The air in the studio apartment was thick enough to chew, smelling of ozone and the scorched rubber of a thousand short-circuited circuits. Diego sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes darting to the corner where the shadows seemed to pulse in time with his erratic heartbeat."You’re vibrating, Diego. It’s unsightly," the voice in his head buzzed. It sounded like glass grinding against glass. "Your vessel is decaying. Did you really think you could host a fragment of the Divine without paying the metabolic tax?"Diego squeezed his temples, his skin feeling like it was two sizes too small. "I don’t care about the tax. I care about the fact that I can’t stop my hands from shaking. Look at them! I look like a terminal patient.""You look like a prototype that's reached its expiration date," the God retorted. "You’ve spent your reserves on these little street-level heists and 'speed buffs.' Your cells are burning out. You need a recharge, and unfortunately for the local population, that req

The air in the shipping yard hung heavy, saturated with the smell of wet iron and dying ambition. Diego stood in the center of the labyrinth, the stolen briefcase dragging his shoulder toward the gravel. His heart was a frantic, irregular drum against his ribs."Stop hovering, Diego. The local crime boss, Vargo, isn't going to wait for your nervous system to stabilize," the voice in his head buzzed, sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement."I’m moving! I’m moving!" Diego hissed, darting behind a rusted shipping container. "But remind me again why I’m delivering a briefcase to a man who keeps 'enforcers' that look like they eat cinderblocks for breakfast?""Because if you don't, your life expectancy drops to zero. And frankly, your lack of initiative is becoming a structural weakness in my grand design."Diego slowed to a crouch, his eyes scanning the gloom. "I’m a paralegal. I file motions. I don't negotiate with syndicates. Why me? Why not find someone who isn't two seconds a

The alleyway smelled of stagnant rain and ozone. Diego shoved the heavy, stolen briefcase into a dumpster, his hands trembling so violently he could barely latch the lid."Hide it?" The God’s voice was a jagged rasp in his ear, sounding like a radio tuning between stations. "You think a rusted trash can is a vault for the secrets of the firm? You’re an embarrassment, Diego.""It’s better than carrying it around like a neon sign!" Diego hissed, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I’m a paralegal. I’m not a cat burglar. I’m not a… whatever you turned me into tonight.""You’re a vessel. And currently, a leaking one."Diego leaned against the brickwork, his knees threatening to fold. Every muscle fiber in his legs was vibrating, a phantom ache radiating from his shins where the speed-buff had pushed his human biology to the breaking point. He tried to remember his middle name—something he’d known his entire life—but the name was gone. Just a blank, grey static where the memory used to be."Did y

The neon sign above the bistro flickered, buzzing like a trapped hornet, as the smell of ozone flooded the air. Diego sat slumped at the shattered table, his left arm still vibrating with an unnatural, low-frequency hum. Across from him, Lucía stood amidst the wreckage, the metallic device in her palm ticking—a sharp, staccato sound that echoed against the sudden, unnatural silence of the street."Lucía, what are you holding?" Diego’s voice was strained, a desperate rattle in his chest."A severance package," she said, her eyes fixed on the device. Her hands were steady, despite the way her face had turned the color of parchment. "The firm doesn't just fire people, Diego. They archive them.""The firm?" Diego felt the God-voice coil in his brain, tightening like a rusted spring. "She’s not just an agent. She’s an editor. She’s here to delete the last three months of your life, starting with me.""I told you to go," Diego whispered, his right hand clawing at the tabletop, trying to fin