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Mason was talking fast.
"Multiple labs just released their own neural prosthetic demos. Professional-looking videos. Clean labs, proper lighting, expert commentary. Their technology looks way ahead of ours. The hottest one is NeuraPath Technologies. They've been riding our wave since day one, and now their video is everywhere."
"Mm." Ryan's response was a single syllable.
"You need to see it," Mason insisted.
Ryan opened his laptop and searched for NeuraPath Technologies. The video was the top result.
He clicked play.
The difference in production quality was immediately obvious. NeuraPath's video was shot in a proper laboratory: bright, organized, gleaming equipment arranged with the careful aesthetic of a company that knew investors would be watching. Researchers in lab coats stood at designated stations. A presenter walked viewers through the technology with clear, accessible explanations. Graphics illustrated the neural signal acquisition process. The volunteer's prosthetic arm moved with visible precision.
It looked professional. It looked impressive. It looked like exactly the kind of video that would make people think Ryan's shaky, out-of-focus, static-camera test footage was amateurish by comparison.
The comments confirmed it:
"This looks way more advanced than what Ryan Mercer showed."
"Incredible technology. Is this the same as what Mercer is doing?"
"For the first time, it looks like someone might actually be ahead of him."
Ryan watched the entire video. Studied the technical explanations. Noted the signal acquisition methodology, the decoding approach, the motor command vocabulary, the response latency.
When it ended, he said two words:
"That's it?"
"What?" Mason's voice cracked on the other end of the line.
"What do you want to do about this, exactly?" Ryan asked.
Mason sputtered. The competitor had a better-looking video, a better-funded lab, a Harvard-trained founder, and technology that appeared to outperform Prism Sciences' prototype on every visible metric.
What could they do? Storm NeuraPath's offices? Issue a press release? Start a Twitter war?
"Should we… make a statement? A response?"
"No. Too much effort. Keep working on the arm. Improve the drive system. Hit the response-time targets I gave you."
Mason's scalp tingled. He could feel individual hairs abandoning ship.
"That's the plan? Just… keep working?"
"That's always the plan. What NeuraPath showed is targeted muscle reinnervation paired with surface EMG acquisition. It's the same approach that every top lab in the world uses. Their video looks impressive because they have a nice lab and a good cameraman. The underlying technology is competent but conventional."
Ryan paused. "Our technology isn't conventional. When it's ready, nobody will be making comparisons."
Mason wanted to believe this. He also wanted to not lose all his hair before turning twenty-five.
"Okay," he said. "We'll keep working."
He hung up. Ryan closed the NeuraPath video and returned to the Crimson Typhoon arm blueprints without a second thought.
-----
Meanwhile, Dr. James Alcott was sitting under studio lights.
The show was called Tech Spotlight, a nightly program that chased trending topics and brought in expert guests for live commentary. Tonight's topic: brain-computer interfaces and the neural prosthetics boom. The guest: the Harvard-educated founder of NeuraPath Technologies, whose demonstration video had just crossed five million views.
The host, a woman with sharp eyes and a warm delivery, introduced the segment.
"A few days ago, Ryan Mercer, the teenage inventor known for his mech Scrapper, released a video showing what he called a neural prosthetic prototype. The footage went viral. But tonight, we're hearing from another researcher who says this technology has existed for years." She turned to Alcott. "Dr. Alcott, welcome."
Alcott was polished. Confident. He explained the technology clearly, walked the audience through NeuraPath's demonstration, and positioned his company as the established expert in a field that Ryan Mercer had merely entered.
He was careful not to attack Ryan directly. Instead, he framed the narrative as "the public is just now discovering something that scientists have been working on for decades." The implication was clear: Ryan was a newcomer in a field where NeuraPath had years of expertise.
It was smart positioning. And it was working. The live chat was full of people expressing surprise that the technology predated Ryan's video.
-----
At the film school, Chloe's roommate Becca was watching Tech Spotlight on her laptop when something caught her eye.
The background screen behind the host was playing Ryan's prosthetic video. The one with the bad lighting, the static camera, and the out-of-focus faces.
Becca stared at the screen. Then stared harder. Then minimized the livestream and searched for the original video.
She found it. Played thirty seconds. The quality. The color grading. The complete absence of any camera movement. She'd seen this exact footage before.
On Chloe's laptop. When Chloe had claimed she was "practicing her editing skills."
Becca pulled up the video. Checked the upload account. Ryan Mercer's official channel.
Chloe had edited Ryan Mercer's video. Chloe, her roommate, the quiet girl who ate fried chicken drumsticks and went running every morning, had a direct working relationship with the most famous teenager in the country.
And she'd lied about it.
When Chloe returned from her evening jog, she opened the dorm room door to find three roommates seated in a row, arms crossed, expressions dangerous.
"Chloe," Becca said. "Explain."
"Explain what?"
Becca held up her phone. Ryan's prosthetic video, playing on loop.
"You told me this was a practice edit. A student exercise. And now it's on national television being discussed by a Harvard researcher. Would you like to revise your statement?"
The other two roommates flanked Becca. "What's your relationship with Ryan Mercer?"
"Spill."
"We have ways of making you talk."
Chloe assessed the tactical situation. Three adversaries, positioned between her and her bed, blocking the path to her snack drawer. Hostile intent confirmed.
She reached over and flipped the light switch.
The room went dark.
Three seconds of muffled sounds.
When the lights came back on, all three roommates were on the floor in various states of defeat, and Chloe was sitting on her bed, drumstick in hand, looking serene.
"He's my childhood friend," she said calmly. "I've been editing his videos since before any of you knew his name. And if you ever try to ambush me again, the lights stay off longer."
"Yes ma'am."
"Understood."
"We love you, Chloe."
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