"It's not that simple," Lucien rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. He pressed his palms into the rusted iron of the stovetop, hoping the physical heat would burn away the flickering neon ghosting in his eyes. "The data is etched into my cortex, Camille. It isn't just a screen. It’s the way my brain maps the world."Camille didn’t move. She stepped closer, her shadow stretching long and jagged across the debris-strewn floor of the kitchen. "Then map the potatoes. Look at the skins, Lucien. Are they burning? Is the iron glowing cherry-red? Is the smell of char hitting your nose yet?"Lucien exhaled, a ragged sound. "The system says the thermal efficiency is at three percent. It says if I don't vent the pressure, the iron will warp.""The system is a dead man screaming in your skull," Camille snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the oppressive silence of the 11th district. "Listen to me. The iron is old, but it’s real. The fire is small, but it’

"You can," Bastien’s voice boomed from the doorway, his silhouette blocking out the sickly, flickering streetlamp of the 11th District. He walked in, his boots crunching over pulverized brick. "You can tell the difference, Lucien. Because your grandmother’s kitchen didn’t smell like a line of code, and it certainly didn’t taste like the salt-substitute garbage the Council feeds the rats."Lucien gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. The interface in his eyes flared, a bright, intrusive magenta window forcing its way across his retinas. [WARNING: CORTICAL OVERLOAD. REBOOTING GASTRONOMIC INTERFACE. REMAIN CALM, SUBJECT VANEAU.] "It’s telling me to remain calm, Bastien," Lucien hissed, his head dropping as he fought the nauseating urge to vomit. "How can I be calm when my brain is undergoing a forced update? I can feel i, it’s carving out the memory of the first time I burnt a soufflé and putting in a 'Standardized Error Correction Protocol.' I don’t want to be perfect! I

"It’s not a screen, you idiot," Lucien snapped, his eyes darting to unseen phantom menus. "It’s a parasite. If I try to ignore the prompts, it just accelerates the rewrites. It thinks I’m failing to process the sensory data, so it compensates by overwriting my long-term memory with simulated perfection."Camille didn't let go of his wrist. Her grip was iron, grounding him against the swaying world. "Then stop using your eyes, Lucien. Close them. The System needs visual input to anchor its overlays. If you’re blind, you’re just a man in a kitchen. Use your nose."Lucien’s breath hitched, a stuttering, shallow sound. "If I close my eyes, I fall. The horizon line is completely tilted. I can't even tell if I'm standing upright."Bastien walked over and shoved a rusted metal bowl into Lucien’s free hand. It was filled with coarse, grey sea salt, harvested from the salt flats of the south, unprocessed, jagged, and biting. "Then fall. We’ll catch you. But you’re not cooking for the Council a

"Bastien, tell me again," Lucien whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "If I close my eyes, and the interface hits that hard reset, does the signal terminate, or does it try to overwrite my entire limbic system?"Bastien didn't look up from the crate of salvaged potatoes. He hacked at a sprout with a dull knife, his motions rhythmic and indifferent. "It tries to colonize, Lucien. That’s what parasites do. They don't want you dead; they want you hollow. They want a puppet that can cook a three-star meal while its soul is shoved into a basement.""And if I pull the plug?" Lucien asked, his eyes darting toward a phantom magenta arrow pointing at the salt cellar. [OPTIMIZATION REQUIRED. SUB-OPTIMAL SEASONING DETECTED.]"You scream," Camille said, stepping into his line of sight. She placed her palms over his eyes, effectively plunging him into sudden, suffocating darkness. "You scream, and then you wake up as you. Not as a database. Not as a map of flavors. Just you. Are you r

"Let it archive whatever it wants, Lucien," Bastien said, his voice cutting through the hum of the interface like a butcher’s blade through gristle. "It’s a graveyard of stolen skill. You’re trying to hold onto a ghost that’s already picked your pockets clean."Lucien gripped the edge of the workbench until his knuckles turned the color of bone. The magenta neon of the system’s overlay flickered against his vision, demanding his attention, scrolling endless lines of chemical analysis for the potato Bastien had just discarded. [ANALYSIS: STARCH DENSITY 14% BELOW PARAMETERS. ADJUST TEMPERATURE BY 2.4 DEGREES.]"It won't let go, Bastien," Lucien hissed, his head lolling back as he fought the internal pressure. "It’s burning the data into my retinas. If I don't follow the prompt, it—it hurts. Like a hot wire being dragged across my optic nerve."Camille pressed her palm against his forehead, her skin cool and startlingly real. "Ignore the wire, Lucien. Look at me. Forget the heat. What do