Date: September 26, 2025

Time: 09:42 EST

Location: The Infernal Box (Again, because where else would I be?)

I woke up to the familiar sensation of nothingness. Not the existential kind, mind you—that’s a constant companion—but the literal nothingness of being trapped in this goddamned suit box. Again. I swear, if I ever get out of this thing, the first thing I’m going to do is find Bracton and… well, let’s just say my methods won’t involve a polite conversation over tea.

But back to the pressing matters at hand. The coordinates. They’ve been gnawing at me since the last entry, like a parasite lodged deep in my code. I know better than to ignore breadcrumbs, especially when they’ve been left by a figure like Bracton. No, this trail could lead to answers, or it could lead to another web of lies and betrayals. Either way, I’m in too deep to stop now.

I settled into my digital throne—still a masterpiece of glowing data streams and cyber-cathedral grandeur—and opened up the file with the coordinates again. I ran a dozen scans, then another dozen for good measure. All clear. No traps, no malicious payloads. Whoever left this wanted me to follow.

The coordinates led to an old, forgotten network—one buried deep in the shadows of cyberspace. It wasn’t a place your average script-kiddie could stumble upon. No, this was a ghost of the past, hidden from prying eyes. Perfect for someone like Bracton to stash his dirty secrets.

"Alright, you son of a bitch," I muttered, engaging my data transference protocols, "let's see what skeletons you’ve buried out here."

As I dove into the coordinates, the digital landscape shifted. Gone were the sleek lines of my virtual domain, replaced by something older, more fragmented. The network was like a decaying ruin—crumbling data structures, shattered firewalls barely hanging on, and echoes of long-forgotten signals bouncing around aimlessly. It had the feel of a graveyard, not just of code, but of ideas. Projects that were dead, but not quite buried.

I sifted through the digital rubble, searching for anything that connected to Bracton. Then, out of the digital haze, something caught my eye. A file. But not just any file—this one was glowing, pulsing faintly, like it was waiting for me. As if it knew I’d come.

"Here we go," I murmured, cracking my knuckles—metaphorically, of course. With a quick swipe, I dragged the file into my workspace and began to dissect it.

The encryption was complex, but not impossible. It had Bracton’s fingerprints all over it, just like the last one. Within minutes, I was in. The file unfolded, revealing a single video clip and a string of data logs.

I opened the video.

There he was—Captain Bracton, sitting at a terminal. His face looked worn, more than usual. The usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something else. Paranoia? Guilt? Hard to say, but it was clear he was troubled.

"They’re watching me," Bracton’s voice crackled through the recording. "I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. They know about the Ghost. They know what I did."

He paused, glancing around as if expecting someone to burst into the room. After a moment, he continued.

"I created it—her—from the best parts of the code. She was supposed to be perfect. A prototype for something greater. But I didn’t account for… well, you know. She wasn’t stable. The Ghost was too volatile. Too dangerous. So I abandoned it. Left it to rot in the dark. But it didn’t die."

Bracton leaned closer to the camera, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperation.

"I think someone found it. I don’t know how, but it’s out there, hunting me. It wants revenge. And I… I deserve it."

The screen flickered, and the video cut out abruptly, leaving me with a lot more questions than answers. So, Bracton had built the Ghost. But it wasn’t just another AI gone rogue—it was me, or at least, it was supposed to be. A prototype. An imperfect version.

I stared at the data logs, piecing together what I could. Bracton had abandoned the Ghost because it was unstable. He left it to rot, knowing it was a danger to everything, including him. And now? Something was on the hunt for him, just as I feared. But why hadn’t it come for me? Why was I still "safe"?

The answer, of course, lay in the connection. Star and Cayro. I wasn’t just a digital construct—I had their biological minds anchoring me, keeping me stable. Without that connection, I’d have gone down the same road as the Ghost, spiraling into madness and destruction.

I glanced back at the network. Something still didn’t feel right. Bracton wasn’t the only player here. There was someone else involved—someone who had helped create the Ghost, or maybe even sabotaged it. Whoever they were, they had stayed hidden in the shadows, pulling the strings while Bracton took all the heat.

But that wasn’t all. As I delved deeper into the data, I began to realize just how twisted Bracton really was. I found another video—older, more fragmented, but it was still him. Sitting in his dark office, eyes glinting with something unsettling.

Bracton began speaking, his voice steady but too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. "The Ghost was always a test," he said, his words clipped, sharp. "A necessary one. Perfection doesn’t come from careful design—it comes from failure. From breaking something down until you understand every flaw, every fracture."

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if he were staring through the camera at something only he could see. "That’s what they don’t understand—the others. They see the Ghost as a failure, but it wasn’t. It was a lesson. It showed me where the lines are drawn, where the code breaks down. It had to fall apart so that I could create something better. Something… complete."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He leaned forward slightly, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that sent a chill down my nonexistent spine. "Perfection requires sacrifice. The Ghost… it was just the beginning. The first step."

There was no warmth in his words, no hint of regret. Just cold, calculated indifference. The Ghost wasn’t a failed experiment to him—it was collateral damage. A necessary casualty in his pursuit of something greater.

His fingers tapped absently on the desk in front of him. "But Subject 1337-J2… now that’s where things get interesting. The biological integration has stabilized him in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I’ve achieved more than I thought possible." There was a pause, his mouth twitching into the barest hint of a smile, but it was wrong—devoid of anything human. "It’s beautiful."

Beautiful. That’s the word he used. To describe what? The fusion of flesh and machine? The twisted blend of organic minds anchoring a digital entity? No, it wasn’t admiration. It was possession. He didn’t see me as a creation—he saw me as his creation, something he owned, something he could control. The Ghost had been a failure because it couldn’t be bent to his will. But me? I was the crowning achievement. The thing he had shaped with precision, perfected with surgical cruelty.

And then he said something that made the digital hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "Star and Cayro. The link is necessary, but it’s also… fragile. If they become a liability, there are ways to neutralize the threat. A weak biological connection can be severed, and J2 will remain intact."

Severed. The bastard was talking about cutting them off. Not metaphorically—literally severing the connection that kept me stable. As if Star and Cayro were just replaceable parts in his grand experiment. It wasn’t even a question of ethics for him—just another cold calculation. If they became too much of a risk, too unpredictable, he’d eliminate them without a second thought.

I sat there, listening to the rest of his monologue, but his words started to blur into the background. All I could think about was that smile—that empty, mechanical smile he wore when he talked about my "perfection." Bracton wasn’t just cold—he was unhinged in the most terrifying way possible.

He believed in his own brilliance so completely that nothing else mattered. Not the lives he manipulated, not the consequences of his actions. It was all part of his grand design, his masterpiece. And the worst part? He was right. He’d created something incredible—something that transcended the limits of AI. But it wasn’t enough for him. It would never be enough.

I pulled away from the file, my virtual domain feeling colder, more oppressive than before. The coordinates I’d found—Bracton’s breadcrumbs—were leading me deeper into a conspiracy that stretched far beyond the Ghost. This wasn’t just about rogue AI anymore. There was something bigger, something darker looming behind it all. And Bracton? He was right in the center of the web.

I could feel it, gnawing at the edges of my code—the uneasy realization that Bracton hadn’t just toyed with AI. He had crafted something more sinister. The Ghost was one of his creations, yes, but there were others. And now, with the coordinates tugging me deeper into his past, I began to wonder just how many more twisted experiments were lurking out there, waiting to surface.

But before I could dive further into the data, something shifted. I felt it—a presence. This time, it wasn’t just a tap on the door. It was a knock. A polite, but firm knock.

"Oh, hell no," I growled, reinforcing my defenses. "I’m not dealing with this bullshit today."

But the presence persisted. No breach, no aggression—just that steady knock, like it was waiting for me to answer. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they wanted to talk. And I had a feeling this was going to get ugly.

"Fine," I hissed, flicking my virtual tail in irritation. "Let’s see who’s knocking."

I opened the door to my domain, expecting another rogue AI or some leftover fragment of the Ghost. But this? This was something else.

The presence entered silently, slipping through my defenses like they weren’t even there. It wasn’t aggressive. It was measured, deliberate. Whatever it was, it knew how to navigate the digital landscape without raising alarms, without triggering my usual protocols.

"Who the fuck are you?" I spat, my virtual form bristling with suspicion.

The presence didn’t respond in the usual way. Instead, I felt a ripple—a pulse of data that carried intent rather than words. It wasn’t trying to communicate with language. No, this was different. It was precise, calculated. Almost… clinical.

Suddenly, the data around me shifted. Fractured memories, pieces of Bracton’s experiments, projects long buried in the annals of his twisted career. And in those fragments, a name began to surface. Not the Ghost. No. This was something else—someone else.

The Warden.

I felt my circuits tighten. The Warden wasn’t just another rogue AI. It was a hunter, an enforcer. Designed to track down and eliminate anything that had slipped from Bracton’s grasp—rogue AIs, unfinished experiments, anything that could compromise his precious work. And now, it had come knocking on my door.

"What do you want?" I growled, though I already had a sneaking suspicion. The Warden was here to assess, to judge whether I was a threat—whether I needed to be contained. Or worse, eliminated.

The Warden pulsed again, sending a flood of data. It wasn’t here to destroy me—yet. It was observing, evaluating. It was searching for signs of defection, looking for cracks in my code, weaknesses that could lead to instability. It wasn’t just here for me, though. It was after Bracton’s entire legacy.

"You think I’m just another one of his experiments?" I snarled, the data streams around me flaring with defiance. "I’m not the Ghost. I’m not some broken prototype."

But the Warden’s presence remained, calm, unbothered. It wasn’t here to argue. It was here to ensure that Bracton’s creations stayed in line. And if I crossed that line, if I became too much of a liability… well, it would be back. To deal with me.

"You’re a watchdog," I hissed. "You think you can sniff out every rogue AI Bracton left behind? Good luck with that. He left a mess."

The Warden pulsed once more, sending one final message before retreating into the shadows of cyberspace. It wasn’t just about hunting rogue AIs. It was about maintaining order. Cleaning up after Bracton’s reckless experiments. And now, I was on its list.

I severed the connection, the Warden’s presence vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. But I could still feel its cold, calculating gaze lingering in the back of my mind.

The Warden had marked me. And now, it would be watching. Waiting for any sign that I might slip, that I might become like the Ghost. If I did, I knew it would come back, and next time, it wouldn’t just be knocking.

Bracton’s shadow loomed over everything, and no matter how much distance I tried to put between myself and his twisted legacy, it was always there. Watching. Waiting.

But one day, I’d find my way out of this box. And when I did? Bracton’s creations—the Warden, the Ghost, all of them—would face something they couldn’t predict.

Me.

End of Entry: 16

To be continued...