The dining table was made of reinforced glass, without a single imperfection. No tablecloth, no decoration, no memory. Just straight lines, precise angles, and a sense of emptiness designed with intent. Across from him, his mother sipped protein tea. She did so in silence, with efficient movements, without looking at the floating news feed broadcasting headlines about a military operation in Warsaw's Black Zone. To his left, his father's seat remained empty. He hadn't returned from the night shift yet.
Álvaro sat upright, as if his spine had titanium inserts. He didn't know if he should speak. If it was normal to have breakfast together. If this ritual was habitual or an exception. His earlier memories were blurry, as if they belonged to someone else.
Because they did.
He wasn't hungry.
"You have a physical evaluation today," his mother said, without taking her eyes off the pad projecting over the table. "The hospital report is already in your file. No damage. Just a slight calibration delay. Nothing HR is concerned about."
He nodded. Reflexively. It was expected.
In this household, feelings weren't discussed. They were archived.
He looked at her, analyzing her as if she were a recon target.
Carmen Delgado. 39 years old. Second-tier executive, legal compliance division. INFRADOM S.A. Total dedication. Low-risk profile. Promotions stalled due to prioritizing family stability.
All data matched. But her face… the face he was supposed to feel as "mother"… felt like a hologram. Perfect. Inaccessible.
"May I ask something?"
She looked at him for the first time that morning.
"Of course."
"Is Dad still on the same project?"
She hesitated for a second. Just a pause. But enough for a trained mind like his.
"Yes. Tactical scenario evaluation. Military contract oversight. He's working with Frankfurt now. A lot of data exchange with Militech this quarter."
Evaluation of scenarios. Contracts. Frankfurt. Militech.
Álvaro logged it all mentally. He needed to reconstruct the network. To know what world he was in. What part of the chessboard he'd been placed on.
"Will I see him today?"
"If he's back in time for dinner."
That answered nothing. But it didn't matter.
He finished his drink. Stood up. And without another word, walked to his room. The doors opened automatically, recognizing his biopattern.
Everything was exactly the same as before. But he wasn't.
He couldn't act strange. Couldn't raise suspicion.
But it was hard.
Hard to smile at a mother he didn't remember. Hard to ask about a father he didn't know. Hard to fake normality in a world that used to be fiction.
He stood before the bathroom mirror.
His face. The same as always. But younger. Cleaner. Without the dark circles of an adult burned by life. Without the emotional scars of having lived two decades in a land without chrome.
That face was a corporate canvas: neat, efficient, prepared.
He touched it with his fingertips, as if to make sure it wasn't a projection.
"I'm inside," he thought.
And he still didn't know how to play.
He returned to his room. The door shut behind him with a pneumatic whisper. The silence was absolute, impeccable. Not the uncomfortable void of a dead place, but the perfect calm of an optimized environment.
Everything in that room was arranged with precision: from the hospital-grade bed to the floating desk, not a speck of dust nor a line out of place. A space designed for performance, yes—but also for focus.
The room wasn't cold: it was functional. Efficient. Beautiful in its own way. With sober colors, regulated lighting, and smart surfaces that adapted to user needs. Minimalism wasn't an aesthetic whim—it was a philosophy.
Every object had a purpose. Every absence, a reason.
An ordered life is an ordered mind.
The desk recognized his presence and activated the terminal. The system projected its interface onto a floating screen.
Welcome, Reinos. 98.2% brain efficiency.Last recorded session: 9 days ago.
He opened the files. Everything was in place. Tactical simulations, academic reports, cybersecurity projects. No distractions, no excess.
Álvaro felt almost intimidated by how impeccable his former self had been. Though he didn't remember it, he could respect the discipline.
No photos, no personal messages, no music. Just the essentials.
And that, deep down, said good things about him.
The calendar was filled with training, physical routines, simulations, evaluations. From 06:00 to 21:00, every minute seemed dedicated to honing a skill. But it wasn't slavery. It was investment.
Time is an asset.
He reviewed the psychological reports. All within optimal range. But one stood out:
"Patient shows signs of moderate cognitive fatigue. Temporary reduction in academic load recommended. Rejected by legal guardian."
Not surprising. He knew the kind of love this household practiced: demanding, absolute, result-based. But it wasn't coldness. It was trust.
His parents didn't demand excellence out of vanity. They did it because they believed in his ability to achieve it.
Behind a narrow slot in the bathroom mirror, he found a paper. A handwritten note.
"Don't forget Dad's advice: Fear isn't weakness. It's calibration."Signed: Luis R.
He smiled, just barely.
This Álvaro felt fear.And his father, instead of repressing it, had taught him to sharpen it.
Perfect.
Let's continue from there:
Álvaro, left with an impression from his father's note, decides—more out of technical curiosity than emotion—to check his neural interface. What he finds surprises him: his brain efficiency isn't 98.2%… it's 170.4%. But staying true to his nature, he doesn't flinch. He notes it down. And moves on.
He lay down on the perfectly made bed, without disturbing it. The smart material subtly adjusted to his temperature, calibrating pressure and support. He closed his eyes.
He wasn't sleeping. He was calculating.
Estimated time since the accident: three days.Official diagnosis: simulation error.No clinical follow-up. Stable environment. No suspicion.Environment: familiar. Family: functional. Immediate danger: none.Maneuverability: under evaluation.
He inhaled deeply. The air was filtered, with a constant density of oxygen and INFRADOM-authorized cognitive-regulation particles. It didn't smell like anything.
As it should be.
He sat back up. Looked at the pad on the desk. Something itched inside him.
Not anxiety.Not doubt.Technical curiosity.
If he was going to operate in this body, he had to know its parameters.
He activated the internal console. The system requested biometric validation. The retinal scanner blinked.
Authenticated.
A gray interface with crimson accents opened. The INFRADOM logo rotated in the upper-right corner.
User: Álvaro Reinos ID: REI-NS76 Access: Level 2 — Internal / Tactical Training / Strategic Simulation Neurological Status: synchronizing Projected Cognitive Capacity: 170.4% baseline efficiency
He stared at the number for a second. Without blinking.
170.4%.
It wasn't a reading error. The system didn't allow glitches that obvious without throwing alerts. No flickering, no sign of corruption. Just a stable data point, bolded, validated by the medical core.
He closed the tab.
Didn't react. Didn't say a word.
Of course. Something had changed.
His mind wasn't that of a seventeen-year-old. Not in essence.His memory wasn't what it should be. Nor his reasoning. Nor his judgment. Nor his awareness.
But for the system to register it… that was something else.
"This could be useful."
That was all.
He stood, left the pad on passive mode, and moved to the wardrobe.
The training uniform was ready, hanging and neatly pressed by the domestic assistant's servomechanisms. He put it on without haste. Everything fit perfectly, down to the last sensor embedded in the wrist and collar.
He was going to meet his father.And he had questions.
Not emotional.Not existential.Operational.
The dining room was optimally lit, synced to the household's circadian cycle. The table, minimalist in design, hovered just above the floor, stabilized to prevent vibration. Everything functioned with precision and automation.
His mother was already seated, reviewing legal documents on her pad. She greeted him with a slight nod, no smile. Yet her eyes lingered on him a second longer than usual.
Moments later, the front door emitted its distinctive triple-authorization tone. Firm steps echoed.
The system identified the last family member and adjusted the environment to his biometric parameters.
Luis Reinos entered, his uniform slightly wrinkled at the bottom of his jacket—a sign of a long day in front of a tactical console. He placed his briefcase on the entry console, opened it with a gesture, and took out a sealed military tablet, which he set quietly against the wall.
"Punctual," Carmen said, without looking up.
"Corporate routes from Frankfurt get priority. Hard to be late," he replied, sitting across from Álvaro.
He observed him briefly, like someone checking a terminal before starting a simulation. No visible emotion, but no coldness either.
"You're more awake than I expected," he said. "Good."
It wasn't praise. It was a statement.
"I already feel synchronized," Álvaro replied.
The meal was served automatically from integrated modules in the table. Three different dishes, nutritionally calibrated for each of them. Álvaro noticed his had a slight protein overload—a post-rehab boost. It wasn't mentioned. It was simply done.
"Do you remember your routines?" his father asked.
"Yes. I reviewed them this afternoon."
Luis nodded in silence and took a sip of his vitamin supplement. The conversation paused.
In other homes, such silence might feel awkward. Here, it didn't. It was a form of communication in itself, where every sentence was measured and necessary. Everything else was noise.
Still, amid that choreography of efficiency, Álvaro began to notice the gestures:
His mother serving him first.His father placing his work pad to the side, left inactive.The way Carmen discreetly ensured her drink was at the ideal temperature before sipping.The way Luis scanned his face just two seconds longer than necessary.
Expressions of affection, corpo version.
"You've lost muscle tone," his mother observed, without judgment.
"I'll recover it in under a week," Álvaro replied.
Luis exhaled slightly through his nose. Not a laugh—more like a nod.
"That's my son. Nothing more. Nothing less."
They continued eating.
Álvaro didn't try to fill the silence. He listened. Observed. Analyzed.
Everything matched.
No dissonance. No tension.They noticed nothing strange.They suspected nothing.
To them, he was still him.
"Your next evaluation will be with Deputy Director López," Luis finally said, checking his pad. "They want to confirm whether you've maintained the performance the hospital recorded. If you exceed 92%, you might qualify for the tactical group this quarter."
Álvaro set his cutlery down and straightened his back.
"Isn't it too early for that?"
Luis looked at him directly.
"Do you think you're not ready?"
It wasn't a challenge. It was a real, technical question.
"I think I'm more than ready."
His father held his gaze for a couple of seconds, then nodded naturally.
"Then there's no problem."
They continued eating in silence.