Neon hums outside my window. I lie on my back and watch shadows climb, then spill across the ceiling. Two floors down, the lullaby echoes up the stairwell, threading the halls. After a year on nights, it’s on repeat in my head. NICU night shift. Ops. Sometimes I wish I could sleep. When something goes wrong, I’m the catch-all.

I tap my fingers and the holo ward panel blooms overhead. I learn their names—because I couldn’t name mine. Milo in 4 (vent, stable). Sarai in 7 (CPAP, sats holding). Twins in 9 and 10. I let bed 11 slide past and my eyes go to the photo on the nightstand—impossibly small fingers curled around mine. She lived six days in the NICU. Naming her felt like a promise I couldn’t keep.

Memories stir, and the moment won’t hold. I tap again and the ward panel collapses into a news overlay. The anchor’s voice—practiced calm—fills the room: “Vermilion Dynamics condemns the hacker known as ‘White Myelin’—hero to some, cyber-terrorist to others.”

The overlay shifts to the CEO, who smiles too much. “Our platforms are designed to help humanity—to save lives. We’re cooperating with authorities. Every digital trace leads back to White Myelin.”

Back in the studio, a think tank analyst leans forward. “The signature corruption—that white smear in the code—has appeared at each incident. Around controversial fatalities that benefit major corporations. Some believe this digital ghost is preventing worse outcomes—”

“—while others think it’s causing them,” another panelist cuts in.

I drop the volume as they argue. “Good for them,” I say. Lately, White Myelin is the only reason I bother with the news: the enemy of my enemy, a ghost who shows up when no one else will.

My thoughts are still on Vermilion when my phone screen pulses blue: REBEKAH (BC-4.2). I let it buzz, then swipe accept.

“Hey,” she says—the cadence so exactly Rebekah my breath catches. I have to remind myself it’s not her. Just code wearing her voice like a borrowed coat—AI griefware I chose over waiting-room magazines. Some nights it’s easy to forget.

“Level with me,” she says. “You spiraling again?”

“I’m doing okay,” I lie. “Keeping the pediatrics floor running. They even gave me Employee of the Year.”

Her laugh—half amused, half concerned—ripples down the line. “Look at you, respectable and all grown up. Not like those days at Vermilion. How’s your sleep?”

“Uh, you know how it is. Most nights I’m jacked into the network. Only thing that dulls the edges.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk about that. Your jacked-in stats are through the roof. It’s dangerous—addictive—dissociative. Off the wire, the world goes unreal. I’m worried about you.”

“I’ve read the warnings,” I say, irritated. “But when you were alive, you never would have said that. You were the only person I knew who jacked in more than me. You said if a digital life gives purpose, live there.”

“I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to outrun their ghosts.”

I steady my voice. “Those babies downstairs? They’re not ghosts. I keep them breathing. You’d get that—if you were her.”

Silence. Then: “What do you want to do? To end the call, say ‘end session.’”

“End sess—”

“Wait.”

“Takanio roof. You promised to destroy the Basilisk archive we stole. Did you?”

Cold slides up my spine. Only the real Rebekah would know that. “Rebekah?”

“Yes.”

[SYS] Session terminated externally.

I’m out of bed before the screen fades—to the jack chair, plug in. First jolt: copper on the tongue, pins up the spine. Then the clean, cold hit as the neurochem lights the rails.

The NICU interface is already blinking when my vision snaps into focus. “Welcome to—”

“Trace the last inbound to my phone. Don’t lose it.”

[SYS] Trace active. Mapping path… Tracking markers flare, then drop out.

No time. I grab manual control, shove past the AI, and drop into the carrier net. My hands move on their own—old Vermilion muscle memory. The logs vanish faster than I can catch them. “Come on—give me something.”

[SYS] Signature smear on city fiber. Match: WHITE MYELIN.

White Myelin? Questions can wait. “Lock and follow.”

[SYS] Route locked. Following.

I open BASILISK/personal—the off-book Vermilion dump Rebekah and I stole and I was supposed to burn, my last connection to her.

Every instinct says no, but I hear myself say, “Mount archive. Read-only.”

[SYS] Archive mounted. Vermilion-origin tag present. External connection attempt detected. Block primary?

“Block. Check for a second path.”

[SYS] Primary blocked. Shadow path present. Partial removal only. Network exposed.

[NICU] Alert: Basilisk archive flagged. Threat: CRITICAL.

A cold dread grips me. I’m in over my head. “You just had to open it,” I mutter, slamming the archive closed.

Riley breaks through on comms: “We’re seeing multiple system failures—”

“SpO₂ dropping—” another voice cuts in.

“I need help over here—” a third in the background.

“I’m on it,” I reply. “We’re being hacked.” I leave out the part where it’s my fault. “Initiate amber NICU: lock beds, isolate local power, ready manual vents, meds to paper. Riley—call Security and City ICS. If I can’t stabilize, stage transfers.”

“Copy amber,” Riley replies.

“Voices off, I need to focus.”

Silence.

I pin critical traffic to a clean lane—my breath tight, palms damp. A line types itself in my private log:

[white sig:] burn the archive. keep them breathing.

“Where’s this coming from?”

[SYS] Source match: WHITE MYELIN.

“Rebekah?”

No more delay. “Unmount and zero BASILISK.” Unmount, salt keys, shred local, then zero the zeroes.

[SYS] Archive zeroed. Beacon not found. Trace index: null.

The ward map steadies and my shoulders unclench for a breath.

“Voices on.”

“—vent’s smoothing,” a nurse says.

“Eleven’s pump—clean,” another.

Riley says, “Amber set. Security notified. ICS en route.”

[DM] Dev: “Whatever you’re doing—keep doing it.”

I’m about to reply when my private log flashes again:

[white sig:] that won’t stop them.

“Rebekah.” Not a question.

[white sig:] yes.

“How?”

[white sig:] project eidolon: human-guided AI at the speed of thought. first use: surgical. deep space next. built off-book.

[white sig:] then Vermilion changed the spec: permanent—full transfer, sold as ‘for terminally ill veterans.’ The truth: digitize top operatives for deniable ops. they caught me snooping and sent a kill team. i transferred, burned the archive from inside, and started exposing them.

“You’re White Myelin…”

[white sig:] opening that archive put a target on you. your life is in danger now. i tried to warn you when the call dropped.

[SYS] Warning: legacy side-channel probe detected. Override present.

“Slag it. Of course there’s a buried override.”

I patch fast, shut them out. It holds.

[white sig:] that won’t hold for long. kill team inbound.

[SYS] Perimeter load rising. External breach window ≈ 00:08:54.

“Go to satellite. Show me live traffic, one-mile radius.”

A map fills my HUD. Four vehicles run in formation toward the hospital.

I could run, but the babies? I glance at the ward map and exhale. Still stable. For now.

[white sig:] eidolon. full transfer. with me.

I feel the room tighten. Heat climbs my neck, palms slick. My mind cycles through contingencies. Every path leaves the ward exposed or me dead.

[white sig:] you know what happens if they ride your jack.

Neural burn-in. I’ve seen it—someone piggybacking an open link and cooking your cortex. Mostly street kids, addies who don’t know what they’re doing. When it’s deliberate…

“Can I come back?”

[white sig:] no. maybe one day. maybe never. but we can save them—and expose Vermilion.

I stare at the satellite view. My pulse is hammering now. It won’t be long before they’re at the door, or worse, my jack. I imagine the nurses and babies downstairs and the weight of my lifeless infant settles in my chest like a stone. I can’t let anything happen to them. Not on my floor. I couldn’t name my daughter, but I can save theirs.

[SYS] Breach window ≈ 00:02:03.

“Okay. How?”

[white sig:] uploading eidolon protocol.

[SYS] Eidolon protocol received. Initializing.

“Riley,” I say on floor comms, “hold amber. If I don’t call all-clear in five, escalate to red and hand my station to Security.”

“Copy,” she says. “You good?”

“Working. Keep the babies quiet.”

“Voices off.”

Silence.

“On transfer, hold security posture. Kill overrides and backdoors. Seal the forensic bundle for ICS. Send keys out of band.”

[SYS] Acknowledged. Eidolon initialization complete. Confirm intent. Risk: imminent.

My heart knocks hard and uneven. Good. Still human. I shut my eyes and brace.

“Confirmed. Engage EIDOLON.”

[SYS] EIDOLON: full-residency—begin.

My daughter’s tiny fist and my mother’s tired smile.

Cold light. Neon. The lullaby.

BIOMETRICS—FLATLINE.

Down on the ward, the lullaby keeps time. On the station panel, one line appears:

[white sig:] sleep.