Today was the day.
Sera arrived early, but Ryden was already there, waiting.
Due to the nature of Sera's requested "Fantasy", the company insisted they go on a free Dream Date session first.
The "Dream Date" is just supposed to be a simulation of what an ideal date would be for a client.
But for this specific purpose, it's to help Sera and Ryden get comfortable by practicing in less intense scenes together.
They had already put on the neuralinks. And Dream Inc. ported them into Sera's requested scene.
Firenze construct, 11:30 A.M. – Simulated Dream Inc. environment
The clink of silverware. Crystal glasses. A mirror-polished table under a pergola of simulated Tuscan sun.
Sera sipped her champagne. Expression unreadable. One leg crossed over the other, posture perfect. Champagne slip dress, hair up in a ponytail, choker jewelry, moist lips. Untouchable.
Ryden watched her, absently swirling his espresso. She hadn't said more than six words since they arrived.
She picked this.
The brunch, the view, the silence.
And yet—
Inside Sera's head, she remembered something else.
The sunlight looked the same. The polished stone table, the hillside view, the clink of glass. But Sera had been here before.
Not in the Dream.
In real life.
Cal had booked a nearly identical restaurant when they visited Florence two years ago.
"Galleries?" he'd scoffed, tearing into a steak.
"Don't start. Those walks take all day. I'm here for the wine list. I need to know how to describe Barolo for my father's guests without sounding like a moron."
She'd gone quiet. Stirred her Aperol spritz.
He'd leaned in later—smiling for Sera's camera, then muttering:
"Don't tag me. You know the deal. No photos of my face."
She had nodded. Like always. Then put away her phone.
And when an Italian man passed their table and smiled at her—she'd smiled back. Not flirtatiously. Just… human.
Cal set down his wine glass harder than necessary. The utensils on the table jumped. So did her stomach.
He wiped his mouth, slow. Leaned in, voice quiet but sharp.
"You enjoying yourself, sweetheart? Having fun entertaining strangers?"
Cal's hand had gripped her thigh under the table.
"Cal, please…" she began to plead.
Instead, he chose to make a scene.
Callahan stood up, napkin dropping from his lap, chair screeching across the stone.
He turned toward the passing man, who had only taken a few steps beyond their table. A silver-haired local in a linen suit, hands folded behind his back, strolling like he owned the sun.
"Hey!" Cal barked. "Amico."
The man paused. Turned, eyebrows raised with slow civility.
"Mi scusi?" the Italian replied, polite but wary.
Cal gave a cold smile. "Just wanted to thank you for ogling my girlfriend like a fucking tourist."
The man's expression didn't flinch. He shifted his weight, unfazed.
"Non volevo mancare di rispetto, signore," he said evenly. "Solo un apprezzamento… la sua compagna è molto bella."
"I meant no disrespect, sir. Just a compliment… your companion is very beautiful."
Sera's face flushed. She stood abruptly, chair legs scraping back.
"Cal—stop. Please." Her hand gripped his arm. "It's nothing. He was being polite."
He shook her off.
"He was undressing you with his eyes. And you fucking smiled."
Sera turned to the man, breath shaky.
"Mi dispiace, signore," she said quickly. "Lui non intende—"
"Are you apologizing to him?" Cal snapped, voice rising. "Are you out of your mind?"
The patio had gone quiet. Cutlery stilled. A couple two tables over stopped mid-toast.
"You really can't help yourself, can you?" he hissed. "Smile at strangers, play innocent. Beg me to take you to galleries all week, then put on a little show for the locals when I finally sit you down in a five-star restaurant. Is that it?"
"Stop it," she whispered. "Please."
The Italian man turned to her and nodded once, lips tight.
"To you, signorina," the Italian man said softly. "I wish you better company."
He walked away.
Callahan was still staring at her, jaw tight, breath clipped.
"You embarrassed me," he said. "Right here. In front of everyone."
Sera shook her head. "I didn't mean to—Cal, stop—"
He grabbed her wrist and pulled.
Not gently.
"Back to the hotel. Now."
That tone meant one thing.
Punishment wrapped in lust. Jealousy weaponized as a possessive game.
That was their cycle. Always.
"Let go," she hissed under her breath, trying to keep her voice down.
But Cal was already moving.
Dragging her between tables, knocking a waiter's tray slightly as they passed. He didn't look back.
Sera stumbled in her heels.
"Cal—stop—please—"
"Oh now you're shy?" he snapped, still pulling her down the cobblestone street. "Now you want to whisper?"
People were staring. A woman crossed the street. A pair of tourists slowed down, watching her heels scrape the pavement as she tried to keep up.
"You had no problem opening your mouth for that old fuck," Cal growled. "Smiling like you wanted to be taken right there."
"I didn't—"
"Don't lie to me, Sera," he snapped, yanking her forward. "I saw it. You were glowing."
"You're hurting me—" she whispered.
"Oh, now you care about being touched?"
A couple passed them. A woman glanced at Sera, eyes catching hers. Sympathetic. But no one stopped.
No one ever stopped.
"Cal—please—let's just talk—"
"I booked the best restaurant in this entire city for you," he hissed. "I planned something real. And you want to flirt with passersby?"
"I wasn't—"
"You think I don't see it? Every time a man looks at you—every time—you light up like it's your fucking purpose."
He pulled her toward their hotel steps.
She staggered.
He didn't wait.
The concierge looked up—but Cal's family name was on the reservation. No one said a word.
She was silent now.
Because she knew what came next.
—————————————————————————————————
The door slammed behind them. She barely got out a word before he shoved her toward the bed.
She stumbled, caught herself on the corner, turned—too late.
His hand cracked across her cheek. The sting lit up her face, the aftershock making her eyes water instantly.
"You little whore."
"Cal—"
"You wanted to fuck that guy?" He grabbed her by the throat. Shoved her against the wall. "Huh? That's what this is? Smile at him so he follows us back here?"
"I didn't—" Her voice was breaking.
"You think I didn't see it? Think I don't know what you are?" He shoved her to the floor. "You smiled. I saw you."
Sera cried out as she hit the tile.
It only excited him more.
Then, she remembered holding against the bathroom sink. Her staring at the mirror.
Her lip was split. One smear of blood on the glass as she braced herself.
He was behind her.
Jeans half-down. Her face pressed forward. Arms locked. Skin raw.
He thrust harder when she started to cry.
So she closed her eyes, wishing it'll be over soon.
Then, the aftermath.
Cal's head was in her lap.
He was crying.
Real tears this time. His shoulders shook. His voice cracked.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Babe, I didn't want to hurt you…"
Sera sat still, lip throbbing, vision blurred from the sting. But her body didn't flinch. Not anymore.
"I just—fuck—" He choked on it. "I can't imagine you with anyone else. I'd die, Sera. I swear to God."
His fingers gripped her thighs like he was drowning. Desperate. Small.
"You drive me crazy," he murmured. "I know it's me. I'm fucked up. Why am I like this…?"
She exhaled slowly.
Her hand moved without thinking—threading through his hair, soft. Soothing.
He was broken.
But she could still reach him.
"You're the only one I can hold on to," he whispered. "Please. Don't leave me."
She looked down at him.
And for a moment, her chest eased.
This was the Cal she loved. The one who showed his true self to her, raw and afraid. The one no one else understood.
Maybe she really was the only one who could save him.
She brushed his cheek gently.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I won't leave you."
And she meant it.
—————————————————————————————————
Back in the sim, Dream Inc. had rendered the same setting of that perfect sunset dinner. Scenic, quiet, elite. Just like she scripted.
Across from her, Ryden sat calm and observant. Not looking at the food. Looking at her.
She didn't speak.
He watched her, tapping one knuckle against his espresso cup once, twice.
Calculating…
Deciding.
Then he stood.
"Walk with me."
Sera blinked. "This wasn't in the—"
"Still your Dream Date," he said evenly. "I'm improvising."
She stared at him for a beat.
Then followed.
Her heels clicked against the stone as they walked past the edge of the terrace, into an alley that flickered briefly—Dream Inc.'s servers buffering for the shift.
When the new sim stabilized, the city had changed.
Same Firenze. But quieter. Older. The streets wound toward an unmarked door nestled in the wall of an ancient stone hall.
A gallery. No crowds. No glamour.
Just age.
Sera stopped.
She stared at the entry, blinking once.
"You found this," she said softly.
"Looked familiar," Ryden said. "You had a photo in your profile. The original exhibit. 2147."
He didn't say that he'd stared at that photo for a full minute. That it was one of the only pictures he saw where she looked relaxed.
No pose. No pressure.
Just… her.
They stepped inside.
The lighting was dim, the air cool. Everything smelled of worn wood and dust. Display panels glowed with sketches—Da Vinci, Tesla, Hedy Lamarr, and a bunch of other inventions through the years. Machines no one had finished. Concepts ahead of their time.
Sera walked ahead of him, eyes wide now. Not guarded—curious.
She paused at a spiral wing prototype.
Sera paused in front of a floating schematic. Not a famous one—no da Vinci, no Tesla. The title read:
CRYOPULSE: Hemorrhage Stabilization Collar Prototype, 2047.
Thin metal band. Neural mesh overlay. The kind of thing that belonged more in sci-fi than a surgical wing.
She tilted her head, reading the notes aloud.
"Micro-pulse cooling designed to freeze trauma bleeding in under six seconds," she murmured. "Could've stabilized battlefield wounds mid-transport. If it didn't keep shorting out the patient's vagus nerve."
Ryden looked over her shoulder.
"Clinical trials killed two out of five volunteers," he said. "One seizure. One cardiac shutdown."
She nodded, eyes scanning the blueprint. "But the impulse delay system—this here—" she pointed to the base of the neckplate, "—was years ahead of thermal response tech. Someone out there was trying to save lives. Just couldn't make the math match the biology."
Ryden smiled—barely.
"You like invention failure," he said.
Sera smiled back at him. Then turned back to keep studying the prototype.
"I like seeing world-changing inventions that people almost made real," she replied. "It's like a plea to be remembered forever."
Her voice was softer here. Still precise, but warmer.
"Poetic." Ryden replied, amused.
She touched a holo-reconstruction of a failed bioplasma engine and shook her head with something like affection.
The plaque read:
BIOPLASM-X — Neural Electroregeneration Engine
Fatality Rate: 100% | Project Terminated 2144 | Creator Redacted
She stepped closer.
"They thought it would cure neural deterioration," she murmured, reaching out to hover her hand near the holo-reconstruction. "Plasma-induced myelin repair. Targeted synaptic regeneration."
Ryden didn't speak.
Sera tilted her head. "It rebuilt the neurons just fine. Then lit them on fire."
She shook her head, but there was no cruelty in it—only fascination. "Every subject died in less than two days."
Ryden stayed back. His hands in his coat pockets. His jaw set.
"They overloaded cortical function. Tried to rethread identity pathways with heat-mapped plasma instead of signal restoration. Didn't account for volatility in long-term tissue exposure."
She turned to glance at him, eyebrows lifted. "You read the trials?"
He nodded once.
Sera looked back at the prototype. "Still… it was brilliant. Even if it failed. Someone out there really tried to make the brain rebuild itself. Not just manage damage—but reverse it. They almost pulled it off."
She smiled. Just a little.
"They were close."
Ryden looked at her.
Really looked.
"You like that too?"
"I like ambition. Even when it hurts."
She glanced back at him. There was a faint pink in her cheeks. She didn't mean to say that last part out loud.
Ryden didn't tease her.
He filed it away.
They kept walking. She kept talking. About tension coils. About cardiac AI and prosthetic fiber-fusing. Her hands moved more. Her voice sped up when she hit on something she loved. She looked alive.
And he observed every trigger.
Sera paused in front of a floating schematic of a failed lift engine. Text flickered underneath:
VERTILIFT-AX – Bernoulli Vertical Thrust Engine Prototype
Date: 2081
Experimental single-axis lift engine utilizing compressed air columns to achieve groundless vertical thrust.
Achieved airborne lift for 18.6 seconds during first launch. Collapsed mid-test due to unstable compression ratio and directional torque failure.
Project terminated. Lead engineer reassigned to drone stabilization R&D.
"They misunderstood airflow math—and built it anyway."
Sera tilted her head, smiling. "Bernoulli's miscalculation," she murmured. "Compression theory applied to vertical thrust. But the tension ratio was decades ahead."
"You say that like you were there," Ryden said behind her.
He didn't smile—but the glint in his eyes was there. That sharp, deadpan mischief.
"They published it in 2036," Sera said defensively. "I read it when I was twelve."
Ryden tilted his head, finally smiling. "You were a terrifying twelve-year-old."
Sera flushed slightly. She didn't mean to enjoy that.
She moved around the holo model. "Look at this stress dispersion joint. It was never going to hold. But someone tried anyway."
Ryden stepped beside her. "I've said that exact sentence. About four different things I built before I was twenty."
She glanced at him.
He grinned, boyish and sharp. "One of them caught fire. The other three exploded."
She laughed. Really laughed.
It caught her off guard—bright, breathy, unguarded.
Ryden watched her for a beat. His grin lingered, but something in his eyes softened.
He's starting to figure out this new puzzle.
He followed her as she walked deeper into the exhibit, surrounded by sketches of exosuits, early neural prototypes, old military prototypes that never went to market.
Ryden stopped at a darkened corner panel—bare bones interface, older tech. The plaque under it was half-burned. The casing, dented.
KAM-EXO1 – Autonomous Load-Bearing Armature
Classified failure. 2041. Decommissioned.
Purpose:
Designed as a low-cost exoskeletal arm unit for post-collapse recovery zones. It was meant to assist survivors or emergency personnel by giving them enhanced temporary lifting capacity—up to 300kg of debris—without a full suit or power infrastructure.
Sera squinted at it. The thing looked like it had been dragged out of a junkyard, duct-taped back together, and thrown on display out of pity.
"This one's my favorite," Ryden said.
Sera blinked. "Seriously?"
The prototype was rough. A disaster of wiring, exposed coils, servo limbs held together with oxidized fasteners and scorched metal.
"It's ugly," she added.
"Yeah," Ryden replied. "But look at the power relay."
She leaned in.
He pointed. "They bypassed standard circuitry. Manual loop with a spike arrestor built into the elbow joint. It shouldn't have worked."
A pause.
"But it did. For exactly forty seconds. Then it melted."
Sera stared at it. Saw the crude routing. The raw desperation in the wiring choices. No elegance—just function at any cost.
She smiled before she could stop it.
Ryden noticed. "You're smiling."
"Because it's dumb," she said, still staring. "But smart-dumb. The good kind. Like someone said, 'what if we overclocked the limiters and hoped for the best?'"
"I said that once," Ryden said dryly. "Right before I got banned from a testing facility in Osaka."
She laughed again.
It slipped out before she realized she had been laughing too much.
She covered her mouth.
Ryden glanced at her. "You okay?"
"No," she said, voice muffled behind her hand. "You're just… not what I expected."
"Let me guess," Ryden said. "You were expecting some smooth-voiced narcissist who stares at himself between thrusts."
"I dated that guy," she muttered before she could stop herself.
Ryden didn't comment. But he took note.
Then he looked at the servo display again.
"They always underestimate the elbows," he said. "Everything breaks there."
Then, softly—like it wasn't meant to be heard:
"Whoever built this? They didn't wait for approval. They didn't care about looking clean. They just needed it to work."
Sera stared at him. Saw the way his fingers lingered near the case.
And for the first time, she realized—he wasn't just performing. He was curious. He loved this the way she loved it.
She hadn't gone out and felt this… at ease.
But wait- if he's just a Dream, Inc. actor… how does he know all these things?
And what's this about getting banned at a testing facility in Osaka?
She was about to say something—when his wrist lit up.
SESSION CALL: INITIATE DREAM SCENE SEQUENCE.
Client: Sera Shaw. Tier C. Trauma Replica Protocol.
Session begins in 15 minutes.
Ryden's jaw tightened. The light vanished fast as he swiped the alert away.
But not fast enough.
Sera saw it.
Her body stiffened.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
Ryden looked at her—mask slipping for just one breath.
Then: "Yeah."
Ryden glanced back at the schematic wall and nodded toward another display just a few feet away. "One more."
Sera followed him.
The lighting shifted slightly—this part of the gallery was darker, newer. The prototype was mounted inside reinforced glass. Heavy security tagging lined the case.
NEUROGRAFT-X Selective Cortical Restoration System (2144)
Prototype Terminated: 5 years ago. Status: Sealed. Fatality Rate: 99%.
Sera's brow furrowed. "I know this. My father used to mention this project. Said it could've been historic if it worked."
Ryden folded his arms, but didn't move closer. "It didn't."
She scanned the description.
Experimental neural matrix meant to target and heal damaged cognitive tissue. Designed for early-stage Alzheimer's, stroke patients, and trauma victims. Result: Rapid neural degeneration in every subject. Memory fragmentation. Seizure. Death. All data sealed. Inventor sentenced. Program erased from public record.
Sera stared harder. "I thought this was classified."
"It was," Ryden said, voice flat. "But they kept a display version for internal education. Quiet reminder not to fuck around with cortical reinforcement tech unless you actually understand the brain."
She glanced at him. "Do you?"
His eyes stayed on the case a second too long.
Then he smiled.
Not the easy kind. The sharp, sideways kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know what not to do," he said. "That counts for something."
Sera tilted her head. "Wasn't sure you had a sense of humor."
"It's dry," he said, chuckling once. "Like good code. Or bad coffee."
He turned from the display.
Paused. Then: "What was it with your father and neurotech?"
"He wanted to fix something," Sera said, eyes still on the display. "I think that's all he ever really wanted."
She didn't elaborate.
Ryden didn't push.
Instead, he shifted gears. Pointed over his shoulder. "So. The dinner setting. Why'd you script that?"
Sera blinked at him.
"Because you didn't look like you were having fun. You looked like someone trying to get through a tax audit."
He made her laugh again, and she rolled her eyes. "I wasn't expecting such a conversationalist."
"Well, I wasn't expecting scrambled eggs with a hostage," Ryden said dryly. "But I adapt."
Sera let out a breath—half laugh, half sigh. "It was a… familiar setting. I thought it would help."
"It didn't."
"No," she admitted. "It really didn't."
They stood there in silence for a moment, surrounded by the ghosts of failed brilliance.
"I liked this better," she said softly.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at her again. Processing.
Then his wrist lit one more time.
SESSION CALL: ABUSE SIMULATION PROTOCOL. INITIATE NOW.
The screen pulsed red.
End of warm-up.
Back to character.
Ryden swiped it away, jaw flexing.
Sera noticed.
"What is it?" she asked, the joy flickering.
"Nothing," Ryden said.
Because what the fuck else could he say?
"Sorry," he added, voice shifting. Cooler now. "We have to start your other session. Three minutes."