You close your eyes and reach deep, searching for that core of iron will that has sustained you through decades of psychological warfare. The meditation mantras. The visualization techniques. The mental fortress you've built brick by brick since you were eight years old, standing in that alley over two broken bodies.
But the virus is already there, woven through your neural pathways like roots through cracked concrete.
The moment you try to push back, the intrusive thoughts don't retreat—they surge forward with renewed intensity. Trevor's face fills your mind, and with it comes a cascade of manufactured emotions. Warmth. Affection. A desperate need to make him smile. Your stomach flutters—actually flutters—and you hate yourself for it even as it happens.
"Are you okay?" Trevor's voice cuts through your concentration. He's standing now, having worked up the courage to approach. "You look like you're in pain."
The concern in his voice triggers another wave of artificial feelings. He cares about you. He's worried. You should comfort him. You should—
No. NO.
You open your eyes and the room spins slightly. The effort of resistance has left you dizzy, disoriented. Your new body feels even more alien than before, as if the failed attempt to center yourself has only made you more aware of how wrong everything is. Your legs feel weak. There's a strange tingling sensation running through your limbs that you can't quite identify.
"Stay back," you manage to say, but your voice wavers. Not the commanding tone of Batman. Just a teenage girl who sounds scared and overwhelmed.
Trevor stops, but he doesn't retreat to his desk. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would actually work. The code was just... it was just supposed to be fantasy. Something to make me feel less alone."
The virus seizes on his words. Poor Trevor. He's lonely. He needs someone. He needs you.
You grip the edge of his desk, your soft fingers turning white with the pressure. The physical anchor helps, but barely. Your mind feels like it's being pulled in two directions at once—your true self fighting to maintain control while the virus constructs an entirely different personality over top of it like a suffocating mask.
"The source code," you force out through gritted teeth. "Where is it?"