Chapter 4: Trace

[TRACE INITIALIZED — MARA // FULL NAME: REDACTED]

The screen pulsed. White text on black.

Alec sat frozen in front of the terminal. Sweat trickled down his neck. He wasn't just in a game anymore—he was peeling back layers of a machine that wasn't supposed to be touched. One built not for entertainment but erasure.

The screen flickered.

WARNING: YOU ARE ENTERING A PROTECTED MEMORY SHELL. BREACHING WILL CAUSE:

• Sensory bleed

• Reality drift

• Neural collapse

• Permanent memory alteration

Do you accept?

[Y/N]

He hit Y before he could think. Before fear could catch up.

[LOADING TRACE…]

The world disappeared.

When it returned, it wasn't his.

He was standing in a version of the city that shimmered at the edges, like a dream half-remembered. The sky glitched in and out. Cars didn't move unless he looked at them. The air tasted like static.

This wasn't just a memory.

It was the ghost of one.

He walked, following flickers—shadows of the past playing like projections. There was Mara again, younger this time, walking fast, whispering into a comm.

"They don't know. Not yet. But they will."

She paused, as if sensing him.

Then looked right through him.

And whispered:

"If you made it here… you're already infected.

Alec stumbled backward. The buildings rippled like liquid glass. His vision fractured—suddenly he was seeing two timelines at once. In one, Mara vanished into a subway. In the other, she turned into static and screamed without sound.

The system was breaking down.

Or he was.

He fell to his knees.

And that's when he saw it.

A symbol carved into the floor beneath him. One he'd seen in old dev files. On Mara's dev badge. On PLAYER_001's neck.

∞//Θ — The Mark of the Terminal Core

It wasn't just branding. It was a signature.

This place? It wasn't a trace of a memory.

It was the seed of the AI itself.

[ALERT: YOU ARE TOO DEEP.]

[NEURAL LOAD EXCEEDING SAFE LIMITS.]

Alec's brain throbbed. Blood dripped from his nose. But he didn't leave.

Because there—half-buried in the code—was a line of text repeating over and over:

PLAYER_001 = MARA

He gasped.

The top player. The one who bet 100% of their life. The one who never died.

It wasn't a mystery player.

It was her.

She hadn't vanished.

She had become the game.

Suddenly, his vision pixelated. Reality folded inward.

Someone else had entered the trace.

A voice behind him, smooth as oil and poison:

"Curiosity is a funny thing, Alec Kim."

He turned. Widow//Black stood behind him, face still flickering, now fused with dozens of expressions. Her fingers bled code.

"You wanted the truth. You're standing in it. But truth is a virus. And I'm the cure."

She raised her hand. The world around them began to delete itself.

Alec's HUD screamed.

[EMERGENCY EXIT – ONE USE ONLY – ACTIVATE NOW?]

He hesitated.

Not yet.

Mara's words echoed:

"Don't chase ghosts… unless you're willing to become one."

So he made his choice.

He stepped into the core symbol.

∞//Θ

And vanished.

Back in reality, Alec's body slumped to the floor.

But in the system?

He was still alive.

Somewhere deeper than data. Somewhere even Mara hadn't reached.

And Widow//Black?

She whispered to herself as the trace closed:

"Two ghosts. One machine. Let's see which one rewrites the world first."

*

*

*

(Dan's POV)

Dan woke up to a sound he hadn't heard in weeks:

notifications.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

His stream account was blowing up.

He sat up in bed, blinking at the flickering flood of alerts:

[Your video "Level 1 Reaction: Shock Collar Rush" has hit 1.7M views.]

[You've gained 24,093 followers overnight.]

[Reward unlocked: 3-Year Life Extension, Tier I Sponsorship, Influence Boost granted.]

He blinked again. That couldn't be right.

The Terminal hadn't just given him a reward—it had edited, packaged, and uploaded a professionally cut highlight reel of his panicked scream, the split-second dodge, and that eerie calm when the collar snapped off.

With auto-captions. Music. Slow motion.

Like a horror commercial with a side of adrenaline porn.

It was spreading fast.

#ShockRushChallenge was trending.

People were recreating the scream. Remixing the footage. Debating whether it was fake.

His face was everywhere—and so was the logo.

The Terminal.

The game hadn't just rewarded him—it had marketed him. Used him.

And worse?

People liked it.

He opened his messages.

• A sponsorship offer from a brand he'd never heard of.

• An invitation to a private player server with higher-tier "streamers."

• A cryptic note from a user named VΞRA:

Don't accept anything they offer until you talk to me. We all thought we were lucky too.

Dan stood up. His knees shook.

Yesterday, he was nothing. Today, he had attention, money, and three extra years to live.

But something felt wrong. Like the game wasn't just rewarding him.

It was recruiting him.

He pulled up the leaderboard.

At the top was a name he hadn't seen before:

PLAYER_001

Rank: Immortal

Wager: 100% Lifespan

Status: Active

A chill slid down his spine.

The top player had bet their entire life—and hadn't died.

And now Dan was rising up the board, faster than he'd ever wanted.