Redline Complex isn’t red. It’s concrete, beige, and always twenty percent too humid. The name refers to the psychological stress index of its average occupant, not the decor. My unit—B3—was marketed as 'post-service compact with embedded wellness ceiling.' Translation: small, dim, and shaped like a bureaucratic insult. But my therapist recommended it. I eat standing up now. Easier that way. My dinner table gone. Took to much room. Before every dive, I carb-load like an AI prepping for a funeral. Six packs of choco-rice bars. A thermosealed starch coil. Three squeeze pouches of FreezeCream™—vanilla mourn flavor. And a two-liter bottle of **GrimPop™**, which proudly advertises: 'The last soda your neurons will remember.' I downed it like medication. It fizzed like static and tasted like synthetic lime filtered through a lie. VITA pinged before I reached the elevator. “Blood sugar spike detected.” “Good. I want to die sticky.” The elevator down to the NDIP-4—Neural Descent Interface Pod, version 4—was upholstered like a padded cell. Standard EchoCorp safety. If you stroked mid-descent, they didn’t want bruises. The lift didn’t speak anymore. It sighed. Its voice assistant used to announce motivational statements like “Today is a beautiful day for purpose,” but now it just cut off with static: “Today is a— buzz . you.” . Basement level: cold, humming, always smelling faintly of lavender and solvent The NDIP-4 lives down here, cradled in a room no larger than a maintenance closet. It looks like a dentist chair that got promoted to assassin. All matte black. Wires like vines. I call it the Coffin Dentist. Nobody laughs. They shouldn't. The room lights sensed me. Dimmed themselves automatically. The NDIP groaned when it recognized my ID. Alice appeared above the chair in full holo-mode—British, crisp, no soul. She wore her 'friendly nurse' skin today. Another insult. “Good evening, Agent Kelm. Ready for closure?” “If I say no, do I get a cake?” “No, but you get the pleasure of continuity.” She replied. “Perfect.” I said nicely. I climbed in slow. Everything I do is slow. The chair hissed, adjusted, winced. Straps retracted from under the armrests like they were embarrassed to be seen with me. VITA chimed again. “BP: high. Emotion profile: legally flatlined.” My BP was always high. “Mark it compliant.” I barked. Alice: “Initiating nine-drip immersion protocol. You’ll feel pressure, then regret.” “Regret’s always the first one.” The injections began. Each click a new flavor of controlled surrender. 1. **Memory stabilizer** — keeps my past from melting. 2. **Dream-guilt neutralizer** — because empathy is counterproductive. 3. **Emotion filter** — blocks out birthdays, love songs, and nostalgia for pets. 4. **Reality anchor** — keeps me from thinking the dream is better. 5. **Cortical map sync** — because getting lost in a stranger’s head is discouraged. 6. **False-presence suppressant** — stops the worst side effect: thinking I matter. 7. **Scream suppressant** — not for them. For me. 8. **Death panic override** — which ironically triggers mine every time. 9. **Sync stabilizer** — slams the door shut behind me. A flicker. System paused. I was dead. Not really but the echobox I’m connecting to thinks I’m dead. >> MEMORY ECHO MISMATCH DETECTED. PROCEED ANYWAY? << There’s no 'No' button. That’s protocol. I clicked 'Yes'. VITA: “Mismatch logged. I’ll start prepping the reboot cart.” Alice: “Still no living relatives requesting mercy.” “No. They’d only ask for a refund.” The chair tightened. Hard. Not support—compliance. System countdown blinked across my vision: > **Estimated sync duration: 14 minutes** > **Estimated guilt recovery: infinity. Aunt Karen chimed in over the intercom as I felt the override drug dig in. > “Closure is a process, Agent Kelm. And you’re doing so well. A coupon has been awarded.” I muttered the ritual. “Grandpa. Hot dogs. Loop collapse. Let’s kill a picnic.”