Rushing out of the elevator, my heart still racing, I moved swiftly along the 44th floor towards my apartment. The world around me felt like a blur, but the corridor's starkness seeped into my senses. The usually vibrant walls seemed duller, the humming of the neon lights overhead more pronounced and annoying. Uncle Chen's stall, my beacon of warmth and chatter, was eerily closed and silent. People greeted me, but their voices were like distant echoes in a deep well. I couldn't muster the energy to respond. My thoughts were ensnared by the encounter with Castor - my friend, and he will not turn into my lover. The idea of altering that dynamic stirred an inexplicable anger within me.
A memory of last week flashed in my mind – Castor and I laughing over a shared joke, our hands accidentally brushing. There was a spark then, quickly extinguished. Pushing that memory aside now, I felt a mix of regret and firm resolve.
Nearing my flat, a sense of wrongness overwhelmed me. It wasn't just about Castor and me; it was about not crossing lines I had drawn for myself long ago. He was a dear friend, a constant in my otherwise turbulent life, and I didn't want to lose that. I didn't want him to be anything more.
"Marlene!" The sharp call of my name snapped me from my thoughts. I turned to see Mrs. Petrovski, my elderly neighbor, peering out from her door. Her stern, hawkish presence had always been a fixture of this floor.
"Mrs. Petrovski," I managed, my voice strained.
"I heard a ruckus from your flat last night," she stated sharply, her eyes piercing. "I can tolerate your music, Marlene, but not noises like that."
"Noises...?" I frowned, my mind racing back to the unsettling sensation of being watched. "Did you see anyone strange here last night? Something strange?"
Her head shook decisively. "Only Tom from 148, likely drunk as usual."
"Ok, I'm sorry Mrs. Petrovski, it will not happen again." I said trying to hide my feelings.
As I unlocked my door, frustration and confusion battled within me. Why would someone break into my apartment And why was I so unsettled by my reaction to Castor's touch? I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the empty space. My room, usually my sanctuary, reflected the chaos of my mind – cluttered, disordered.
Leaning against the door, I struggled to catch my breath. I needed to calm down, think things through. Instinctively, my hand went to the hidden compartment, reassuring myself that my prototypes were still there, untouched.
A thorough check later, I collapsed onto my bed, my mind a whirlwind. The intrusion, my tangled feelings about Castor, Mrs. Petrovski's sharp comments – it all swirled together.
Why did the Megablock administration see nothing unusual on the security footage? That question nagged at me as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I contemplated reporting it, but then hesitated. They'd probably think I was insane. If someone had the audacity to tamper with camera feeds, they were definitely not amateurs. Could I ask about it myself? That meant dealing with the administrator – a thought that made me cringe. The guy on the 55th floor was notorious for being sleazy and not exactly bright. Maybe that could wait.
Mrs. Petrovski's mention of Tom struck a chord. He was at the party with me, Uncle Chen, and Castor last night. Castor had to escort him home because he was too drunk. But what was he doing near my apartment? I needed to talk to him; maybe he saw something, remembered anything that could help.
I shot a quick message to Tom, asking where he was. No reply. I sighed, my mind is racing with possibilities. I wasn't going to sit around waiting. Slipping on my jacket, I grabbed the paralyzing glove I had made.
As I prepared to leave my apartment, I paused to check my biomonitor, a sleek device seamlessly integrated into my forearm. The display lit up at my touch, its interface a labyrinth of data reflecting my body's current state. My eyes scanned the readouts:
Heart Rate: Elevated, hovering around 110 bpm. The aftereffects of the adrenaline rush were still evident.
Stress Indicators: High. Cortisol levels were above normal, showing the physiological impact of the recent events.
Adrenaline Levels: Slightly raised, likely a residual effect of my encounter with Castor and the subsequent conversation with Mrs. Petrovski.
Alcohol Levels: None. I hadn't touched a drop since last night.
Dopamine and Serotonin Levels: Below average, indicating my current state of distress and unease.
The ASBR was already at work, trying to counterbalance these readings. I navigated to the stress reduction protocols and initiated a sequence to stabilize my emotional state.
Within moments, the ASBR released a controlled dose of neurotransmitters, designed to calm my nervous system. I could feel its effects almost immediately:
Beta-Endorphins: Released to reduce stress and induce a sense of well-being.
GABA (Gamma-Aminobutyric Acid): Increased to promote relaxation and reduce neuronal excitability.
Serotonin: Slightly elevated to improve my mood and overall sense of calm.
The biomonitor's display showed the real-time adjustments. My heart rate began to descend gradually towards a more normal range, and the cortisol levels started to drop.
I only used enhancements I had personally tested and refined. My approach was methodical. Like my AuraSync Biofeedback Regulator – it was my design, my baby. I knew every circuit, every line of code that went into it. It wasn't just about having a tool; it was about knowing it inside out, being aware of its capabilities and, more importantly, its limitations.
I didn't believe in using something I didn't understand, especially when it came to integrating it into my own body. The human body was a complex, finely-tuned machine, and introducing external modifications wasn't something I took lightly. Sure, I could have enhanced my physical strength or vision, but at what cost? The stories of cyberpsychosis weren't just urban legends. They were real, and they happened when people lost touch with their humanity, becoming more machine than human.
Feeling a bit more composed, I stepped out of my flat, the paralyzing glove snug in my jacket pocket. The corridor seemed less daunting now, the neon lights less oppressive.