The files revealed the forgotten truth. Project Chimera was a genetics lab focused on creating "Geners"—genetically engineered creatures designed as living weapons. When the Collapse occurred, the base was abandoned, its containment protocols failed, and the monsters were set loose in their own cage. The creatures that now roamed the ruins were their devolved, mutated descendants: brutally intelligent, ape-like Brutes; chameleonic, reptilian Stalkers; and shrieking, avian monstrosities that nested at the tops of the ruined skyscrapers. And those were the most common species. There were many more, some just blurred images or videos.

Ray analyzed the data, his mind cross-referencing it with the thousands of rumors and street legends he had absorbed. "If you want to die, go to Hell Garden, an old saying goes. No one ever returns from that place. Not even the most heavily modded solos. A bunch of mutated animals, no matter how dangerous, couldn't achieve a 100% casualty rate. Something else is in there. Something intelligent that is acting as a warden."

"Correct," #137 stated. "The zone is a sanctuary, guarded by an Asura."

The word hung in the air, cold and heavy. Ray remembered the black-and-red warframe he had seen, a god of death.

"Any data on it?" Ray asked.

"Unfortunately, no," #137 admitted. "Its operational history, its model, its pilot—all are a complete black box. All I know is that it is the reason no one who enters Hell Garden ever leaves."

Ray was silent for a long moment. "Why would I even consider it?"

"Because," #137 said, and the simulation shifted again. The jungle vanished, replaced by a single, heavily encrypted file that bloomed in the air between them. "Project Chimera wasn't just about creating monsters. Its primary purpose was to perfect the technology of genetic manipulation. Deep within that facility, there are gene-forging chambers, machines capable of rewriting a living being's DNA at a fundamental level. If they are still intact, they could not only repair your mother's damaged neural pathways, but permanently cure her of the disease. They could do more. Grant her a longer lifespan, immunity to all illness."

The file, closed. The final, devastating piece of information had been delivered. "Logic and probability are for machines, Ray," #137 said, his voice holding a new, almost challenging tone. "Hope is for beings who have something to lose. Your mother is dying. The data is sound. The choice is yours."

"What do you gain from this transaction?" Ray asked, his mind reeling.

"I am a collector of unique data," #137 confessed, his voice a cold, enigmatic whisper. "You, Ray, are the most unique data point I have ever encountered. I wish to see what you become. Consider this transaction an investment in a fascinating experiment."

Then the connection cut.

The simulation dissolved. Ray was back on his couch, the quiet of his apartment a stark contrast to the storm of information now raging in his mind.

He understood the probabilities. A mission into a walled-off jungle filled with genetically engineered monsters, guarded by an unkillable super-weapon, to find a mythical piece of pre-Collapse technology—it was insane. Death, however, was not an issue; to kill him, something capable of obliterating his entire body would be needed, something likely not present in that location. But if he succeeded, Lina could finally be free of the shackles of her illness.

He looked across the room, at the closed plasteel panel that separated his space from the room where Selena and Max slept. His thought drifted to Lina, of her fading smile, of her quiet, constant pain. Aethercore was a lie, a slow, expensive death. This… this was a chance. A single, desperate, almost impossible chance at a miracle.

A ping woke him from his meditation. Ray checked his interface.

Tuesday, 22 June 2083.

30 days since Ray had been consumed by the nanites. But this date holds another meaning. Today was her birthday.

Ray took a deep breath as he refocused, the quiet stillness of his mind a fragile shield against the storm of memories that awaited him. A long day was ahead.

Selena's nose twitched as she picked up a delightful smell. She slowly opened her eyes and rose from the futon. Pushing the plasteel panel aside, she saw Ray standing by the couch. On the coffee table before him were two bento boxes, steam gently rising from their vents. Inside was a simple, perfect breakfast: fluffy, golden scrambled eggs, strips of crispy, vat-grown bacon, and a side of fresh, vibrant fruit—a small, almost impossible luxury.

"Morning," Ray said.

"Morning," Selena responded as she walked towards him and sat on the couch.

They ate in a fragile, tense quiet that had settled over the apartment since Ray's confession. After they had finished and Ray had fed Max, he made an announcement, his voice a calm, steady presence in the room.

"We're going to West Line today," he said.

Selena looked up from her datapad, her expression a mixture of surprise and suspicion. "Why?"

"To leave a bouquet of flowers," Ray responded, his silver eyes unreadable. Selena stared at him, her brow furrowed.

"Why? Can't you just send a drone or a delivery truck?"

"It's for someone I knew," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Before she could ask any more questions, he added, "That person died a few years ago." Selena's mouth snapped shut.

"I'm going to get dressed," she said, and walked to her part of the room, closing the plasteel panel behind her.

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Ray walked over to Max. The boy was resting in his futon, the MemStream headset on his head, a serene expression on his face. Ray connected to its system and found himself standing in a simulation of their old apartment, but it was cleaner, brighter. No cracks, no stained ceiling. Max was standing in the middle of the room, a small clay bird in his hands, his fingers tracing the figurine as he added finer details. He seemed so peaceful. Ray's experiment seemed to be a success so far. He had calibrated the headset to calm certain areas of Max's brain activity while stimulating others, using old, forgotten research papers on MemStream therapy as his guide.

A ping to his system alerted him that Selena was ready. He opened his eyes in the real world and quickly dressed Max. He took the MemStream headset with him. The journey would be long.

Ray emerged from Max's room. Selena was waiting. She wore a simple, dark gray hoodie, the fabric soft and well-worn, and a pair of dark, practical cargo pants. It was a quiet, understated look, but on her, it looked effortlessly cool.

"It looks good on you," Ray commented.

"Thanks," she said with a prideful smile. "You too look nice."

Drawing from the memories of Porcelain Jack, who had spent a considerable amount of time researching fashion in his own twisted pursuit of perfection, Ray had manifested a look of quiet, understated power. A simple, black, high-collared shirt, impeccably tailored dark trousers, and sleek, silent boots. It was a look designed to be forgotten, yet project an aura of absolute control.

Ray took Max in his arms and headed to the car waiting behind the building. As he started the engine and drove onto the main street, Selena glanced at him as she smelled a sweet, floral scent. "Where is this smell coming from?" she asked, looking in the back of the car.

"It comes from the flowers I bought. Some organic white lilies," Ray commented, gesturing to the back seat. Selena turned to him. "Rich alien," she mumbled. "How do you have so much money?" Ray smirked at her but didn't respond. She scoffed but didn't comment further.

The journey began in a heavy, thoughtful silence. As they left the dense, oppressive verticality of Virelia, the landscape opened up into the stark, desolate beauty of the surrounding wasteland. The highway was a long, gray ribbon stretching across an endless sea of red sand. Skeletal remains of pre-Collapse overpasses reached for the sky like forgotten monuments, and a shimmering heat-haze rose from the cracked asphalt. Inside the car, the silence was punctuated only by the soft hum of the electric engine and the hiss of the tires on the road.

Selena broke the quiet first, a small, wry smile on her face. "So, Arty," she began. "He's completely insane... but he's not stupid. He showed me how to bypass a standard mag-lock using a microwave emitter and a fork. It's a chaotic, brute-force method, but the underlying principles are brilliant."

Ray glanced at her, a flicker of something warm in his silver eyes.

"He has a unique perspective," Ray agreed.

"He's a mess, and his apartment is a biohazard," Selena continued, her gaze turning to the vast, empty landscape outside. "But he's completely, unapologetically himself. I think... I think I was a little jealous of that."

Before Ray could respond, a new sound cut through the quiet hum of their car: the deep, guttural roar of powerful combustion engines. A group of four Outriders on sleek, customized bikes roared past them. They were brutal machines, stripped down to their bare essentials—skeletal frames of matte-black steel and polished chrome, their oversized engines exposed and glowing with a cherry-red heat. Thick, rugged tires kicked up dust, and each bike was a unique expression of its rider's violent personality: one had the jawbone of some desert creature bolted to its handlebars, another had a string of scavenged, glinting dog tags rattling from its side. They weaved through the sparse traffic with a reckless, joyful abandon.

Selena's eyes lit up, a fire igniting in their depths that Ray had never seen before. "The 'Wasteland Derby'," she breathed, her voice full of a sudden, passionate energy. "It's an unsanctioned desert race with no rules. Just speed and freedom."

Ray listened as she described the race with a knowledgeable energy.

He made a decision. "I have a bike," he said, his voice calm and understated. "A Kamigami Strike-Z. When we get back, if you want, I can take you for a ride."

Selena turned to him, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a dawning, brilliant hope.

"Really?" She asked, almost jumping out of her seat.

Ray offered a nod.

After nearly three hours of driving, Ray pulled the car off the road, the tires kicking up plumes of fine, red dust as he drove through the sand. The 4x4 system effortlessly handled the challenging terrain. . West Line was still a distant, grey silhouette on the horizon, too far for the naked eye to make something out of it.

He stopped at the foot of a lonely, solitary sentinel overlooking the vast, gray expanse of the Pacific Ocean. As Ray opened the door and the scorching heat rushed into the air-conditioned sanctuary of the car.

Ray checked his sensors. The temperature outside, directly in the brutal glare of the sun, was a searing 46 degrees Celsius. He glanced ahead at the dark, ominous sky brooding over the sea, a silent promise of impending storms. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the heavy, humid promise of rain.

A single grave stood alone on the crest of the hill, a stark monument to a love lost. It wasn't a traditional headstone, but a low, wide slab of ferrocrete, rough and unpolished, as if it had been shaped by the raw, untamed grief of powerful hands rather than a mason's delicate tools. Fine, hairline cracks, like the fissures in a shattered heart, webbed its surface, and patches of resilient, sea-green moss clung stubbornly to the edges.

The concrete was stained in long, pale streaks from years of relentless salt and acidic rain, each mark a tear shed by the unfeeling sky. On its face, a simple inscription, the letters worn smooth and indistinct by years of biting wind and corrosive sea spray, spoke of an enduring sorrow:

"My Pequeña Hada. I would have sold my soul to the devil to see you again."

Ray stepped out of the car, the bouquet of white lilies clutched in his hand, their petals so impossibly perfect they seemed to mock the harsh reality of their world. Their sweet, funereal scent, an almost unbearable luxury in their synthetic existence, filled the air, a fleeting ghost of a softer time.

He stared at the inscription, the words a bitter echo of irony and profound tragedy.

Ripjaw would have sold his soul to the devil to see her again, but who, Ray wondered, would want a soul like his?

He knelt before the grave and closed his eyes.

He was not Ray anymore. He was Salvador Lioren, a man in his late twenties, before the world had carved its scars into his flesh and spirit. He was lean but soft, with kind, warm brown eyes that still held the light of hope, and a gentle smile that hadn't yet been hardened by the city's unrelenting cruelty. His hands were slightly calloused, the nails permanently stained with a faint trace of machine oil—the hands of a mechanic. He wore a simple, practical synth-cotton jumpsuit, its fabric worn thin at the elbows and knees but meticulously clean.

He was the antithesis of the monster he would become.

He glanced ahead at the doors as the maglev slowed down. It's doors opened with a swift hiss as the maglev train came to a halt.

He stepped off, into "The Line," the old, crowded, pulsating heart of West Line.

The tantalizing smell of sizzling street food mingling with the earthy tang of wet pavement after a sudden rain, the cacophony of a dozen languages weaving through the deafening roar of the monorail overhead, the electric pulse of neon signs flickering against buildings scarred and defiant from old wars. Thugs eyed him from the shadowed alleys, their gazes sharp and predatory, but he walked with a quiet confidence, a small, hopeful smile still gracing his lips, a plastic bag clutched in his hand, containing the simple treasures of a life yet untainted. He was heading home, to a future he still believed in.

Salvador's apartment was a cramped, familiar haven, the synth-wood floor worn smooth by countless footsteps. Yet, in its small embrace, warmth bloomed, a testament to the love that resided there. The air, thick with the comforting aroma of simmering stew and the crisp, clean scent of laundry soap, hummed with a quiet domesticity. A single, tenacious plant, its broad green leaves a vibrant defiance, clung to the windowsill, a stubborn splash of life against the city's ceaseless gray.

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