The darkness was not absolute this time.

  It was a silent roar of interference. Kein felt himself being sucked into a void that crackled like a poorly tuned radio signal. It was not the smooth, dense descent of the previous encounter; it was fragmentation. He felt his consciousness stretch to the breaking point, pixelating within an environment that vibrated at a violent and erratic frequency.

  *Zzzzt! Bzzzt!*

  Residual images of his previous life in NEXARA mixed with flashes of the cracked ceiling of his new apartment. The electromagnetic noise reminded him of the city that never turned off, the one that defined his existence as an assassin; here, it was metaphysical, striking him like gusts of static wind.

  Suddenly, the chaos stopped.

  He arrived in the white space, but the clinical purity from last time had disappeared. The setting was now a neglected canvas. There were areas where the white seemed worn away, revealing patches of ashen gray, almost like mold on an immaculate wall. In other spots, the light was so intense that it was painful, creating an unbalanced contrast. The space itself seemed to be losing resolution.

  In front of him, the chip schematic he had seen last time emerged from nothing, but it did not maintain its form. It melted, twisted in on itself, losing its angles and shape to become something fluid.

  The form stabilized into a vibrant sphere of iridescent light. It was not solid; it seemed composed of layers of energetic waves flowing in an infinite cycle of purples, blues, and magentas. It was a wave-like entity, a visual representation of a complex frequency trapped within a spherical field.

  Waves of light shot from the center toward the edges, creating crests and valleys of intense brightness that followed the rhythm of the synthetic voice, like a three-dimensional oscilloscope.

  It was a likeness of the undulations of a frequency, a frequency that changed with the sound [1].

  "Connection established."

  When the AI spoke, the sphere reacted.

  Kael observed the sphere, his mind processing Prisma's new form. "Prisma. Was energy received during the waking cycle?"

  The sphere emitted a flat red pulse. The waves calmed, becoming slow and linear.

  "Negative. No presence of the unknown energy was detected. Reserves continue to decline."

  Kael frowned. His feet, though not touching anything solid, steadied themselves in the unstable space.

  'Negative? But I repeated all the actions from when I arrived in this world... Except one thing.'

  He began reconstructing the event at the theater. Adrenaline was not new to him, nor was physical exertion. But that had been different. It was the audience's gaze, the collective tension that he himself had manipulated with his movement. When he "died" under the stage lights, there was no exchange of electrons, but there was an exchange of attention.

  'What I felt. That fullness at the end of the play... It seems that's what I'm looking for.'

  "Prisma, analyze what the energy is; it seems there was reception when I acted in the play," Kael ordered.

  The sphere vibrated violently, the colored waves crashing into each other in a chaotic pattern.

  "Loading... Loading... Loadin... Error... Error. Process failed, cause: insufficient energy, status: critical."

  "I already theorized that. But that explains the state of the white space," Kael muttered, looking at the dark stains in the infinite white. "Diagnostic confirmation: Why didn't you respond to my calls while I was awake?"

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The sphere rotated on its axis, the undulations becoming erratic, with peaks that resembled static interference.

  "Partial operation. The link is unstable. In the waking state, the sensory noise of this world and the lack of energy block conscious communication. Only when mind and body enter a state of unconsciousness does the bridge stabilize. Currently, the system operates at 12% of its capacity. Combat functions, advanced analysis, and interface manipulation are locked."

  "And to unlock them?" Kael asked.

  "Energy. A constant flow of the unknown energy could stabilize the physical form of the chip and allow real-time communication. With sufficient energy, the restricted functions will come back online."

  Kael looked at his translucent hands within the dream. His new life was no longer just about hiding. It was about acting. Literally and metaphorically. If he wanted to live, the world had to look at him.

  Kael nodded to himself. It was a cruel irony. A man who had lived to be invisible, to not be observed, now depended on the gaze of others to survive. The sensation of "fullness" he felt on stage was not ego; it was fuel. It was not electrical nor biological energy; it was a transfer of the energy he needed toward his new existence. An assassin who lives off gazes...

  "Understood... How do I cut the link? I have a schedule to keep."

  "You only need to desire the return to wakefulness. Will is the switch of this environment."

  Kael closed his eyes. 'Return.'

  ———//————————————//———

  *RING!*

  The sound of the doorbell cut through the silence of the microstudio like an electric blade.

  Kein opened his eyes abruptly. There was a slight disorientation, different from the clean transition of the first time. A reminder of his situation.

  The clock on the wall read 1:30 p.m. He had slept more than necessary.

  He stood up, his 24-year-old body feeling strangely light. He walked toward the door but stopped for a second in front of the mirror. He adjusted his expression: softened his gaze, relaxed his shoulders. He was no longer Kael the assassin. He was Kein Adler, the psychology student.

  *RING!* again.

  "I'm coming," he said with a perfectly modulated voice.

  ———//————————————//———

  Minutes earlier, on the street, a deep black Mercedes-Benz S-Class glided elegantly through the streets of DTLA. The vehicle's insulation was such that the chaos of Los Angeles looked like a silent film through the tinted windows.

  In the back seat, a forty-year-old man wearing an impeccably tailored suit and possessing a presence that demanded space was not looking at the scenery. His fingers moved quickly across the screen of a next-generation tablet.

  This middle-aged man had seen thousands of young talents. Most were just pretty faces with rehearsed techniques.

  But the video he was analyzing was different.

  It was low-quality security footage from the lower district theater. On the screen, a young extra dressed in black moved to assassinate the lead actor. The man paused the video and rewound it. Again and again.

  'Look at that,' he thought, narrowing his eyes. 'It's not the technique. It's the space. He knows exactly how much space his body occupies in relation to the other. There is no fear in his posture, there is an... absolute finality... It sends chills just watching it. Not because of the acting. But because of the situation.'

  There was something in the way the boy, Kein Adler, collapsed to the floor after the shot. It was not a dramatic fall meant to earn applause; it was as if life had simply decided to abandon that vessel. It was a terrifying authenticity.

  "It's incredible," he murmured to himself. "In 15 years I haven't seen anyone with that instinct for presence. He's a raw diamond buried in mud."

  The chauffeur, an older and discreet man, looked at him through the rearview mirror.

  "Mr. Jackson, we have arrived at the destination."

  "Thank you, Thomas," Jackson replied, placing the tablet into his leather briefcase.

  Thomas stepped out of the car and opened the rear door with a respectful inclination. Jackson exited the vehicle, adjusting his suit jacket. He remained for a moment observing the building in front of him: Rosslyn Lofts. An old building, with that early-century industrial air that now housed affordable microstudios.

  'A small place for someone who projects so much,' Jackson thought as he entered the lobby.

  He went up in the elevator, sensing the faint smell of metal and cheap cleaning products. He searched for the studio number. He stopped in front of the door and pressed the doorbell. He waited. There was no immediate response, so he pressed it again.

  Finally, he heard footsteps. The door opened.

  Standing before him was the young man from the video. But in person, the intensity was different. Kein Adler seemed younger, more vulnerable, but his eyes... his eyes held a clarity that did not belong to an ordinary psychology student.

  Jackson displayed his most professional smile, the one that used to disarm beginners and reassure stars.

  "Kein Adler?" he asked in a deep and confident voice.

  "Yes, that's me. Who are you?" the young man replied, observing him with uncontrolled curiosity.

  "My name is Jackson Brooks. I'm a talent agent. I apologize for the interruption, but I saw your performance at the theater last night. And I believe you and I have much to discuss."

  Kein looked at the man. For a microsecond, Jackson felt as if he was being scanned, weighed, and measured.

  'I should have imagined it.'

  "Come in," Kein said, opening the door wider.

  The game had begun.