They called it the Mercy Protocol. Not because it was merciful, but because it was clean.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No blood. No screams. Just a hum. A flicker of lights. A smell like burnt copper and old rain. The condemned sat in the chair, electrodes kissing temples, wrists, ankles. A final breath. Then silence.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The chair was housed in Sublevel 9 of the Bastion Correctional Complex, a monolithic slab of concrete and steel buried beneath the ruins of Old Detroit. The city had long since collapsed under the weight of its own sins—corporate wars, climate riots, the Neuroplague. What remained was a penal colony for the broken, the unwanted, the inconvenient.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Inmate #A-1173, known to the guards as “Jody,” had been on death row for 6 years, 4 months, and 11 days. His crime: memory sabotage. He’d hacked the neural implants of three high-ranking officials, rewriting their pasts, erasing their guilt, replacing shame with pride. They called it “cognitive terrorism.” Jody called it “justice.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He was scheduled for execution at 03:00.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Warden Selene Marr was not a cruel woman. But she was efficient.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She wore her uniform like armor—black synth-leather, silver trim, a badge that pulsed faintly with biometric data. Her eyes were augmented, capable of reading heart rates, pupil dilation, micro-expressions. She didn’t need to ask questions. She saw answers.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She’d overseen 47 executions. Jody would be her 48th. And her last.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Mercy Protocol was being phased out. Too many activists. Too many leaks. The public had grown squeamish. They wanted “humane alternatives.” Neural dissolution. Dream euthanasia. Painless, poetic deaths.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Selene didn’t believe in poetry. She believed in silence.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bastion was a machine disguised as a prison.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Each cell was a cube of glass and steel, suspended in a vertical shaft like a hive.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Drones patrolled the corridors. AI judges reviewed appeals. Guards were mostly ceremonial—there to remind inmates that humans still held the keys.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody’s cell was 9-13. It had no bed, no toilet, no books. Just a neural interface port and a viewport that showed a looping simulation of a forest that no longer existed.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He spent most of his time writing code in his head. Not to escape. But to remember.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At 01:47, a visitor arrived.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She wore civilian clothes—gray coat, black boots, a scarf that shimmered like oil. Her name was Mara. She was not on the approved list.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I’m here for Jody, ” she said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Selene frowned, “ He has no family. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I’m not family. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ Then you’re not allowed. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mara reached into her coat and produced a data shard. It glowed red.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Override clearance. Level Omega.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Selene’s jaw tightened, “ Who authorized this? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mara smiled, “ You know who. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She entered Cell 9-13 at 02:03.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody looked up. His eyes were pale gray, like ash. His head was shaved. His skin bore the faint scars of neural burns.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ You’re late, ” he said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mara sat across from him, “ You’re dying. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I’ve died before. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She slid the data shard across the table, “ There’s a way out. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody didn’t touch it, “ Why now? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Because the world’s changing. And we need ghosts.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody leaned back, “ You want me to disappear. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ No. We want you to help us.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The shard contained a protocol—illegal, experimental, dangerous.&nbsp;&nbsp;BbIt would overwrite Jody’s neural signature, scramble his biometric ID, erase his existence from every database. He’d become a blank slate. A cipher. A whisper.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In return, he’d work for them. Off-grid. Underground. Rewriting the memories of tyrants, warlords, CEOs. Planting guilt like seeds. Making monsters remember they were human.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody stared at the shard.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I thought you wanted me dead. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mara’s voice was quiet, “ I wanted you to matter. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At 02:59, Jody was escorted to Sublevel 9.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The guards strapped him in. The electrodes hummed. The lights dimmed.Warden Selene watched from behind the glass. Her face was unreadable.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The countdown began.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;10… 9… 8…&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At 3, the system glitched. A flicker. A pulse. A red light. Then silence.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The official report stated that Inmate #A-1173 was executed at 03:00 via Mercy Protocol. No anomalies. No errors. The body was cremated. The ashes scattered over the ruins of Old Detroit.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But Selene knew better.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She’d seen the flicker. The pulse. The red light.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She’d seen Mara’s eyes before she got away. And she’d felt something she hadn’t felt in years.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Doubt.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Six months later, a senator in New Chicago confessed to war crimes he didn’t remember committing.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Three weeks after that, a CEO in Neo-Tokyo resigned, citing “unbearable guilt.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then a general in the Arctic Territories walked into the ocean and never came back.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They called it the Spiritbox. No one knew who was behind it.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But Selene had a name.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Jody.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the ruins of Old Detroit, beneath the bones of Bastion, a new network was forming.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Coders. Hackers. Memory saboteurs.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They didn’t wear uniforms. They didn’t carry guns. They carried guilt. They carried truth.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And they carried the name of a man who had died in a chair and been reborn a hero.&nbsp;

SPIRITBOX 

SPIRITBOX

L_Christopher_Hennessy

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SPIRITBOX

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Luke Christopher Hennessy

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