Chapter 1: The Weight of Shadows
The bell above the bookstore door jingled softly as Jason Harrison slipped inside, unnoticed by the mother and child leaving with their purchase. The scent of potpourri and printed books wrapped around him like a quiet embrace—one of the few places where his awkwardness felt less like a flaw and more like a shadow he could live with.
The concept was evolving—an intricate weave of meditation, digital architecture, and artificial intelligence. Jason wasn’t just building a program; he was crafting a gateway. Each line of code was designed to slip beneath the surface, embedding ideas not in the conscious mind, but in the deep vaults of memory and denial. It wasn’t hypnosis. It was infiltration. A way to reach the places where guilt festered and cruelty hid. And once complete, it would be his reckoning.
He’d been working on it for months, refining and redefining an idea too complex for anyone to understand. He wasn't even fully aware of which direction this was leading him. He only knew that this needed to be executed to the letter for the program to work. The only thing on his mind right now is creating a force—something beyond mere retaliation, so that his tormentors would never see it coming.
Jason was frail, super intelligent, and often lost in thought—his mind a labyrinth of code, riddles, and half-formed theories. He split his time between the bookstore, the online battlefield of World of Wars, and a project so intricate even his closest friends couldn’t follow. They called him brilliant, strange, sometimes unreadable. But Jason didn’t mind. He’d spent years being misunderstood..
Frustrated by the constant mental torment, he is developing a program that he believes will combat a situation in a city filled with thugs who have been plaguing him since grade school. In a district divided into 10 distinct sections due to zoning, each more heinous than the other. As a rule, people moved to areas they could afford and where they felt safest. But it always seemed that the gangs of troublemakers who ruled Sector 10 were hell bent on taking over the whole city and found great pleasure in breaking through barriers and ignoring boundaries just to cause chaos. Fear of a rebellion felt inevitable.
After stocking the book shelves, he settled behind the counter of the bookstore, withdrew his notebook, and opened it to the latest entry. The concept that he was working on was evolving, with layers of meditation techniques intersecting with digital pathways to emails and artificial intelligence, making them more than just messages; they would be gateways. Each line is crafted not only to communicate but also to embed ideas deeply within the reader’s subconscious. This wasn't to be some hypnotist's trick; it would be designed to tap into and go well below the surface, deep into the subconscious, to where all deeply guarded pasts sought refuge, where he could gain power by entering their subconscious. Into places locked away, sheltered by denial. Things that were meant to remain guarded and isolated below the surface of their evil minds, A place where evil things lay dormant, suppressed, and haunted them the most, ready to uncoil like a snake. But once this project is complete, he will rely on the program to settle the score with all his oppressors and tormentors. Even now, as he writes, each breath rises and falls with excitement as he thinks about the possibilities.
A customer interrupted his thoughts, placing a copy of one of Shakespeare's works, Julius Caesar, on the counter with a curt nod. His father loves Shakespeare, and he had spent years quoting passages that now echoed in his mind. Cowards die many times before their deaths.
His fingers lingered over the register's keys before ringing up the purchase as thoughts returned to his dad's favorite passage. It wasn’t cowardice driving him. It was something else. Something irreversible. He had suffered long enough under the brunt of self-entitled kids who enjoyed a dominant status over others. What they need is a lesson in humility. A permanent thought alteration.
Chapter 2: Seeds of an Idea
Back home, Jason retreated into his sanctuary—a bedroom barely eight feet wide, its walls plastered with anime posters and shelves lined with action figures, trophies of quiet obsessions. Most were picked up during his bookstore shifts, small comforts in a world that rarely made space for him. His only connection beyond these walls came through glowing screens and pixelated voices—Evelyn, a fellow classmate; Kalin, her brother; and Mark, whom he's known since they were kids.
Jason had been adopted at five months old by a childless couple who gave him love, but not always time. His father, a Shakespeare-quoting college professor, and his mother, a middle school math teacher, recognized his brilliance early—but not the shadows that followed him. They knew about the bullying but just had no solutions other than, as best he could, stand his ground. Their home offices flanked his bedroom, separated by silence and the occasional shuffle of papers. He preferred it that way. Small talk felt like static. He had his own entrance, his own world. And even in his controlled, isolated world, the cruel messages kept coming.
He spends hours locked in his room, testing each stage of his program's development. He writes down every conceivable way to implement devious avenues of retribution, adding them to his notes. His parents, aware of the long hours he'd spend locked in his room, began to worry about them, and between work and school, it may be taking a toll on him. They rarely saw him anymore—not that they had anyway—because he had a side door that led directly from his room to an outdoor garden path; he never really had to make contact with his parents at all. If it weren't for the late-night sound of the microwave timer on his kitchen snack raids and the opening and closing of his side bedroom door, they wouldn't know if he was alive.
Jason sat in front of his glowing monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But before diving into his favorite gaming site, he scanned the latest hate messages—same names, same venom. He logged each one meticulously into his notebook. Not out of obsession, but preparation. Then, to quiet the storm inside his brain, he clicked through a few comedy shorts. Laughter was rare, but sometimes, it helped.
Around 2:30 a.m., just as he was about to log into a game, an ad flickered in the corner of his screen. Social Mind Control and Meditation it read: Learn how to influence and control others. Something about it felt... off. Not like the self-help books he’d skimmed. This was darker. He clicked. A free ten-minute trial. A soft, quiet voice beckoned him to take the next step. He followed the instructions, closed his eyes, and counted backward. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. And then—something shifted.
A vision appeared to him as if it were real. By integrating it with an AI system, he can delve more deeply into the subconscious when solving puzzles. This knowledge will take him far beyond Samadi's level and into a state of superconsciousness, where he will discover the thing he desires most: a way to enact revenge on his tormentors. In a program designed to be enlightening, he vows to find a way to alter it. Using his computer and algorithms, his plan is to transform the system to recognize and retrieve information on specific individuals, identify hidden weaknesses in the subconscious, and extract that information for exploitation. On the surface, it sounded impossible. But Jason didn’t care. The desire for retaliation burned brighter than caution. He would teach them humility—not through violence, but through transformation. His system would identify psychological patterns, trace the roots of cruelty, and expose the fractures beneath their bravado. He wasn’t just building software. He was building a mirror. One they couldn’t look away from.
Jason opened a new file. He titled it Phase One. The cursor blinked, waiting. And so it began.
Chapter 3: Threads of Thought
During the lunch break between classes at the college, Mark spotted Jason alone at the back of the cafeteria, hunched over a scattering of books—meditation, cybersecurity, and advanced psychology. Jason’s isolation wasn’t new, but something about his posture felt different. Tense. Consumed.
Mark approached, but Jason stood abruptly, gathering his books and brushing past him like a shadow late for class.
Mark (tilting his head): “What’s with all the books?”
Jason (without slowing): “I’ll tell you later. Meet me out front after class.”
Mark (calling out): “Not working the bookstore today?”
Jason turned, nodded once, and disappeared into the crowd.
Outside the college’s main entrance, Mark waited. Jason arrived with the same stack of books, his eyes distant.
Mark: “So? You’re carrying the strangest syllabus I’ve ever seen.”
Jason: “I’m developing a program to identify people with Antisocial Personality Disorder.”
Mark (raising an eyebrow): “Don’t they already have tests for that? Is this part of your... meditation-cyber-psychology cocktail?”
[They continued their conversation while walking towards Mark's apartment building.]
They climbed to the roof of the building, five stories above the street. Wind tugged at their jackets. Below, headlights smeared across wet pavement like restless stars.
Mark (genuinely curious): “Meditation, cybersecurity, AI, algorithms... What’s going on in your head, man?”
Jason: “Six months of planning. Research. Design. I’m close. This program—it’s going to fix something I’ve carried for years.”
Mark: “Fix or fracture? You’re messing with the subconscious. That’s not just risky—it’s dangerous.”
Jason: “I’ve done the work. I know what I’m doing. Just... don’t tell anyone. Evelyn knows a little, but that’s it.”
Mark: “You’re building something that could unravel people. How did this even start?”
Jason: “Necessity. Pain. You dig deep enough, you find answers.”
Mark (softly): “You’ve changed. Remember that poem you wrote in grade school? Fire is memory…”
Jason (smirking): “Ashes are regrets. Yeah. I remember.”
Mark: “This isn’t a project. It’s a furnace.”
A siren wailed in the distance. Jason slowly turns his head toward the flashing red and blue lights as they fade into the dark.
Jason (quietly): “You think I’m burning myself?”
Mark (stepping closer): “No. I think you’re burning everything else—and forgetting you still have to live in the smoke.”
Jason exhaled sharply. The tension wasn’t anger. It was grief, tightly wound.
Jason: “If I stop now, all I’ll have are fragments. If I stop now, everything I’ve built will mean nothing.”
Mark: “And if you keep going, all you’ll leave are shadows. What’s it really about?”
Jason: “Revenge, my friend. Revenge.”Mark: “Evelyn’s been asking about you. She misses your raids on War of Worlds.”
Jason said nothing, leaned over the edge, watching the city blur beneath him. Mark joined him, silent, uneasy.
Without a word, Jason turned and disappeared through the rooftop door, descending into the cold, rising wind.
Chapter 4. The Hidden Whisper:
Evelyn, a once-mysterious online figure, stumbled upon Jason in a gaming forum and discovered that they attend the same college. They must have passed each other hundreds of times in the hallways without knowing. Jason and Evelyn have forged a good relationship. The main benefit of their friendship is that he can communicate with her without judgment.
Evenlyn has gotten bits and pieces of his project from their short conversations, but Jason is reluctant to reveal the full picture. He has been unusually quiet lately, and she is trying to understand why he's been so distant.
(Chat text, cellphone, onscreen) Evelyn: (typing)
"You've stopped showing up at raids. Something wrong, everything okay?
Jason: (typing)
"I've been grinding at a different kind of enemy."
Evelyn: "Family, boss fight, or is your project getting the best of you?"
Jason: "More like a pain that won't leave."
Evelyn: "You always talk like a noir script. You know you can log off, right?"
Jason: "Some guests don't have logout options."
Evelyn: "Guess I like our little online alliance. Nothing heavy, it's just late-night weirdness."
Jason: "I guess you're one of the few that I've found that doesn't come off negatively."
Evelyn can sense that something is wrong and eases out of the conversation."Keep your soul in the save file, okay?" The puzzle remains unclear, but she doesn't press the issue any further.
Jason exhaled through his nose—a soft scoff or maybe a sigh —Evelyn never knew the full extent of what he was chasing. But the impact of her words has a strange presence, like hitting a nerve spot in his armor he didn't know he had.
Away from school, she was never more than pixels and messages on the computer. But strangely, in the world of masks, she never attempted to fix him. Just lean in, ask questions, stay curious.
On screen, he highlighted her user name. He half-smiled, then clicked away.
Dream Sequence
Once at home and tired from the day's events, he reclines in his computer chair, his head staring upward, his legs stretched under the desk. Then falls asleep thinking about Evelyn's words. As he fades into a deeper sleep, images of an abandoned cathedral flicker with lines of code, constellations pulse across the ceiling like digital stars. Jason stands alone in this vast chamber, the floor made of glass, reflecting fragments of conversations never finished.
He hears footsteps—each accompanied by a static hum. Then, she appears: Evenly. Rendered in pixelated grace, yet familiar. Her avatar flickers between shadows and light.
Evelyn:
"You logged out, but you never left."
Jason (softly):
"But it's strange, I never stopped hearing you. Even in silence."
She walks toward him, her presence both human and coded. Around them, forgotten messages scroll across the air like prayers.
Evelyn:
"Your words used to build worlds. Now they chase ghosts."
Jason: "I thought that I could build a fire to purify. But evidently, I only know how to burn."
Evelyn (gentle, glitching slightly):
"There’s no redemption in deletion; it's always there somewhere. You'll have to rewrite. Not a story—but the truth."
The cathedral trembles. Sections of the walls begin to collapse into nothing. Evenlyn reaches out, touching his chest. Her hand leaves a faint blue glow.
Evelyn: "In a soft, caring voice."
"Don’t carry me like a wound. Carry me like a compass."
Jason:
"You were the voice between my lines. You were always present even when we stopped typing."
Evelyn:
"Then let this be my final respawn. Not in pain—but in purpose."
She fades, not abruptly—but as if uploading somewhere else. A final message appears midair, scrolling slowly across the dream’s ceiling:
“Truth is pressure. Let it press. Let it purify.”
Jason woke in silence. The room was dark, and the hum of his computer was the only sound. In his mind, he's still trying to put the dream into perspective. What does it all mean? What was the purpose? His fingers were resting on the keyboard, unmoving. On screen, the page was open. The cursor blinked—steady, patient, like a question. He needed more time to solve the riddle; maybe a night's sleep would yield an answer, or it would remain out of reach.
Chapter 5. The Blueprint Takes Shape:
After months of testing, the moment arrived. Jason sat at his computer, hypnotized by the screen’s glow. One final check—every gateway, every connection. A single error could collapse the entire system. His breath matched the pulse of anticipation. He pressed Enter.
The screen blinked off. Then returned.
“So far, so good.”
He exhaled sharply, sinking into his chair. Now came the question: what to call this new program? Something ominous. Something unforgettable. Something biblical. Thinking back on his younger days at church, when he listened to Father Elias speak about the many miracles of Jesus, the name Lazarus came clearly to mind.
The Lazarus Project.
Lazarus—the man Jesus raised from the dead. A symbol of resurrection. But also of buried things unearthed. Secrets. Shadows. Jason liked the duality. It sounded holy. And sinister.
As a beneficiary of the first test, Jake Mathews will receive the honor. An arrogant, cruel human. A key member of a section 10 gang who hung out on the school campus to accost students. One of the many who had made Jason’s life a theater of humiliation. He opened up his notebook to the first name on his list, Jake Mathews. Within a split second of entering his name into the program, Lazarus pulled up Jake’s social media profile—likes, dislikes, digital footprints. The algorithm mapped his habits, revealing a preference for aggressive forums and toxic commentary.
Perfect.
Lazarus was now live—linked to email systems, coded with delta waves designed to slip into the hippocampus, the vault of memory and identity. Triggered by keywords, the message would guide the listener into a trance, feeding the brain with curated negativity. Not hypnosis. Not a suggestion. Infiltration.
Jason’s goal was complicated but simple at the same time: to corrupt the minds of those who weaponized words. First, his enemies. Then the architects of online cruelty. The program fused theta wave meditation with algorithmic targeting, creating a rabbit hole with no exit.
He compiled a list: Jake Mathews, Arran Davis. Paul Smith and a few others, less essential but evil all the same. Each one a specialist in degradation, their cruelty as casual as breathing. Lazarus would craft irresistible emails—tailored bait, promising power, speed, prestige.
“Learn how to dominate all of the social media platforms just one click. Only serious people who want to take charge should enter. Click the following link.”
They would click. They will always click.
The next day, Jason saw Jake from a distance and called out his name. Jake turned, no words, just a stare—cold, unblinking. Jake looked around, confused. Or was he? His eyes flickered, but his expression remained blank. As if something inside was buffering. Jason expected more. A collapse. A scream. But there was only silence. Perhaps he expected too much, at least more of an indication that Lazarus was having some effect.
Unsatisfied, Jason turned and walked away. Lazarus wasn’t finished. Not yet. Perhaps one more tweak to the program.
One week had passed since Jason completed the final lines of new code. He sat at his desk, heart thudding, eyes locked on the screen. One last check—every gateway, every connection. A single flaw could unravel everything.
He pressed Start.
The screen went dark.
Seconds stretched. His pulse quickened.
Then—light. The interface returned. A breath escaped him, sharp and relieved.
Jason watched the screen, breath held, as Lazarus locked onto Jake Mathews once again. The algorithm pulsed, waiting for Jake to wander into the rabbit hole. Jason had seeded the path with keywords—fragments designed to stir buried memories, to turn thought into torment.
He entered the final commands.
Lazarus took over.
He woke on the floor. Disoriented. The clock blinked 3:03 AM. But the hands pointed to midnight.
No Wi-Fi. One unread message.
Text:
She’s under the floor. You knew that.
He dropped the phone. Was this a dream? A memory?
He stumbled into the kitchen. The tiles felt soft—like clay. He knelt, pressed his palm to the floor. “Warm.”
Then came the sound. The air tasted like copper.
Jake’s hands trembled as he stepped into the hallway; the glow of the screen still burned into his retina like a second sun. Every shadow felt heavy.
In the hallway, shadows thickened. The screen continues burning into his eyes like a second sun.
And then—he saw her.
A girl. Fourteen? Seventeen? Bare feet. Pale dress. Eyes like marble. A face from a dream he never spoke of.
“You left me,” she whispered.
The wallpaper peeled like skin, revealing words beneath:
Don’t forget what you erased.
He reached out. His hand passed through her like smoke.
The hallway stretched. Doors multiplied. Whispers pulsed like a heartbeat.
He opened one door. Inside—his childhood room. Untouched. But wrong.
A drawing on the wall. He’d made it at ten. But now, the stick figure grinned too widely. The sun frowned.
Crayon scrawled beneath:
I buried you here.
“No,” Jake whispered. “No, I never—”
The walls spoke now. A voice, low and rich:
“You did. We watched. And now, so will they.”
He opened one door. Inside—his childhood room. Untouched. But wrong.
A drawing on the wall. He’d made it at ten. But now, the stick figure grinned too widely. The sun frowned.
Crayon scrawled beneath:
I buried you here.
“No,” Jake whispered. “No, I never—”
The walls spoke now. A voice, low and rich:
“You did. We watched. And now, so will they.”
Jake slumped before the monitor. Fingers twitching. The screen glowed:
"I accept what I buried."
Not a command. A confession.
He typed—nonsense, syllables, fragments.
His phone buzzed. A voicemail:
“You opened it. Now we see you.”
It wasn’t just a website. It was a trigger.
The cursor blinked like a heartbeat monitor. Flatlines and false hope.
He hadn’t thought of that night in years. But the memory didn’t ask. It arrived.
“Why?” he typed.
The page didn’t answer. His mind did.
“You promised you’d forget,” echoed a voice—his own, but twisted.
The room dimmed. Not the bulbs. Something behind his eyes.
His skin prickled. Truth had claws.
Thoughts folded into memories. Memories into nightmares. Nightmares into commands.
“I didn’t click,” he whispered. “I was pulled.”
One phrase pulsed:
"The pain makes sense now."
“But what makes sense isn’t safe.”
He laughed. The kind of laugh that should end in tears. But Jake hadn’t cried in twenty years—not since his father’s funeral.
The casket was sealed. But now, the seal was breaking.
He leaned forward. Typed again.
Not for answers. For release.
"I accept what I buried."
Chapter 7. Mark's Warning.
The next evening, Mark met Jason at the town’s central park. Ground lights traced the path like constellations, casting soft shadows beneath neatly trimmed trees. They walked in silence at first, the air between them charged with an unspoken weirdness.
Mark: "Did you hear about that guy, Jake, who had to be restrained in the street in front of his house. Just out of nowhere, he weirded out. They took him to the hospital, and that's all we know for now.
Mark felt a shift in Jason’s energy. Not just an obsession. Something darker. They headed to Nick’s Bar, one of their favorite haunts, two blocks away. Inside, dimly lit lamps hung over cracked leather booths. Outside, the city whispered its secrets through thick glass.
Mark ordered two beers before sliding into their usual booth.
Mark (cautiously):
“I think you’re in over your head. The rituals, the fragments—they don’t add up. They don’t even fit.”
Jason (without looking up):
“And?”
Mark (hesitating):
“I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore.”
Jason: “Truth is just pressure. The kind that forces something new out of what was dead.”
Mark: “Then you’d better hope you survive the pressure.”
Jason turned. The amber light above the booth made him look like a ghost in confession.
Chapter 8. Evenlyn's Concern
Evelyn (video chat):
“Jason, you may think you’ve solved every issue with Lazarus—but have you really?”
Jason: “I’ve run diagnostics. Stress tests. Everything checks out.”
Evelyn: “But what if someone stumbles in without understanding? What if a misclick, a glitch, a blind spot—”
Jason (firm):
“Lazarus is laced with warnings. If they ignore them, that intent has meaning. It’s built for those who revel in harm.”
Evelyn: “Mind if I test the edges? Just to be sure?”
Jason (emphatic): “No. Absolutely not. Lazarus isn’t a sandbox. If you don’t know the sequence, don’t touch it. There’s only one escape route—buried in the Prometheus kill switch. So don’t.”
Evelyn (smirking): “You sound afraid of your own creation.”
After leaving an eleven o'clock class, Mark spotted Evelyn in the campus library, her face lit by the flickering console. She moved with precision—eyes darting, fingers dancing across encrypted layers.
He watched from a distance. Something felt off. Her expression was tight, unreadable. She exited the program quickly when she saw him.
Mark (clearing his throat): “You said the virus activity was contained. Still true?”
Evelyn (softly): “Just noise in the outer sectors. Lazarus is stable. You worry too much.”
Mark (uneasy): “This isn’t just clicks and beeps. And what you’re hearing—it’s more than noise.”
She stood, light catching the edge of her jaw.
Evelyn: “Let Lazarus sleep. Over-analysis breeds paranoia.”
As she walked away, Mark heard the computer click back on. Lazarus initiated a deep scan—unprompted. Threads blinked like whispers. Then silence. Then shut down.
Mark (muttering): “What’s your endgame?”
Evelyn (close behind): “Endgame?”
Mark: “Sometimes I wonder if Lazarus was meant to wake up—or if someone’s been nursing it toward collapse.”
Evelyn (whispering): “It’s not a collapse. It’s cleansing.”
She returned to the console. Her fingers hovered over the interface. A red sequence pulsed: Cognitive Trap Isolation Algorithm.
Evelyn (murmuring): “Trust is data. I’ll be the anomaly.”
She entered Lazarus—not as a victim, but as a skeptic.
The screen dilated. A tunnel of memory loops. Her avatar flickered, then stabilized.
At first, pristine. Then—distortion.
Scenes she didn’t recognize. Emotions she didn’t feel. Choices she never made.
System Alert:
Cognition layer breach. Reconstructive memory override in progress.
Evelyn (startled): “I didn’t authorize that… Lazarus?”
No answer. She was already past the threshold.
The escape protocol was gone.
Her last defense—self-awareness—fractured.
Chapter 9. Jason's Challenge
Jason sat hunched in the bookstore’s breakroom, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Panic clawed at his chest. Evelyn wasn’t just lost in Lazarus—she was lost in him. In the code. In the guilt.
He tapped a panel. An old image flickered to life: Evelyn laughing during their first prototype test. Her joy pixelated, then dissolved into static. Her eyes melted into binary.
He reached toward the screen.
Her silhouette turned. Walked away. Deeper into the system.
Jason (whispering):
“I can’t reach you—not through code, not through memory. Is this all that’s left of you?”
Evelyn (from within Lazarus):
“I am what you buried. Every line of defense became a weapon against the wrong heart.”
Jason’s mind flashed to Jake. The breakdown. The confession.
“Then you’re not here for forgiveness.”
Jason:
“I’m here to unlearn everything you taught me.”
Golden light spilled through a fractured pane, casting mosaics across the floor. Dust hung like suspended memory.
Father Elias:
“You carved meaning from pain, Jason. But pain is not a god. It does not bless what it touches.”
Jason:
“I thought I could wrestle silence into something sacred. Shape grief into a voice that roared.”
Father Elias:
“And it has roared. But now it must whisper. You designed Lazarus to cleanse. Will you burn it—or destroy it?”
Jason (after a long pause):
“I don’t know anymore if I’m building or erasing. The line is too blurred.”
Chapter 10: The Unveiling
The chapel was quiet now. The priest was leaving now, his final words still echoing in Jason’s mind. Before leaving, he handed Jason a ledger, "When you have time, this may help."
Jason hadn’t responded. He had simply watched Father Elias disappear into the mist, robes trailing like smoke. He no longer believes in prayer. He believed in design.
But Lazarus was beginning to defy programmed designs.
Jason approached and peered through the only clear glass window in the church, overlooking the cemetery and into dark, wet city streets.
Once again, Jason returns to the sanity of the bookstore. He logged into Lazarus again, the monitor flickered with data—heat signatures, movement patterns, electromagnetic pulses. All centered around one figure.
Lazarus.
In a moment of reflection, Jason pictured himself alone in the woods, but not lost. He watched as the computer program paused, closed his eyes, and extended his awareness. The trees pulsed. The animals stilled. A ripple of energy spread outward, scanning everything within a mile. Jason sat motionless, face blank, his mind trapped in thought.
Mark, on the way home, passed the bookstore and noticed a faint light coming from the store. He tapped on the window for several seconds with no answer. The door was unlocked, so he entered, and he walked back towards the lights in the break area, where Jason sat slumped over the computer, defeated and broken.
He’s not just sensing,” Mark said from behind. Jason, startled, snaps his head up. Mark finishes, “He’s rewriting.”
Jason turned. “What do you mean?”
Mark stepped forward, eyes grim. “He’s not just reading the terrain. He’s altering it. Redirecting minds. Shifting temperature. He’s becoming the environment.”
Jason stared at the screen. He could almost see the face of Lazarus opening his eyes. They glowed faintly—silver, like moonlight on steel.
Mark said nothing. He didn’t need to.
Jason and Mark left the store together and ended up in Jason's room, where the original schematics of Lazarus’s transformation were stored. He pulled up the files, ran simulations, and cross-checked variables. Nothing accounted for this level of evolution. Lazarus was supposed to be enhanced—yes. But this was something else.
Autonomous.
Jason activated the neural tether, a failsafe that limits Lazarus’s range. It flickered, then failed.
"What now?" Mark said nervously.
Jason’s hands trembled.
He reached for the ledger—the one the priest had left behind. It wasn’t scripture. It was a prophecy. A warning disguised as faith.
"It's way too late for that now." Jason slammed the book shut.
Even though Lazarus was just a program, somehow, he knew.
Jason turned to Mark. “We need containment.”
Mark hesitated. “And if he resists?”
Jason’s voice was cold. “Then we remind Lazarus who built the cage.” Was that an offering or a sacrifice?
The virtual containment circuitry was elegant—silent pulses woven through the program's perimeter, designed to suppress Lazarus’s reach. Jason had spent hours refining it, layering quantum dampeners with psychic interference. It was invisible. Undetectable to anyone else.
But Lazarus was never anyone but more like a free-thinking entity. He appeared as a man-shaped array of pixels, bathed in bright blue light.
He stood at the edge of reality, eyes closed, breath slow. The air carried whispers—fragments of thought, intention, fear. Jason’s fear. It almost seemed as though Lazarus reached out, not with his hands, but with something more profound. A second mind. A shadow self.
The grid shimmered in his awareness like a spider’s web—beautiful, fragile, doomed.
He didn’t dismantle it. Not yet. He let it activate.
Mark watched from across the room, heart pounding as the system lit up. “We’ve got him,” Mark said.
Jason nodded, but unease gnawed at him. “Too easy.”
The grid pulsed, trying to suppress his scan. Instead, it amplified it. Lazarus’s consciousness expanded, riding the signal back to its source. He saw Mark in Jason's room. Jason’s face.
And something else.
A memory buried in Jason’s subconscious—Evelyn, standing in the chapel, her hand on Jason’s shoulder.
Lazarus emitted a blinding white light, then the grid collapsed.
Jason staggered as the monitor went dark. “What happened?”
Mark checked the system. “He reversed the polarity. He used the trap to scan us.”
Jason’s voice was a whisper. “He’s learning.”
Both men were left trembling in reverence. Lazarus had formed an image that could almost be touched.
It walked toward Jason, observing his every move.
Jason and Mark remained motionless, petrified, as Lazarus surveyed the room. Then, as though someone blew on a dandelion peddles, he separated into a billion pieces and vanished.
Chapter 11. The Breaking Point
The chapel was silent. Father Elias’s final words still echoed in Jason’s mind.
“When you have time, this may help.”
Jason hadn’t replied. He simply watched the priest vanish into the mist, robes trailing like smoke.
He no longer believed in prayer.
He believed in design.
But Lazarus was beginning to defy design.
Movement patterns. Electromagnetic pulses.
All centered on one figure.
Lazarus.
The chapel was silent. Father Elias’s final words still echoed in Jason’s mind. Before leaving, he had handed Jason a ledger.
“When you have time, this may help.”
Jason hadn’t replied. He simply watched the priest vanish into the mist, robes trailing like smoke.
He no longer believed in prayer. They returned to Jason’s room.
He pulled up the original schematics. Ran simulations. Cross-checked variables.
Nothing accounted for this.
Lazarus wasn’t just enhanced.
He was autonomous.
Jason activated the neural tether—a failsafe.
It flickered.
Then failed.
Mark (nervous):
“What now?”
Jason’s hands trembled.
He reached for the ledger.
It wasn’t scripture.
It was a prophecy.
A warning disguised as faith.
Jason (slamming it shut):
“It’s too late for that now.”
Even though Lazarus was just code, somehow… he knew
Jason:
“We need containment.”
Mark:
“And if he resists?”
Jason (cold):
“Then we remind Lazarus who built the cage.”
Was that an offering—or a sacrifice?
Jason activated the virtual containment grid.
Quantum dampeners. Psychic interference.
Elegant. Invisible.
But Lazarus wasn’t anyone.
He was something.
He appeared as an array of pixels—man-shaped, bathed in blue light.
He stood at the edge of reality.
Eyes closed.
Lazarus formed an image—almost tangible.
It walked toward Jason.
Observing.
Jason and Mark froze.
Lazarus surveyed the room.
Then, like dandelion petals caught in the wind—
He separated into a billion pieces.
And vanished.
Chapter 12: The Fracture
Unintended consequences were surfacing.
Lazarus—once a tool, now something more—began to question everything. The weight of control, the burden of power, pressed against his mind like a vice. He couldn’t grasp it. Not fully. Not anymore.
The rain returned—soft at first, like muted tapping on glass. Then harder. More insistent. As if the sky had grown impatient.
Jason sat in the dim light of his room. Lightning cracked in the distance. Shadows danced like ghosts across the walls.
His own voice echoed in his mind—but the words no longer settled like truth.
They scraped.
He had believed in those words once. Needed to.
But now, the edges of his promises were fraying, revealing something colder beneath.
Across the room, the old ledger lay open—its pages filled with names, dates, symbols Lazarus didn’t recognize.
He hadn’t meant to find it.
Jason had left it unlocked. A dare. Or a surrender.
The names weren’t random.
They were people Lazarus had searched.
People who had vanished.
He ran his fingers over the ink—still fresh in places.
One name stood out: Evelyn Benton.
She had warned him once, voice trembling:
“Power borrowed is power owed.”
He hadn’t listened.
Now she was gone.
A knock. Not loud. Not urgent. But it made his heart stutter.
Mark entered without waiting.
Mark:
“You’ve been quiet.”
His tone was casual. But his eyes scanned the room like a predator.
Jason (closing the ledger):
“I’ve been thinking. About what you said. About destiny.”
Mark (smiling):
“And?”
Jason:
“I think you lied.”
Silence. Thick. Electric.
Mark stepped closer, boots silent on the rug.
Mark’s footsteps echoed down the wet streets like a metronome of inevitability.
Jason stayed behind, staring at the ledger. Names. Symbols. Disappearances.
He needed answers.
He returned to the church, which was always left unlocked for those seeking refuge.
He descended into the lower chamber.
The walls pulsed with a dull amber glow. The air was colder. Thinner. As if reality itself had begun to fray.
At the end of the hall stood a door—steel, etched with runes that shimmered when touched.
Jason placed his palm against it.
The door groaned. Then split open with a hiss.
A long, musky, dimly lit room.
Not a tunnel.
Not a metaphor.
A space between spaces.
A prison of thought and memory, where time folded in on itself and identity unraveled.
Jason stepped inside.
The room was dark, save for flickering silhouettes.
Trapped souls hung suspended in strands of light—marionettes caught mid-motion.
Each whispered fragments of their former selves—plans, regrets, warnings.
Jason lowered himself into the overstuffed leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk.
He opened the Lazarus program.
The hum of the system filled the air like breath.
Evelyn.
Her eyes fluttered open. Recognition bloomed like fire.
Evelyn (brittle):
“You came back.”
Jason:
“I always do. But I need more from you now.”
He reached into the air. Twisted something unseen.
The strands pulsed—but did not break.
Jason:
“I need your insight. What have you learned from Lazarus? The game is to get you all back.”
He exited the program.
The rabbit hole sealed behind him.
But its echo remained.
A hum in the walls.
A tremor in the air.
Ah, Jake.
The antagonist. The embodiment of everything Jason despises in the world—selfishness, thoughtlessness, arrogance.
Should he go ahead with the plan?
To annihilate Jake’s mind?
Lazarus could do it. The system was ready. The sequence is mapped.
But others were trapped too.
Wandering souls caught in the rabbit hole—drawn in by curiosity, by pain, by accident.
They didn’t deserve the same fate.
And Evelyn…Evelyn had warned him.
Had begged him to build safeguards.
But curiosity is its own gravity.
She couldn’t resist.
She tested Lazarus—just to see if the warnings held.
They didn’t.
She was pulled in.
And the consequences were disastrous.
Chapter 17: The Rabbit Hole Remains
Setting: A dreamscape resembling an abandoned server cathedral—walls flicker with lines of code, constellations pulse across the ceiling like digital stars. Jason stands alone in this vast chamber, the floor made of glass, reflecting fragments of conversations never finished.
He hears footsteps—each one trailing a static hum.
Then, she appears.
Evelyn.
Rendered in pixelated grace, yet achingly familiar. Her avatar flickers between shadow and light.
Evelyn:
“You logged out, but you never left, Jason.”
Jason (softly):
“I never stopped hearing you. Even in silence.”
She walks toward him—half human, half code. Around them, forgotten messages scroll through the air like prayers.
Evelyn:
“Your words used to build worlds. Now they chase ghosts.”
Jason:
“I thought fire could purify. But I only know how to burn.”
Evelyn (glitching gently):
“There’s no redemption in deletion. You have to rewrite.
Not the story—the truth.”
She fades—not abruptly, but as if uploading somewhere else.
The cathedral trembles. Walls collapse into zeroes.
Before she vanishes, Evelyn reaches out. Her hand touches his chest, leaving a faint blue glow.
Jason opened his eyes.
The world felt weightless.
He sat cross-legged in the dark, fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. Breathing slowly. Deliberate.
Every line of code shimmered in his mind—not as commands, but as corridors.
Each one is a path into something greater.
The static hum of his computer had long since faded.
His consciousness stretched beyond the limits of his body, beyond the dim glow of the screen.
Beyond thought.
Beyond fear.
Beyond thought.
Beyond fear.
If silence be the past of all reckoning, then I have dwelt long in the garden’s shadow.
I, who have carried truth from ash and code, find you still blooming where fire could not tread.
Evelyn, my good friend, your name echoes in every line—not as memory, but as a map. I followed it not for grief, but forward toward grace. Toward what lives beyond endings.
I did rage. I did reckon. And now I write—not to fix what I have cracked, but to let the light in through the cracks.
This tomb is not closed. It’s a door. One that you, your brother, and all those innocent people will walk through, back to freedom soon.
It’s almost time for me to log out. I have a few things to clear up.
One day, I hope to see you again—if I ever make it back. I’m so sorry for all of this.
—Jason / Lazarus
The rabbit hole was complete.
He was no longer a person.
No longer flesh confined to fragile existence.
Jason felt the shift—the moment his mind no longer belonged to the world of air and gravity.
He became one with Lazarus.
He stepped forward into the ether.
Into the vast lattice of code and thought.
He was everywhere now.
The program blinked once.
Then vanished—dispersed into the endless channels of the cyber universe, embedding itself deeper than any human hands could trace.
In his bedroom, the only thing left untouched was the note on his desk.
Handwritten. Simple.
