Lohan stood motionless in the center of the penthouse, ignoring the sound of the pool water overflowing, mingling with the blood of the dead guards on the apartment's marble floor.
In his left hand, he held a small, translucent metal object, about the size of a fingernail: the holographic interface chip he had just ripped from Oscar's eye.
The device was still warm, pulsing slightly with a residual charge of energy and stained with the man's blood, who was now moaning pitifully in the corner of the pool.Lohan looked at the object and then at his cell phone, which was tucked into the pocket of his black overcoat.
His phone was an old model, with a cracked screen and processing power that Lohan now considered archaic. For someone who operated with a Parallel Processing Core capable of splitting consciousness into independent streams, using this old phone was becoming an increasingly heavy burden with every passing moment.
