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Chloe found out about the situation through her roommates, who found out about it through the internet, which had found out about it through an escalating chain of competitive one-upmanship that Ryan hadn't noticed because he was designing a seventy-ton robot arm.
The NeuraPath video had been the first salvo. But it wasn't the last.
Someone had reposted a video from abroad. The Whitfield Neuroscience Laboratory at Harvard, in collaboration with a major broadcast network, had released a full documentary-style segment on their brain-controlled prosthetic research.
The production quality was in a different universe from Ryan's shaky footage. Professional cameras, cinematic lighting, narrative structure. It opened with an interview with Jennifer, Whitfield's long-term volunteer.
"Five years ago, I was in a car accident on my way to work. A vehicle ran a red light and hit me head-on. After thirty surgeries over the course of a month, my right forearm was amputated. During the same procedures, the nerves from my amputated arm were transplanted to the remaining tissue, which allows me to control a prosthetic with my brain. And when I wear the prosthetic, I can feel things again. Pressure. Temperature. The sensation of touch."
The video showed Jennifer operating a prosthetic hand with individual finger control, picking up objects of different sizes, adjusting grip pressure in real time. The hand responded to her thoughts with minimal latency. And according to the narration, sensory feedback electrodes in the prosthetic sent signals back through the transplanted nerves, giving Jennifer a limited but real sense of touch.
It was, by any conventional measure, more advanced than what Prism Sciences had demonstrated.
The internet responded accordingly:
"This makes Ryan's prototype look like a student project."
"Harvard has been doing this for YEARS. The kid just walked into a field where the adults have decades of experience."
"He should stick to mechs. This isn't his arena."
"For the first time, I'm seeing real competition. And the competition is winning."
Chloe watched the Harvard video, read the comments, and called Ryan.
"Hey. Are you busy?"
"Always."
"Have you seen the latest? It's not just NeuraPath anymore. Harvard released a video. Their prosthetic has tactile feedback. The user can feel things."
"Interesting. I'll look at it when I have time."
He sounded exactly as unbothered as he had when Mason called about NeuraPath. Chloe decided not to push it.
"Other topic. My birthday's coming up. If you have time, come visit."
Ryan checked the calendar. November 21st. He'd be turning fifteen. It was close.
"Deal. I'll make time."
"You better. I'll plan dinner."
They talked for a few more minutes about nothing in particular, the kind of conversation that existed mainly to confirm that the other person was still there, still okay, still connected across the distance.
After they hung up, Chloe turned around to find all three of her roommates pressed against the door frame, eavesdropping with zero subtlety.
She gave them a look that could have frozen seawater.
They scattered.
-----
Harvard. The Whitfield Lab.
Professor Whitfield was watching Jennifer run through her standard test routine while a graduate student logged data on a laptop nearby. The experiment was proceeding normally. Jennifer's prosthetic hand picked up a foam ball, a metal cylinder, a glass of water. Each object held, manipulated, set down. Her face showed the concentrated focus of someone performing a task that was simultaneously mundane and miraculous.
Osman sat beside Whitfield, a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
"You could at least have taken me to a cafe," Osman said, sipping. "This is instant coffee. From a jar. In a paper cup. I helped you become an international sensation and you're serving me powder in hot water."
Whitfield laughed. "Instant coffee has character."
"It has the character of a parking garage." Osman pulled out his phone. "Have you seen the comments? People are calling you the pride of the scientific community. They're saying you've humbled the mech kid."
He read one aloud, translating the sentiment: "'Professor Whitfield has shown the world what real neuroscience looks like. Ryan Mercer should take notes.' There are thousands of these."
Whitfield shrugged. He wasn't interested in internet approval. He was interested in Jennifer's grip pressure data, which was trending in the right direction.
"If I hadn't brought the network cameras in, none of this would have happened," Osman continued. "You'd still be sitting in this lab, invisible, begging Harvard for table scraps. I deserve dinner at a restaurant with actual silverware."
"When I get new funding, I'll take you somewhere nice."
"I'll believe it when I see a menu."
Whitfield's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Unknown number. He almost dismissed it, then noticed the area code.
He answered.
The voice on the other end was professional, direct, and represented a company whose name made Whitfield sit up straight.
"Dr. Whitfield, this is the Helios Group. We've been following your work with great interest, and we'd like to discuss a potential investment partnership."
Whitfield muted the phone and looked at Osman.
"Helios Group," he whispered.
Osman's eyebrows shot up. Helios Group was one of the largest technology investment firms in the world. They had stakes in electric vehicles, artificial intelligence, space technology, and advanced manufacturing. Their involvement didn't mean money. It meant scale. Resources that Harvard's grant system could never match. Manufacturing capacity. Distribution networks. The difference between a laboratory prototype and a product on the market.
Whitfield unmuted the phone and spent ten minutes in the most pleasant professional conversation he'd had in years. By the end, a meeting was scheduled for the following week.
He hung up and raised his paper cup.
"Cheers."
Osman clinked his own cup against it, grinning.
"Cheers. But I'm still expecting that restaurant."
-----