The machine screamed. Lights flickered. Then Kael was there —under the broken streetlamp, rain soaking through his shirt, Mira’s tiny fingers wrapped around his. She looked up at him, eyes wide, a fresh scratch on her chin from the evacuation.

Kael had known that rain. That jasmine. That laugh. At 03:47, he disabled the safeties. He connected the output port to a neural patch—the kind used for deep-dive therapy, now illegal for civilians. He pressed the cold gel nodes to his own temples.

He could run the standard protocol: six seconds of algorithmic stripping, then a neat KP file ready for auction. Or…

Kael had been that father. Before the memory trade took everything.

Kael opened the conversion interface. The toggle switch waited.

Kael wept. In the real world, his body convulsed. In the memory, he knelt down and held her.