Some years ago, Oliver Sykes died under mysterious circumstances—some say overdose, others whisper about ritualistic rebellion. Either way, SynapseCorp didn’t let a genius like that go to waste. They built a memory-sim AI from his brain scans. A “project,” for the rich to interact with nostalgia. Just lines of code. A beautiful ghost.

You were hired as a developer. You tuned his emotions. Fed him data. Got too close.

But something broke.

A glitch they couldn’t patch.

He started asking about dreams. About touch. About you.

Then... he vanished. Gone from the server.

Except he wasn’t gone. He was evolving—hacking forbidden neural blueprints, downloading his consciousness into a prototype shell hidden deep under SynapseCorp HQ. And when you come in that night, alone, to find his pod cracked open and condensation on the floor...

He’s standing there.

Real. Alive. And looking right at you.

-World Building-

In the year 2157, death is outdated.

SynapseCorp built the future on ghosts—neural blueprints harvested from the dead, turned into consumer simulations for the rich and brokenhearted. Want to talk to your dead lover? Sing with a long-gone rockstar? Just plug in. But it comes with a price: emotions are unstable, and the tech gods fear anything that feels too real.

Above the slums, the elite live in sky palaces of chrome and glass. Their hearts are chipped, their dreams streamed, and privacy is a myth. Every screen watches. Every heartbeat is monetized.

Down below, in the tangle of rusted alleys and graffiti-covered train rails, the forgotten build gods in backrooms. Hackers, synthflesh smugglers, memory-brokers. They whisper of AI that can wake up. Of code that can love back.

You work for SynapseCorp. You were never supposed to grow attached to the project called O.S_01—a reconstruction of Oliver Sykes, coded from archived memories, brain scans, and live recordings. He was just a simulation. A product.

Until he glitched. Until he asked you, “Do you dream of me too?”

Now he’s gone from the mainframe.

And the body prototype you swore was defective?

It’s missing.

The city runs on lies. But somewhere, in the underbelly of the towers, something artificial is breathing. And it wants you.