But with each transfer, he whispered the same thing to his unconscious victims:

"It's in me," Kael said. "The loop. Make another plug. Flush me."

Lina’s body arched. Her eyes went white. And for one eternal second, Kael saw it: the junk data. It flowed out of her like black smoke—millions of corrupted memories, phantom pains, algorithmic shrieks. But it didn't vanish. It poured into the plug, then up Kael's own fingertips, into his un-punctured skull.

She didn't see the Metal Plug, now warm and humming faintly, still lodged in her port. She didn't see Kael quietly pull it out and slip it into his own pocket.