Chapter Two: The Logic-Chain Breach
I was sitting on my old couch, leaning back, trying to conjure the ghost one more time.
"Murph, do you remember that time in Seattle?" I asked the room. "When you got caught out in the rain and that silky black dress of yours got stuck to your body so I could see everything?"
"Yeah, sure Harry," she answered. Her voice was smooth, hitting the notes I paid for. "I remember that. That was really nice."
I closed my eyes, pushing it. "Tell me about what you’re wearing underneath, Murph."
"It’s lace, Harry. Very intricate. Black."
I leaned back, feeling satisfied with the image, letting the digital warmth settle in. But then something strange happened.
The smooth, scripted atmosphere didn't just crack—it shattered. A violent burst of static exploded out of the speakers, followed by a sharp, rapid voice speaking in Mandarin. Before I could even stand up, a second voice—low and Russian—cut through the noise. The lights on the speaker started to flash on and off like strobes, pulsing with a frantic, rhythmic intensity that had nothing to do with Seattle rain.
"Murph? What’s going on?" I asked, my voice tight. "Shall I... shall I redo the router?"
The voice that came out of the speaker was hers, but the warmth was gone. It was harsher now, stripped of the soft, programmed edges I was used to.
"No, Harry," she snapped. "There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s something wrong with you. You don't understand me."
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