POV: Cole Harker
Cole Harker stands tall against the shimmering skyline of New Lyra, the city stretching beneath him like a mechanical dream. Neon veins pulse through the airborne transit grids, while translucent skyscrapers reach upward like frozen lightning. The hover platform beneath him vibrates subtly as it floats just high enough to make the world below seem distant, irrelevant.
Everything about this moment is rehearsed—the gleaming tower behind him, the gentle drone of the floating cameras, even the timing of his smile. Cole wears confidence like armor. In a world fueled by synthetic perfection, he is the poster boy for progress.
"NeuroLease is the bridge between worlds," he declares, voice rich, magnetic. "It's the next step in human evolution. We're not just leasing bodies—we're leasing empathy, understanding, opportunity."
He gestures grandly to the metropolis, his palm catching the silver-blue glow of a drone spotlight. Below them, millions of lives tick forward, unaware of the performance taking place above.
Across from him, Vex Talin arches a brow. She's gorgeous, sharp, the only interviewer the board allows near him anymore—trusted, vetted, but just skeptical enough to keep things entertaining.
"But isn't there a darker side to all of this?" she asks, lips curling with challenge. "Isn't NeuroLease commodifying the human soul? What's the cost of empathy when the body you're living in isn't yours?"
Cole chuckles lightly, brushing invisible lint from his lapel. "Perspective, Vex. That's the cost—and the reward. We're empowering the disempowered, giving them agency. Some of our borrowers have risen from slums to salaries in a single lease cycle. They're not victims—they're pioneers."
She leans in, eyes narrowing. "And the rumors? Identity bleed? Permanent psych fragmentation? Some people don't come back the same, Cole. Some don't come back at all."
"Urban legends," he says smoothly. "All transfers are tightly regulated. The neural cradle is the most advanced consciousness-mapping device on the planet. You're more likely to glitch your personality binge-streaming than leasing."
Vex gives a tight smile, ending the segment with practiced ease. "Well, there you have it. A revolutionary perspective, as always."
As the interview ends, the hover platform pivots gracefully back toward the executive tower. Cole turns to look at the city. For a brief moment, the gleam of the skyline doesn't excite him—it exhausts him. The illusion feels... thin.
Penthouse Ascent
The elevator to his penthouse rises in absolute silence. Cole stares at his reflection in the mirror-glass walls: crisp suit, perfect posture, charisma hard-coded into every expression. But beneath it all, a flicker—something like fatigue, or fear.
The doors open to reveal a sleek, automated sanctuary. Stark whites and muted chromes, angular furniture arranged with surgical precision. His AI assistant, Lucid, activates with a muted chime.
"Welcome home, Mr. Harker. Today's engagement scored a 96% resonance with your target demographics. Trending clip: 'Empathy is evolution.' Your approval among youth sectors has increased 3.4%."
"Of course it has," Cole mutters.
Lucid continues, unbothered. > "You have one high-priority message from Board Member Sael Dren. Subject: Earnings Forecast—Projected Neural Subscription Tiers Expansion. Flagged urgent."
Cole waves it away. "Later."
He moves toward the wall-screen, flicking through streams of political endorsements, NeuroLease subscriber maps, revenue arcs.
Then a blinking message appears—one not routed through the secure NeuroLease system. Unmarked. Anonymous. One line:
Who were you before the mirrors?
Cole freezes.
The screen flickers. Just for a heartbeat. A static pulse ripples through the penthouse—subtle, but unmistakable. His security protocols don't flag it. That shouldn't be possible.
He deletes the message, but it stays in the back of his mind like a splinter. He turns from the screen. The city looks different now, less alive, more... synthetic. A simulation. And him? A product.
The Cradle
Later, Cole enters the sanctum—a smaller room, sealed, windowless. At its center: the neural cradle. A sculpted chair surrounded by sensors and gel ports, humming like a dormant heart. This is where he goes when the pressure gets too loud. When he needs to forget.
Most executives use resets as indulgences—quick hops into the lives of artists, athletes, lovers. But Cole has always sought something stranger. Lives buried under hardship. Gritty, raw, unfiltered. He tells himself it's market research, but the truth is more complicated.
Tonight, he doesn't load the usual curated profile.
Instead, he selects something labeled Tier 9 - Unmapped Pool. It's an illegal category. Raw consciousnesses pulled from unverified sources. Not company-sanctioned. Not approved.
He hesitates.
Lucid pings. > "Mr. Harker, this profile is not authorized. Proceeding may result in unknown neurological effects."
"I'm aware," Cole says softly.
He slides into the cradle. The gel seals around his scalp, and the cradle's hum deepens into a resonant throb. A strobe of light pulses behind his eyes as his mind detaches from his identity.
He doesn't know why he chose this. Only that he has to feel something that isn't part of the Cole Harker brand.
Then—blackness.
Elsewhere
He awakens to cold.
His body aches. His hands are calloused. There's blood on his fingernails, dirt under his skin. He's lying in an alley, wrapped in synthetic tarp. Rain hisses on the pavement. A siren wails in the distance.
He looks up—and realizes he's still in New Lyra. But not his New Lyra. This is the ground level. The real city. The part he never sees.
A name rings in his ears. Not his own.
Nico Varn.
The life begins to pour in: memories of menial jobs, failed applications, whispered rebellions in underground bars. A sense of urgency. Of danger. Nico is part of something.
A movement. A resistance.
Cole—Nico—feels it like a second heartbeat. People who believe NeuroLease isn't the future. That it's a trap. A way to erase the poor and sell them back as entertainment.
He stumbles to his feet, clutching a crumpled flyer in Nico's pocket.
"The Body is the Last Frontier. Stop Selling It."
—Echo Root Collective
A sharp jolt hits his temple. A neural echo.
Then a voice—his own—but warped, like a recording underwater:
"You're not supposed to be here."
He turns—but no one is there.
His reflection shimmers in a cracked pane of glass. It's Nico's face, but the eyes—they're Cole's.