Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Rain lashed against the windshield of the old Volvo, blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. The wipers were fighting a losing battle, rhythmically thumping like a failing heart.

Jorden Nash gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His breath fogged the glass.

He was late.

Not for a meeting. Not for a doctor's appointment. He was late picking up a dress. A Dior evening gown that Catarina needed for tonight. A gown that she would wear while standing next to Atticus Deleon.

The thought made his stomach tighten. Acid burned the back of his throat.

Just get the dress, Jorden. Don't ruin the night.

He checked the time on the dashboard. 7:42 PM. The event started at eight. Chloe, Catarina's assistant, had already called twice. He hadn't answered. He was driving too fast on a slick road in upstate New York, trying to be the good husband. The useful husband.

The headlights of the oncoming truck didn't look like lights. They looked like two exploding stars.

The truck hydroplaned. It crossed the center line.

Jorden slammed on the brakes. The tires locked. The Volvo spun, the world tilting on its axis.

There was no time to scream. There was only the sound of metal screaming against metal, a deafening crunch that vibrated through his teeth, and then the shattering of glass.

Pain.

It wasn't a sharp prick. It was a sledgehammer to the chest. The steering column crushed inward. The airbag detonated like a bomb in his face.

Then, darkness.

But not silence.

Jorden didn't float toward a white light. He fell. He fell into a deep, digital abyss.

It felt like his brain was being pried open with a crowbar.

Accessing...

It wasn't a voice. It was a sensation. A pressure in his frontal lobe.

Billions of sparks ignited in the dark. They weren't stars. They were data.

Cooking. Molecular gastronomy. The precise temperature to coagulate an egg yolk. 62.5 degrees Celsius. Not just recipes, but the chemistry of sustenance.

Music. Rachmaninoff. The muscle memory of a left-hand arpeggio. The vibration of a Steinway string.

Surgery. The tension of a suture. The anatomy of the human heart. The exact pressure needed to crack a sternum.

Finance. High-frequency trading algorithms. Market volatility. The smell of fear on a trading floor.

The information didn't trickle in. It flooded him. It was a tsunami of competence crashing into a vessel that had been empty for three years. It hurt. It felt like his neurons were being burned away and re-soldered. He was drowning in other lives, other Jordens, other possibilities.

He screamed in the void, but no sound came out.

Calibration complete.

The darkness shattered.

"BP is stabilizing. 110 over 70. Heart rate 85."

The voice was mechanical. No, it was human, but it sounded distant.

"Pupils are reactive. He's coming back."

Jorden gasped. The air tasted like rubbing alcohol and burnt rubber. His eyes snapped open.

The light was blinding. He blinked, tears streaming down his temples.