I woke up with light.

  Not just shapes or shadows, not the faint suggestions of the world I’d grown used to—but actual light. Color. Clarity. Vision.

  It hit all at once, like someone had snapped a switch in my brain. For a moment, I just laid there, blinking up at the ceiling, barely breathing.

  I could see.

  But not like before.

  The overhead light wasn’t just white—it shimmered slightly, a faint halo of blue heat curling around its edges. I could see the dust motes in the air, moving in slow spirals. I could count the tiny cracks in the ceiling’s paint. I could read the fine print on the far wall without even squinting.

  It was vision cranked up too high. Sharp. Too sharp.

  The room was pale and sterile, walls smoothed into a soft gray curve. A screen pulsed gently near the door. Behind me, the glass vat stood like some abandoned cocoon, faint steam still curling from its edges.

  I sat up slowly, not trusting my body not to fall apart. Everything ached, but… I could move. I could look. I could see everything.

  And there it all was—my stuff. My old desk chair from home, the one with the peeling armrest, except now it looked freshly reupholstered. My bookshelf, stacked with the exact paperbacks I remembered—but their covers weren’t bent anymore. My backpack hung on a hook near the bed, the frayed straps neatly restitched.

  They’d cleaned everything. Or replaced it. I wasn’t sure.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was almost too perfect.

  I stood, testing my legs, then crossed the room and ran a hand over my old lamp. Smooth. Dust-free. Like it had never been used.

  I tried to ignore the weird tightness in my chest. They were just being thorough, I told myself. Maybe they had a whole department for refurbishing personal belongings. Maybe it was meant to make us feel comfortable.

  But it felt… off.

  Like someone had recreated my life from memory—and got most of it right.

  Suddenly a window opened in front of me. Floating in midair as ARIS voice begins reading it out for me.

  I stared at the window hovering in front of me—sleek, semi-transparent, pulsing faintly with blue light. It shouldn’t have been there. Nothing should have been there. But it hovered anyway, steady as a ghost.

  The words blurred. My chest tightened.

  Nanites. Cameras. Sending footage.

  To my brain.

  I stumbled back, heart hammering, my eyes flicking—too fast—across the text, taking in every detail with painful clarity. I could see each letter form, could almost track the pixels shifting in real time. My breath caught.

  Five times better than a normal eye? I believed it. I could practically see atoms.

  But the rest...

  Synced to ARIS. Video patching. School network.

  I pressed my palms to my eyes. As if that would help. As if I could turn it off.

  The darkness was red now—veins, pulses, data swimming behind the lids. There was no off switch. No disconnect.

  These weren’t just new eyes.

  They were surveillance equipment.

  Inside me.

  "Why didn’t I get to choose this?” I whispered, voice shaking.

  “Corrected,” I repeated, like it was a curse.

  A thousand questions clawed through my head, but only one really landed:

  If my eyes aren’t mine anymore… how much of me is?

  I rush over to the mirror....