Across from her, in the transfer cradle, lay her father. His hands, spotted and thin, rested on the armrests. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved silently—perhaps reciting a poem, perhaps just breathing.

She placed her hand on the warm glass. “It’s okay, Dad. You can let go.”

A voice, clear and dry and impossibly him , came through the speaker: “Well. That was unpleasant. Do I still have to eat vegetables?”

Then the light went out.

Cross-Biological Identity Protocol, Version 0023 Function: Final conscious transfer from biological host to synthetic substrate. Warning: This session is irreversible.

The room hummed. A soft chime——and then his body went slack. For three minutes, nothing. Then the synthetic core in the adjacent tank glowed pearl-white.