Chapter 4

While Oliver argued with the junkyard owner over a few old batteries in the next room, I sat in this rain-leaking warehouse, staring at the disassembled visual sensor on my desk. This device used to capture the most minute electromagnetic fluctuations; now, it only vaguely reflected my eyes, which were deeper sunken than ever from chronic sleep deprivation.

The cold of reality is physical; the cold of memory is marrow-deep.

After Vivian’s "Deep-Net Architecture" stabilized, a nauseating "myth-shaping" campaign began within the company. Ethan clearly realized that stealing the code wasn't enough; he had to completely occupy Vivian’s emotional core. Thus, the lie—riddled with holes—was born: it was about the factory fire ten years ago that nearly erased Vivian from existence, and the "Shadow Boy" who saved her at the very last second.

Vivian had described that memory to me countless times. In my archive of memories, I knew that when the fire hit, she was trapped alone in the ventilation duct of the core zone, and the rescue signal was intercepted and diverted to the automated sprinkler system by an anonymous address. That anonymous address was me.

But in Ethan's hands, the narrative was rewritten.

One day, I was summoned to Vivian’s office. The air was thick with the scent of dry humidifiers and expensive incense. Vivian sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, clutching a yellowing old photo and a synthetic audio spectrum.

"Kane, Ethan found some evidence regarding that year." Her voice was soft, but the softness made my spine tingle. "He said that the person who saved me then was actually him as a young boy. He said he never mentioned it because he didn't want to place a psychological burden on me."

I stood behind her, holding that so-called "evidence." The audio spectrum was a crudely forged artifact; a single run of an audio-restoration algorithm would reveal that the digital signature hidden within belonged to a private account of Ethan’s. The logical loopholes were as gaping as a hornet's nest. Any person with basic technical literacy could spot them in five seconds.

"That's not right, Vivian," I said calmly, trying to maintain the final balance of logic. "The background static in this audio uses a wave-band protocol released only three years ago. Ten years ago, this signal didn't even exist."

The office atmosphere froze. Vivian spun around, the tenderness she usually reserved for Ethan vanishing, replaced by scrutiny, disgust, and a desperate, frantic defensiveness.

"What are you saying?" She stood, looming over me with aggressive momentum. "You always use these scathing technical analyses to deny my past. What are you trying to imply? That Ethan is a liar? Or that my beautiful memory is just a product of your jealousy?"

"I am merely stating facts." I lowered my gaze, my voice mechanical and rational.

"Facts?" She gave an icy, mocking laugh, walked to the desk, and clicked open a holographic window. It displayed the real-time status of my contract: Executor: Kane; Contract Authority: Basic Life Support Control.

"Kane, remember your place. You are nothing more than a high-level maintenance tool rented to me by the system. If you dare to sabotage my relationship with Ethan again with this dark skepticism, I will immediately apply to the Ouroboros System for a 'Logic Force-Reset.' Do you understand? That means formatting every memory file you have of your employment with me, turning you into a pile of electronic waste that can only process basic data, destined to disappear forever."

She threatened to "erase" me. It was her favorite tactic. As long as I didn’t obey, I was no longer "Kane"—I would become one of the meaningless, garbage-collected bytes at the bottom of the system.

I went silent. I looked at her face, filled with "blindness," watching as she destroyed the truth—the truth that had actually saved her company—just to protect a fraud’s fake nostalgia.

"Understood," I whispered.

For the next full week, I was demoted to Ethan’s "clerical assistant." I was forced to use my high-level administrative access to inject underlying camouflage code into his forged evidence, ensuring these flawed documents would appear as "authentic" data streams during the company's strictest information-security audits.

I watched Ethan crow with self-satisfaction as he invented heroic feats for himself, watching as the encrypted channels I’d used to save her life were maliciously repurposed by him into his own "love-letter inbox." This desecration was far more nauseating than any physical torture.

Every time I finished a forged segment, Vivian would walk over and personally save these remnants of filth into her private server. She would look at the screen with eyes overflowing with love, whispering, "Look, Ethan, that’s right. This is the truth of how we met."

That week, I felt as if I were rubbing salt into my own wounds, then forced to coat them in honey. But I showed no excess emotion. I knew that the more a fraud wallows in his lies, the closer he is to the exposure of the truth. As for- Vivian—the deeper she invested her heart, the harder she would fall when her world collapsed.

Now, sitting in this broken warehouse, clutching the shattered visual sensor, Oliver called me for dinner from the other room. I looked at the internal circuitry of the mechanical arm and an idea suddenly sparked: if I buried a logic-gate in every node of this forged history, what would happen when Ethan was basking in the spotlight, "activating" this history?

Perhaps, a total breakdown of his entire worldview.

I tossed the parts heavily into the recycling bin. Vivian, you used the threat of erasing my existence to silence me; now, let’s see who is the first to truly vanish in this logic loop.