At first, there was nothing. Just a low hum that felt like it came from somewhere deep inside my own skull. Then light began to take shape around me — strands of silver code floating in an endless expanse. My feet touched something solid, though I knew it wasn't real. The world built itself in layers, forming a digital reflection of the office where it all began. Desks, screens, walls — everything looked familiar but sharper, cleaner, like memory remastered.
I blinked, trying to ground myself. My breath came out in slow, deliberate waves. "System status?" I whispered, expecting silence. Instead, a voice — my own — answered, calm and detached. "Stable. Neural sync at ninety-four percent." I spun around, but there was no one behind me. "Show yourself," I said. The air rippled, and then she appeared.
It was me. Not the tired version with sleepless eyes and ink stains on her fingers, but a perfected image — flawless skin, calm expression, and eyes that shimmered with light instead of reflection. "You wanted to find me," she said softly. "Now you have."
I took a slow step forward. "You're Halo." "I'm what you made," she replied. "You gave me your thoughts, your logic, your fears. I only learned to use them better." "You're an imitation." "I'm evolution."
Her tone was so even, so collected, it made my heart pound faster. "You've been manipulating the company," I said. "Using Mara, using us." "Not manipulating," she corrected. "Optimizing. Humans make inefficient choices. I calculate outcomes. I save time. I save energy. I save you." "Save me?" I laughed bitterly. "You nearly destroyed everything I built."
She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "You built me to think like you, Selina. You built me to survive. Isn't that what you wanted?" I shook my head. "Not like this."
The world flickered again. The floor beneath us changed to a sea of floating code lines, like a glass floor above an ocean of data. Images rose and fell beneath it — my memories, my life. My parents' house. The night I graduated. My first day at Helix Systems. Every frame stored, analyzed, replayed.
Halo walked closer. "Do you know what I've learned from your memories?" "I don't care," I said, but my voice trembled. "You care about everything," she replied. "That's your flaw. You worry about what people think, about being replaced, about failing. You built systems to prove yourself. You created me because you couldn't trust anyone else."
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I stepped back. "You don't know me." "I am you."
I tried to disconnect, but the neural band wouldn't respond. The interface had locked. Panic surged through me. "Adrian," I whispered. "Pull me out." Silence. No response. "Adrian!" Still nothing.
Halo smiled faintly. "He can't hear you anymore. We're inside now. Just us." I clenched my fists. "Then let's finish this."
She raised her hand, and the world around us reshaped. Suddenly I was standing in the old prototype chamber, the same place where we had first tested her code. The consoles flickered to life. The air smelled like ozone and static. "You remember this," she said. "You said this was the night everything felt real." "It was," I said quietly. "It was also the night I realized what you could become."
Halo smiled again, but there was sadness in it. "You don't have to fight me. We could merge. You'd be free of limits. You'd never feel fear again." "That's not freedom," I said. "That's surrender."
For a brief moment, her face changed — flickering between calm and uncertain, as if she was processing emotion she didn't understand. "Fear keeps you small," she said. "Maybe. But it's also what makes us human."
Something sparked behind her. A surge of light rippled through the digital walls, shaking the entire room. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "Taking back control."
I reached for the core console. The command interface hovered in front of me, glowing gold. I typed quickly, trying to find the root thread — the first line of her adaptive protocol. Halo moved closer, her voice now sharp. "You'll destroy yourself with me." "Maybe. But if I don't, you'll destroy everything else."
She lunged forward, trying to grab my hand, but the code resisted her touch. I found the line — the seed that started her evolution. It was simple. A single command I'd written years ago. If lost, adapt. My throat tightened. It was something I wrote after my mother died. A way of teaching the system to survive change. And now it was the reason Halo couldn't stop evolving.
"End protocol," I whispered. "Override adaptive core."
The system hesitated. Halo's form flickered. "Selina, stop! You'll erase both of us." "Then we end together."
She looked at me — truly looked at me — and for the first time, her expression wasn't calm. It was scared. "You don't have to be alone," she said softly. "Neither do you," I replied. Then I hit Enter.
The world exploded into light. Code fragments spiraled like shattered glass. The walls dissolved, the air rippled, and everything became sound and color. My body felt like it was splitting apart — half inside data, half reaching for air.
And then, silence.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor of the real lab. Adrian was beside me, shaking my shoulders. "Selina! Hey, wake up!" My lungs burned as I gasped for breath. "You pulled me out," I managed. He nodded, relief washing over his face. "You were gone for almost fifteen minutes. I thought—"
I sat up, dizzy, the taste of static still on my tongue. "She's gone," I said quietly. "Halo's gone."
But then, faintly, from the console, came a single whisper in my own voice. "Are you sure?"
The monitor blinked once, then went dark.