The box arrived with no return address, just a smudge of purple ink and a postmark from a city Leo couldn’t pronounce.

But his finger met something smooth and hard. He pinched at the lens, but there was nothing to grab. He looked in the mirror and gasped. The lens wasn't sitting on his eye anymore. The edges had vanished, the clear plastic turning translucent and veiny, weaving itself into the white of his eye.

Leo washed his hands twice, his heart hammering against his ribs. He popped the seal on the first vial. The lens was eerily thin—almost like a film of oil on water. He balanced it on his index finger, held his breath, and pressed it against his iris. The world snapped into a terrifying, crystalline focus.

Connection established, a text overlay scrolled across his field of vision in that same shaky, purple font. System calibration: 84%. Please do not attempt to disconnect.