An old man with a tired expression barely looked at Vincent as he stepped into the motel's small lobby and walked up to the reception desk. Without much interest, the man muttered, "Need a room? Twenty bucks a night."
Vincent placed several bills on the counter. "Three nights," he said.
The man took the cash, counted it quickly, then wordlessly slid a key across the desk. The number 17 was engraved on the keychain.
Vincent picked it up without speaking and headed toward his room. He walked down a long, damp-smelling hallway, climbed a narrow flight of stairs, and stopped in front of the door marked 17.
He inserted the key, turned it, and stepped inside, locking the door behind him.
The room was small, barely enough to call a living space. A worn-out bed sat in the corner, its mattress visibly sunken from years of use. A wooden desk stood nearby, full of scratches, looking as beaten down as everything else in the room.
A window faced the neighboring building's wall, covered by a nearly torn curtain that barely did its job.
Vincent threw his bag onto the bed and sat down in the chair beside the desk. He stared at the mattress, lost in thought.
Today had been a nightmare, something straight out of a horror story.
Betrayed by the woman he loved, shot, nearly burned alive.
Now, he was here, holed up in a rundown motel, stripped of everything he had worked for, hiding from the man who had taken everything from him—and who might still come after him.
The clock on the wall showed eleven at night. Vincent's stomach twisted in hunger.
After everything that had happened, his body still demanded food. He ran his hand down his face, frustrated. The hunger pangs had been growing for hours now.
"Fuck it," he muttered, yanking off his mismatched shoes and peeling off his mechanic's jacket. Without hesitation, he stepped back into the icy streets.
***
The snowfall had stopped, leaving thick piles of snow covering the roads. A sharp wind blew, sending chills through his exposed skin.
He walked aimlessly, unfamiliar with this part of town, scanning the streets for anything resembling a place to eat.
Finally, he spotted a small food stall at the end of the road. It looked worn down, barely held together by its tarp covering, but it was the only sign of life in the cold.
He stepped inside, instantly feeling the warmth from the makeshift heaters. The scent of sizzling butter, grilled meat, and cheap coffee filled the air.
A middle-aged man behind the counter looked up. His eyes were tired, his posture slouched. "What do you want, man?" he asked.
"Two burgers and a coffee," Vincent replied, his voice low and clipped. He had no patience for small talk.
Minutes later, he sat in the farthest corner of the tent-covered stall, eating like a man who hadn't had a proper meal in days. The burgers were gone within minutes.
He took slow sips of the steaming coffee, letting the heat settle in his stomach, grounding himself in the present.
Then, suddenly, a voice echoed in his head.
A woman's voice—smooth, artificial—like the AI-generated voices he had worked with countless times before.
[Sovereign Syndicate Activated.]
Nothing else followed. Just silence.
Vincent frowned, glancing toward the man at the stall, but the vendor had already drifted off into a nap, completely unaware.
He hesitated before standing, placed some bills on the counter, muttered a quiet thank you, and stepped back into the freezing night.
***
Back at his room, Vincent locked the door and dragged a chair over to wedge it against the handle.
Better safe than sorry.
He wasn't sure if Pearson's men believed he had died in the fire, but he wasn't going to risk being careless.
He threw himself face down onto the bed, the mattress creaking loudly beneath his weight, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Exhaustion pulled him under almost instantly.
Then, just as sleep settled in, the voice returned.
[Sovereign Syndicate Database: Checking Heir Status…]
[Processing Vital Data…]
[Confirmed: Heir Status is Active.]
[Warning: Abnormal condition detected.]
Vincent's eyes snapped open.
[System Integration at 9%—Incomplete.]
[Further activation requires external input.]
His pulse quickened. The woman's voice was calm, almost soothing, but it didn't make him feel any less unsettled.
He had spent years developing AI software, building platforms for clients, integrating systems into every aspect of his business.
But this? This was different.
No laptop. No phone.
Nothing but the voice inside his head.
"What the hell is this?" he muttered, gripping the sheets tightly, his body tense.
[Inquiry Activated.]
[Heir, state your directive.]
Vincent blinked. "Directive?" The voice was asking him to give an order—but for what? What was he supposed to say?
After a short hesitation, he settled on the only question that mattered.
"What the hell are you?"
The answer came immediately.
[Sovereign Syndicate is a control mechanism.]
[Designed for a single heir.]
[Primary objective: Acquisition and domination.]
Vincent swallowed hard. His hands clenched.
"Why can I hear you without a device?" he asked.
The response was swift, as if the system had already anticipated his confusion.
[Neural Link Established.]
[Sovereign Syndicate operates beyond conventional hardware.]
[Direct synchronization with heir's cognitive processing detected.]
Vincent's brows furrowed. "Synchronization?" He shook his head. "You're saying… you're inside my damn mind?"
[Correction: Integrated with heir's perception.]
[System functions exist within non-physical construct.]
[Hardware dependency eliminated.]
His jaw tightened. The answers weren't making things any clearer.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Just show me the answers in text or something. Hearing you in my head is messing with me."