The slums of New Eden stank of rust and desperation. Neon signs flickered above narrow alleys, their buzzing light barely cutting through the smog. Noah Virek pulled his hood tighter, his boots splashing in puddles that smelled like oil and regret. The memory market was alive tonight, a chaotic maze of stalls and whispers.
People crowded around tables, selling pieces of their lives for a few credits. A woman sobbed as a broker scanned her happiest day—a wedding, maybe—before it vanished into a glowing NeuroVault chip. Noah's stomach twisted. He'd seen this a thousand times, but it never got easier.
He wasn't here to gawk. He had a deal to close. His gloved hand brushed the chip in his pocket, a stolen memory from some rich idiot's childhood. Happy. Clean. The kind the elites paid big for. Noah's job was simple: broker the sale, take his cut, disappear. No questions, no attachments. That's how he survived.
The alley opened into a larger square, the heart of the black market. Tents glowed with holo-screens showing memory previews—first kisses, graduations, a kid's laughter. Brokers shouted over each other, haggling with desperate sellers or shady buyers. Above it all, a massive billboard loomed, NeuroVault's logo pulsing like a heartbeat. *"Live Forever in Memory,"* it read. Noah snorted. More like *"Sell Your Soul to Survive."*
He spotted his contact, Mara, leaning against a rusted stall. She was older, maybe fifty, with gray streaks in her hair and eyes that had seen too much. Her coat was patched, but her smile was sharp. Mara was a regular—a seller who traded memories to feed her kids. Noah liked her, as much as he let himself like anyone.
"Noah, you're late," Mara called, her voice rough but warm. She flicked a cigarette, ash falling to the wet ground. "Thought you'd ditched me."
"Never," Noah said, forcing a grin. He slid into the shadow of her stall, scanning the crowd. Always watching. Always careful. "You got the credits?"
Mara raised an eyebrow. "You got the goods?"
He pulled the chip from his pocket, holding it between two fingers. It glinted faintly, a tiny silver square that held someone's perfect day. "Fresh. A rich kid's summer vacation. Sun, beach, parents who actually cared. Prime stuff."
Mara's eyes softened, just for a second. "Sounds nice." She reached for it, but Noah pulled back.
"Credits first," he said. His voice was flat, but inside, guilt gnawed at him. He hated this part. Taking from people like Mara, who had nothing left but hope.
She sighed, digging into her coat. "You're a hard one, Noah Virek." She handed him a scratched data-pad, the screen showing a transfer of 500 credits. Barely enough for a month's food in the slums. "That's all I got. Kids are hungry."
Noah's jaw tightened. He wanted to give her the chip for free, let her feel that beach sun for a moment. But he couldn't. Not in this world. He swiped the pad, confirming the transfer, and handed her the chip. "Don't lose it," he muttered.
Mara clutched it like it was gold. "You ever think about it, Noah? Selling your own memories?"
He froze. His mind flashed to his sister, Lila—her laugh, her hand in his, the day she died in NeuroVault's lab. That memory was all he had left of her. Selling it? Never. But he couldn't say that. Not out loud.
"Nope," he lied, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Too stubborn to forget."
Mara chuckled, but it was sad. "Stubborn's gonna get you killed one day." She hesitated, then leaned closer. "Heard a rumor, Noah. Something big's coming. A memory that ain't from the past. You know anything about that?"
Noah's heart skipped. A memory not from the past? Impossible. NeuroVault tech only pulled what was already in your head. But Mara's eyes were serious, and rumors in the slums had a way of being true.
"Don't believe everything you hear," he said, stepping back. "Stay safe, Mara."
"You too," she called as he melted into the crowd.
Noah's thoughts churned as he moved through the market. A memory from the future? It sounded like a scam, but something about it stuck with him. He'd seen what NeuroVault could do—ripping out pieces of people's souls, turning them into empty shells. If they'd found a way to mess with time… He shook his head. No. He was done with that life. Done with NeuroVault. Done with caring.
Still, as he passed a stall, a holo-screen caught his eye. A broker was playing a memory for a buyer—a kid running through a field, laughing. Noah's chest ached. Lila used to run like that, back when they were kids, before the world broke them. He turned away, but the pain stayed.
He reached the edge of the market, where the alleys grew darker. A kid, no older than ten, bumped into him, slipping something into his pocket. Noah grabbed the kid's wrist, fast. "What's this?"
The kid's eyes were wide, scared. "Message," he whispered. "For you. From a client."
Noah let go, fishing out a tiny data-stick. No name, no mark. Just a blinking red light. His gut told him to toss it, walk away. But curiosity—damn curiosity—won. He slipped it into his coat and kept moving.
Back at his tiny apartment, a concrete box with a single window, Noah sat at his cracked table. The city's neon glow bled through the glass, painting his face in blues and reds. He plugged the data-stick into his NeuroVault reader, a clunky device he'd stolen years ago. The screen flickered, then loaded a single memory file. No label. Just a timestamp: two weeks from today.
Noah hesitated. Anonymous files were trouble. But he'd survived this long by knowing more than he should. He pressed play.
The memory hit him like a wave. He was in a dark room, rain pounding outside. A man—Senator Moore, that slick politician from the holo-news—stood by a window. Blood pooled at his feet. A knife glinted in someone's hand. Moore turned, his face pale, and then—static. The memory cut off.
Noah yanked the reader's plug, his heart racing. What the hell was that? A murder? Senator Moore, dead in two weeks? It had to be fake. But it felt real—too real. The rain, the blood, the fear in Moore's eyes. Noah's hands shook as he stared at the data-stick.
He didn't know it yet, but that memory would change everything.