Chapter 3: The Cat

Chapter 3: The Cat

Years Later

High School

5:12 AM

Illumina stared at the ceiling.

He checked his phone.

Total sleep: 2 hours, 47 minutes.

A pretty good night.

The problem wasn't simple.

His body was constantly on alert. The slightest sound, the smallest movement, and his brain would immediately wake up.

It was as if his nervous system never completely shut down.

His reflexes were always ready.

Always active.

He'd noticed it once in class.

The student sitting behind him had dropped his pen.

Before the pen could even hit the floor, Illumina's hand was already there.

He caught it.

The classroom went silent.

The boy stared at him.

“Dude... How the hell did you do that?”

“I don't know.”

But those reflexes came at a price.

Sleep.

If his body couldn't fully shut down, neither could his brain.

The doctors had never been able to agree on what to call it.

“Neural hyperarousal.”

“Sleep-cycle disorder.”

“Post-traumatic reflex hyperactivity.”

A lot of words.

None of them helped.

---

I was walking home after school.

Lately, I'd been seeing those doors in people's minds more and more often. It felt like if I focused hard enough on someone's mind, I might actually be able to enter it.

I had to test it.

In the street next to my house, a black cat was sniffing around some garbage.

Looking for food.

I picked it up and brought it home.

Like any cat would, it immediately started sniffing around, trying to figure out where it was.

I picked it up again and placed it in front of me.

Then I focused.

Hard.

I put every bit of my attention on the cat's head.

There it was again.

That feeling.

A slight headache began creeping in, but I could handle it.

And then—

I was inside.

This place was incredibly complicated.

Countless neural connections.

Neurons.

Senses.

Instincts.

The image of the cat sniffing through the garbage flashed through my mind.

I followed it toward its senses.

And there it was.

Smell.

I could actually see the neural connections responsible for its sense of smell.

Could I take them for myself?

Well...

It's not like there was a guard standing around in here.

The moment I started pulling that sense into my own mind, an unbelievable pain tore through my head.

It felt like one side was full while the other was empty.

Right.

I think I'm starting to understand.

If I take something...

I have to put something back.

Did I have any skill or piece of knowledge that could neurologically compensate for the cat's sense of smell?

How about knowing how to put a bicycle chain back on?

I didn't use mine anymore anyway.

I gave it away.

And I could feel it.

The cat's sense of smell was moving from its brain into mine.

A few seconds later, I snapped back to reality.

My head was pounding again.

But something was different.

There was a smell.

Food?

That hadn't been there before.

I looked at the cat.

It seemed normal.

Then it suddenly stood up and walked toward my bicycle.

It stopped beside it and stared at the bike for a few seconds.

Then it climbed out through the window and disappeared.

But there was something I wanted to test.

I stepped outside and walked over to the garbage bin in the street.

I knew immediately.

Tuna.

Just starting to spoil.

I dug through the trash and pulled out a can of tuna that had been thrown away a few days earlier.

So the ability really worked.

I could transfer neural connections from the brains of living creatures into my own.

I wouldn't realize the true scale of that potential until later.

The cat came over and looked into the garbage.

But unlike before, it didn't sniff around.

It just stared.

Then walked away.

So I'd really taken its heightened sense of smell.

But the knowledge I'd given it in return...

Wait.

I needed to check something.

I ran home and sat beside my bicycle.

The chain had come off last week.

Normally, putting it back on would've been automatic.

I'd done it countless times.

But something was wrong.

I had absolutely no idea what to do.

Something I'd known for years—something that had practically become muscle memory—was gone.

Whatever.

I wasn't using the bike anymore anyway.

What mattered was this:

I could exchange knowledge, skills, and reflexes between minds.