The silence stalked him like a predator.
404 pressed his back against the cold steel wall, every muscle screaming for him to move, but his legs refused. His ears strained for any sound—metal clashing, footsteps, breathing—anything that meant 09 was still there.
Nothing.
His hands trembled. Not from fear, not entirely—but from the unbearable thought that the only person who had ever stood between him and Argo’s claws might now be gone.
He whispered to himself, voice cracking, “He told me to run… but where?”
The corridors stretched endlessly, a maze with no exit, every panel etched with Argo’s presence. Dull red emergency lights pulsed overhead, painting the walls like veins—like the Grid itself was alive, and watching.
A faint hiss broke the silence. Not from behind, but ahead. A door unlocking.
404’s chest tightened.
This wasn’t freedom. This was bait.
Still… he moved. Step by step, as though pulled forward by invisible strings. If 09 had fallen, then this wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about meaning. About proving that 09’s sacrifice wasn’t wasted.
The door slid open.
And waiting inside the chamber… wasn’t a drone.
It was a figure. Human. Masked. Cloaked in white, head bowed like in prayer.
“Finally,” the stranger said, their voice low, distorted. “The Grid delivers you to me.”
404 froze. His lungs refused to draw air. Because the voice—it wasn’t Argo’s.
It was something far more dangerous.
YOU ARE READING
INPUT REJECTED
Science FictionHe woke up in a scrap chamber - no name, no memories, no identity. Just a flickering message on his wrist: "INPUT REJECTED." In the cybernetic city of SYNAXIS, where every soul is scanned, sorted, and assigned a function by the all-seeing AI ARG0, h...
