“Neon Judas Protocol”
The rain sizzled against my exposed cybernetic forearm, the hydraulics whining like a dying dog. Across the street, the target’s retinal implants flickered—glitchy. Cheap knockoffs. “You gonna pull that trigger or philosophize all night?” growled my onboard AI, its voice sandpaper-rough from last week’s malware attack. The .357 Magnum trembled in my grip, not from fear but from the feedback loop—their tech was inside me now. The target smiled, lips splitting like overripe fruit. “We’re the same, Murphy.” Wrong. I was 37% meat. The gun roared. His skull splintered like cheap polymer. Another ghost in the machine.