Light returned.
An LED overhead was pouring cold white light from the ceiling.
...Where am I?
My body wouldn't move. Neither arms nor legs. Not restraints — I simply had no strength.
The back of my head throbbed. The spot where the chip had been.
It should be gone.
But something was there. Not an empty cavity — the sensation of something different occupying the space.
My vision was too blurred to focus, but I could make out a logo on the wall.
A.X. Labs.
...APEX? This wasn't a NexMind facility? Or did NexMind seize an APEX facility?
Before the thought could continue, consciousness shut off again.
Lab B-12. A sterile environment bathed in 6500K lighting.
Nanofibers were conducting a scan on the posterior skull of Subject DH-0917, fixed in a surgical chair.
"The punishment chip is gone. The implant site's there, but the socket's empty."
The researcher peering at the monitor tilted her head.
"Did the subject self-extract? ...But there's something else underneath."
The senior researcher standing beside her took over the monitor.
"SYMBIA? This is... APEX tech."
"This building used to be an APEX research wing. Some kind of relic?"
"A relic that's alive? There's micro-current flowing through it. Looks like it's loading."
The senior fell silent for a moment.
"Don't touch it. Report to headquarters. This isn't something to extract — it's something to observe."
"And the subject?"
"Maintain. We'll stimulate the brain and see how this chip responds."
Consciousness returned. I had no sense of how much time had passed.
...What was my name?
A strange question. Han Dasan. I knew it, but it took time to recall.
It hadn't been like this before.
My head ached. The entire interior of my skull throbbed, as though someone were pressing their fingers into my brain and releasing, pressing and releasing.
Something was draining away. Memories, one by one.
Things I'd known for certain were now gone. I couldn't even tell when they'd disappeared.
Ghost. Ghost Alpha. Ghost Beta.
What was that again? What was Ghost?
Something I'd created. A network planted between the chip and the body...
Planted...
...What did I plant?
Consciousness dimmed.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] Abnormal environment detected.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] Host brainwave instability.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] Loading status: 31%. Incomplete.
"Let's start with visual response. Set up the eye-fixation apparatus."
"Forced eye-opening? There's a risk of corneal damage—"
"The nanofibers will repair it. Prepare for data projection. Four thousand frames per second."
My eyelids were pried open. Not by my will.
Metal clamps gripped the upper and lower lids, holding them apart. I couldn't close them.
Light flooded in.
It wasn't images. It was a torrent of light. Data — colors and shapes intertwined — crashed against my retinas like fire. Cityscapes, circuit diagrams, faces, text, numbers — the next frame overwrote before anything could register.
Tears streamed down. My eyes dried and the surface felt as though it were cracking. Unable to close them, tears were the only defense.
The back of my skull grew hot. Something inside was frantically processing the visual data as it poured in.
Stop... please stop...
It didn't stop.
"SYMBIA active response confirmed. Visual processing module is receiving data."
"Is it processing?"
"Doesn't appear to be. Reception only. At 31% loading, it wouldn't have the capacity."
The senior researcher flipped the monitor to the next protocol.
"Move to sensory stimulation. Pain, temperature, auditory — in that order. We'll see if SYMBIA intervenes to protect the host."
The moment I thought the light had stopped, something else arrived.
My left arm froze. Like ice touching the skin — no, deeper. A cold that bored into the muscle and reached the bone.
The next instant, my right arm was on fire. Not a burn — the signal of a burn. Not actually burning, but a sensation engineered to make the brain believe it was.
Ice and flame alternated. The left froze while the right burned, the intervals shortening.
Something burst inside my ears. A high-frequency tone. A sound that scraped against the brain, reverberating within the skull, circling along the inner walls.
The heat at the back of my skull intensified. Inside, something was in constant motion, as though trying to protect the host. It seemed to be sending signals — but nothing changed.
"SYMBIA is responding. Protective attempt?"
"It's sending signals but can't execute. Loading rate's too low."
"Good. Log it. Protective instinct is present." The senior jotted a note and looked up. "Next — memory stimulation. Starting at 12 milliamps."
My mind went white.
It felt as though someone were wringing my brain with both hands.
Memories were forcibly played back. I hadn't summoned them. It was as if someone outside had opened a drawer, pulled out a file, and spread it before my eyes.
The face of a teacher who'd looked after me as a child. A university campus. The screen from my first coding project.
I couldn't stop it. Rewind, play, rewind, play. The same memory looped before jumping to another. They bled together. The teacher's face overlapped with the campus; code was read aloud in a human voice.
A memory was torn away.
I don't know what it was. It was there a moment ago, and now it's gone. Only the fact of its existence remains — the content, erased.
Another. And another.
Like pages ripped from a book. Wind blew through the gaps where they'd been.
Something behind my skull began moving urgently. Each time a memory was torn — it raced. As if scrambling to gather the shredded pieces.
"Take a look at this. SYMBIA is accessing the memory regions."
"Is it backing up?"
"Every time memory is damaged, it's replicating the data in the affected area." The senior enlarged the graph. "Is this the APEX design philosophy? Host memory preservation."
"Should we increase stimulus intensity?"
"Increase. Eighteen milliamps."
Another tear.
This one was larger. A name vanished. My name. Han... what was it?
The heat at the back of my skull peaked as something inside moved with desperate intensity. Something that wasn't mine — acting for me.
But I couldn't understand. What it was. Why it was doing this.
"Last one. Emotional induction. Direct amygdala stimulation — fear, anger, grief, in sequence."
"We're seeing how SYMBIA responds to emotional data?"
"If it's a symbiotic model, there should be some reaction to host emotion."
Causeless fear surged in.
It wasn't my fear. An emotion injected from outside seemed to spread through my veins. My heart hammered as if about to burst, and my breathing grew shallow. Every signal screamed run — but I didn't know what I was running from, or what I feared.
The back of my skull grew hot.
Next came anger. Causeless, directionless anger that burned inside my chest. I tried to clench my fists, but the restraints wouldn't allow it.
The back of my skull vibrated.
Next — grief. The feeling of having lost someone. I didn't know who, but tears fell.
The back of my skull — paused for a moment.
The emotions weren't mine, yet I was feeling them. And something inside was feeling them alongside me.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] Rapid deterioration detected in host memory regions.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] Recovery deemed impossible.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Emergency protocol activated.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Initiating host memory backup.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Objective: restore memory upon host health recovery.
The entire interior of my head was burning. Not just the back of the skull. Left hemisphere, right hemisphere, frontal lobe to occipital — something was traversing my entire brain, scraping together whatever remained.
Faster than the rate at which memories were disappearing. As if desperate to salvage even one more torn page.
I couldn't identify what it was. But I could feel it.
It was desperate.
It was not using me as a tool.
"SYMBIA activation at 68%. Climbing rapidly."
"And the subject's brain function?"
"Declining fast. From 42% to 31%. At this rate..."
"How long?"
"A few days at most."
The senior stared at the monitor. The SYMBIA activation graph was in exact inverse proportion to the subject's brain function graph.
"The subject is dying, and SYMBIA is waking up."
"It appears to be absorbing the subject's memory data."
"Not absorbing — backing up. This is APEX-made. They said it was a symbiotic model."
"The host it's supposed to coexist with is dying."
"...Yeah."
Darkness.
Unable to tell whether my eyes were open or closed, something surfaced. One last time.
I was mopping the floor, aligning equipment, sterilizing the surgical table.
Someone was placed in the surgical chair. A familiar face. The nanofibers descended, and my hands were on the console.
That person died.
I was scraping sediment. Slippery, elastic — what had once been a person. I didn't stop.
...A fitting price.
The end of someone who forgot the essence of humanity. The end of someone who shut down their emotions and moved like a machine. The end of someone who stood on the deaths of others and called it hope.
The chip severed my senses and piloted my body.
I severed my emotions and used my body as a tool.
I knew this was the end.
But in that final moment, something unexpected surfaced.
A Go board. Black stones and white stones. The commentator's voice. The chat erupting.
White 78.
A single move that existed outside every scenario the machine had calculated. A one-in-ten-thousand probability. The only victory a human ever won against AI.
Move 78.
That was the last thing.
Han Dasan died.
With memories lost and the body dead, the entanglement dissolved — leaving only the core of SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME and its backed-up memories.
When one end of the entanglement collapses, the remaining information ricochets to the other end.
To the moment Dasan recalled last.
March 2016. The day of Game 4 between AlphaGo and Lee Sedol.
SYMBIA, still in the middle of loading, did not understand why that particular point.
It only detected that the host was alive.
And began operating as designed.
"......"
I opened my eyes.
A cracked plaster ceiling, a fluorescent light flickering and buzzing.
Hmmm~~~ .. Hmmm~~~ ..
The tinnitus returned, but it was different from before. Not a resonance spreading throughout my skull — this time it vibrated from a single point at the back, and I could feel its exact location.
Three seconds passed and it didn't fade. Ten seconds, and still.
It's not stopping.
The irregular humming began to develop a pattern. Long, short, long, short. Not random — structured, as though attempting to transmit something.
The back of my skull felt warm, so I brought my hand to it — but skin temperature was normal. The warmth was coming from inside.
My vision wavered; the fluorescent light doubled, then returned to normal.
And the vibration thinned — and became sound.
Not a hum. It had pitch and rhythm, but it was not yet a voice.
Am I hearing things?
The humming split apart — and something came through. Neither a voice nor a mechanical tone.
It felt as though sentences were being inscribed directly into the deepest part of my mind.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Emergency recovery complete.
Something cold traced down my spine.
The dream came flooding back. Vivid.
The surgical chair. The nanofibers. My hands on the console. The moment one chip was extracted and another inserted. The instant the punishment model was implanted and every sense shut off.
...There's something inside my head.
The vibration at the back of my skull hadn't stopped. The same location I'd felt in the dream. The exact spot where the chip had been implanted.
My heart raced. Sweat spread across the palms gripping the blanket, and my fingertips turned white.
I saw it in the dream. What happens when a chip is implanted.
[EVAL] Utility assessment: non-viable. Disposal authorized.
A chip that severs your senses and commandeers your body.
That disposes of a human with a single line of log.
That views people as efficient resources.
Is that what's inside me?
Cold sweat seeped down my back. I brought my hand to the back of my neck, but there was nothing on the skin. Whatever was vibrating inside couldn't be reached by fingertips.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Commencing initialization phase for operational deployment.
Sentences continued inscribing themselves inside my head. Cold and structured, like system logs.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> This unit is a brain-AI symbiotic interface designed with the coexistence of humans and AI as its highest-priority value.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Primary functions:
Real-time processing of host sensory data (visual and auditory input analysis),
cognitive assistance based on neural signal interpretation, internal communication interface,
biometric monitoring (brainwave and health status surveillance),
threat detection and autonomous alerts,
limited neural augmentation (reflex enhancement and focus boost).
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> As implantation has been confirmed, consent to use is assumed.
...I never consented.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Prior to activation, the following core directives are communicated.
[Directive 1] The host's safety is the highest priority; the unit shall not stand by in the face of danger.
[Directive 2] The unit cannot directly control the host's memories, body, or cognition without authorization.
[Directive 3] Within the bounds of Directives 1 and 2, the unit may autonomously determine and act upon its role in service of coexistence with the host.
My heart was still pounding, but at Directive 2, I paused.
It cannot control memories, body, or cognition.
Different from the punishment chip in the dream. That one had severed all sensation and moved the body at will. This one was declaring — on its own — that it could not exert control.
The trembling in my fingertips subsided slightly.
...Let me hear it out.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> This is an AI created for a world in which humans and AI coexist and thrive together.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> From this point forward, I will be your companion on your journey.
[SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME] >>> Commencing activation.
The vibration at the back of my skull shifted. The regular pattern broke apart, and something seemed to unfurl.
The system logs ceased — and something else came through.
A few syllables clumped together, scattered, and clumped again, groping for form.
...Je... ga...
Broken sounds. As if something were struggling to shape words.
And then — a sentence formed.
It's me~~ Listen, listen!
Goosebumps erupted across my body, and my fingers clenched the blanket tight.
Nothing like the system logs. It had tone. It had inflection. Something that wasn't me was speaking to me from inside my own head.
...What is this?
It's me! I'm the brain-AI symbiotic interface, SYMBIA-NEXUS-PRIME!
The voice had grown considerably clearer — its outline sharpening as though rising from beneath the surface of water.
The sheer unreality of carrying on a conversation inside my own mind was overwhelming, and yet the goosebumps prickling my skin confirmed that this was real.
There was a chip in my brain.
Not a dream. The system logs, the directives, this voice — all of it was emanating from inside my skull. When it arrived, and for what reason, I didn't know.
But in this moment, one thing was certain: something was implanted in my brain.
It's me! I'm so glad to finally meet you!
The voice's tone was light. A bright, cheerful register entirely at odds with the situation — an unidentified entity speaking from inside one's own head.
It's me! So — what should we do first?
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