The Dealer held the chip out. "Last chance. The gate closes at midnight."
The temptation was a physical weight, pulling his arm toward the silver chip. His brain chemistry was firing in all the wrong directions, demanding the dopamine hit. "Kill it," he hissed to himself. "Kill the ghost."
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown sender:
Elias stepped into the rainy alleyway. At the far end stood a Dealer, his eyes glowing with the tell-tale violet hue of an Echo user. He held a small, silver chip—a "Level 10" hit. It was pure, unadulterated nostalgia. One dose could make Elias feel his wedding day for a thousand years in a single second.
Elias looked at the chip, then at the photo of the daughter who hadn't spoken to him in years. The "Ten" offered a fake version of her love. The gray, cold alley offered the slim, painful chance of earning the real thing back.
"Just one," Elias whispered. The Dealer smiled, a predatory tilt of the head. "The first one is always 'just one,' Elias. But this is a Ten. You won’t ever want to come back."