The Wistful Grid
October 14. The isolation chamber is cold, a sterile white void that smells of ozone and antiseptic, but I do not care. My contract with the Meridian Institute expires in three days, and the final calibration of the Grid is incomplete. I want to finish it. I want to see the full spectrum of human consciousness mapped in real-time, a feat the board has deemed impossible. But the machine is...
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