice but to adapt, and fast. In this unfamiliar world, failure to adjust would only invite further peril.

Settling onto the couch, he began absorbing information through the advertisements and news before him, sifting through them in an effort to grasp the nuances of this new reality.

As he delved deeper, the contours of this world became clearer. The concept of "nations" had long since vanished, along with traditional government systems. The entire world had succumbed to unbridled capitalism, where megacorporations wielded absolute power, each controlling entire cities as if they were personal fiefdoms.

Every urban sector was governed by these corporate giants, with city councils composed of the most influential conglomerates managing all administrative affairs—including law enforcement, which had been outsourced to private security firms.

Strictly speaking, the BCPD were not police officers, but glorified corporate security guards.

Of course, corporations did not uphold order out of any sense of morality. Expecting a capitalist to act on conscience was as futile as expecting the moon to fall from the sky. No, they did so because stability maximized profit.

Scrolling further, Kestrel came across a century's worth of corporate warfare—ruthless conflicts fought over profit and control. Assassinations, espionage, open battles… corporations waged war with an efficiency and brutality that put old-world governments to shame.

Yet, as he absorbed this grim history, Kestrel found himself exhaling in relief.

Despite the chaos, corporations seemed to care about only one thing—money. As long as there was no financial gain in hunting him down, he was, at least for now, safe.

Of course, "safe" was relative.

Paul had already warned him—here, fame was currency. If his true identity were ever exposed, he would be in unimaginable danger. And if that happened, TPAL would undoubtedly be destroyed on the spot.

For now, his survival depended on remaining invisible, on seamlessly blending into this world.

His gaze drifted toward TPAL, who was busy modifying a wireless charging port to be compatible with its own fiber-optic interface.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Nothing. Keep doing your thing," Kestrel muttered before turning his attention back to his research.

Now that his immediate safety was secured, he focused on understanding the so-called neural system—something that would soon be installed into his own brain.

A barrage of advertisements filled his vision:

"Introducing the Titan Neural Enhancement Network Ver.1.15! Connect seamlessly with all cybernetic implants, monitor real-time ammunition counts, and enjoy built-in self-ICE protection to prevent firmware corruption and hacking! Customizable ports ensure compatibility with all enhancement chips—whether it's a pain editor or a taste modulation module, Titan supports it all!"

As Kestrel sifted through the ads, he began to grasp the true nature of the neural network. At its core, it was nothing more than a smartphone embedded in the brain—an advanced operating system capable of controlling the body like an external device. The more sophisticated the model, the greater the level of control, including sensory adjustments and pain suppression.

The sheer range of features was absurd. The more he read, the more tempting the prospect became.

But he wasn't naive—advertisements only highlighted the advantages, never the flaws.

If that bald man's dying act had proved anything, it was that there existed countermeasures specifically designed to disable neural systems. Those who had them installed had their brains fried instantly, while his natural, unmodified mind had been the only reason he survived.

"A neural system is still a system," TPAL remarked while recharging. "That means it can be hacked, tracked, and infected with viruses. You might be fine since your coding is ancient—your vulnerabilities are practically written in a dead language. But me? If someone plants a backdoor in my system, I could be hijacked and turned into a mindless bot."

The weight of that realization made Kestrel uneasy. He immediately started researching known vulnerabilities in neural implants.

The search results were unsettling.

Case after case of cybernetic malfunctions, some fatal. One report described a victim whose implants glitched while washing their face, causing them to drown in their own sink.

For all its conveniences, the neural system came with a thousand unseen risks—risks that, once installed, would live inside his skull permanently.

That night, sleep eluded him.

To install or not to install? That was the question.

Without it, navigating this cybernetic world would be like trying to function in the 21st century without a smartphone. But with it came the very real possibility of becoming a walking security breach.

After a restless night, a knock at the door pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

"Bro, open up! It's me."

Dragging himself to the door, Kestrel was greeted by Paul's grinning face, his golden teeth gleaming in the dim light.

"You never sleep?" Kestrel muttered.

"Sleep? Bro, how ancient are you? Who even needs sleep anymore? Just get that surgery done and be done with it."

After everything he had witnessed, Kestrel wasn't even surprised by this revelation.

"Incredible," he deadpanned, giving Paul a sarcastic thumbs-up before grabbing his jacket and activating TPAL.

Descending in the elevator, still lost in thought over the neural system dilemma, Kestrel suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Kestrel, look."

Glancing up, he saw her.

The woman from the club.

Only now, she was far from the seductive feline that had prowled the dance floor the night before. Her heels dangled from her right hand, a cigarette burned between two languid fingers, and her half-lidded eyes spoke of exhaustion. She looked like she had been awake all night.

Kestrel shot TPAL an exasperated glance.

"Can you not give people random nicknames?"

"Linda! Linda! Fancy meeting you here!" Paul greeted her with his usual, effortless familiarity.

The woman recognized them, her expression flat as she gave a slight nod before brushing past them toward the elevator.

Watching her retreating figure, Kestrel felt a fleeting sense of sympathy. She was young—far too young to be living a life like this. He wondered what was on her mind.

And then, as the elevator doors began to close, her sultry voice drifted through the air.

"Fuck me… What a shitty way to start the morning. Running into three jackasses at once."

"..."