Ding-dong.

  The doorbell chimed, followed by the AI housekeeper’s voice: “Express delivery from Millard Public Academy. Shall I accept it?”

  Express indeed.

  After instructing the bot, Latham retreated to his room for a long shower. When he stepped into his bedroom, he froze. A massive crate dominated the floor.

  “Double Zero Seven, what is this?”

  “The Millard Academy express parcel,” the housekeeper replied. “Per your instructions, it was placed in your bedroom.”

  Latham circled the crate, muttering as he tore open the packaging: “I said that, but what’s inside? A sensor the size of a—holy hell.”

  The box contained ?one hundred sensors?—every model from sleek wristbands to neural-interface visors.

  No wonder Schneider said I’d like this batch. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut in this haul.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He hauled the crate to his workstation, syncing the combat simulator program from his wrist device to his private terminal. Modern sensors usually had enough built-in storage for basic apps, but heavyweight programs demanded full computing power.

  He strapped on his old sensor out of habit. The training arena materialized—a barren landscape dotted with mechs. Data streams flickered beside the practice unit he’d used earlier.

  Dash. Abrupt halt. Punch. Pivot.

  ?1:19? flashed on the timer. Consistent as clockwork.

  Switching to a new Level 7-compatible sensor from Schneider’s haul, he re-entered the sim. The environment felt smoother, reactions sharper. But when he willed the sensor consciousness to activate…

  Silence.

  The AI pilot—his crutch since day one—lay dormant. Without its guidance, Latham faceplanted mid-stride.

  Panic clawed his throat. Raqqa and Schneider’s interest hinges on my mech control. If this fails…

  Visions of lab rats and exposed secrets flashed through his mind. That ?Necromancer?-granted power boost from Level 2 to 7? Too unnatural to explain.

  His gaze landed on the discarded old sensor.

  One last try.

  Reattaching the familiar device, he launched the program.

  Dash. Halt. Punch. Pivot.

  ?1:19.? Flawless.

  Relief flooded him. The revelation crystallized: Sensor consciousness is hardware-locked. Swap devices, lose the ghost in the machine.

  For now, his secret—and Schneider’s million-credit dreams—remained intact.