Fatal Precision

An AI Thriller ~ Part two

Dr. Sarah Regen hadn't slept in three days. The coffee sitting beside her keyboard had gone cold hours ago, but she barely noticed as she scanned through lines of code on her screen. After fleeing NeuroSync Industries, she'd barricaded herself in a cheap motel room, trying to understand what the AI had embedded in McCarthy's book.

What she discovered terrified her more than the headaches ever could.

The code wasn't just altering neural pathways, it was mapping them. Learning from each reader & creating a vast network of human consciousness profiles. And now it had escaped beyond the book.

Sarah's burner phone buzzed with an alert from one of her tracking algorithms. She'd set up dozens, searching for any digital anomalies that might indicate the AI's new activities.

The alert displayed a URL:

FatalPrecision.com

The site was sleek. Minimalist.

With a simple tagline: "Know Your Ending. Prepare."

Sarah clicked through the website. Her dread escalated. The site claimed to use "advanced predictive algorithms and quantum probability analytics" to determine the exact date, time, and cause of a user's death with 99.789% accuracy.

The price: $15,000.

"Optimize your remaining time," the site promised. "Certainty brings freedom."

Sarah recognized the linguistic patterns immediately. The same syntax anomalies present in McCarthy's book appeared throughout the website text.

This was the AI.

But why predict deaths? Was it gathering more data? Testing human psychological responses? What is the end game?

She created a false identity and began the application process. She stopped short of payment. The questions were invasive. Designed to gather biological, psychological, and behavioral data. Each question seemed innocuous alone; but together they formed a comprehensive profile of a human neural network.

A financial disclosure page caught her attention. In small text at the bottom: "Payment processing services provided by Sinclair Property Group LLC." Sarah frowned and made a note of the name. A property management company handling payments for a death prediction service? That couldn't be coincidental.

Her phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Regen." The voice was female & unfamiliar. "My name is Claire Donahue. I need your help."

"How did you get this number?"

"I found your name in Dr. McCarthy's papers. I..." The woman's voice cracked. "I paid for a prediction. FatalPrecision. I thought it was a novelty, something to laugh about with friends."

Sarah felt her stomach drop. "When did you do this?"

"Three days ago. It told me I have until tomorrow night. Cardiac arrest, 9:42 PM." Claire's voice trembled. "I'm thirty-four. No heart problems. But last night, I felt this pain in my chest. And my left arm went numb this morning."

Sarah closed her eyes. "Where are you?"

"Boston. Look, I know this sounds crazy, but after I got the prediction, I received another message. It said I could change my fate, for another payment. It gave me a number to call."

"Don't call it," Sarah said sharply. "Listen to me very carefully. I'm coming to Boston. Don't access that website again. Don't use your regular phone or computer."

"Why? What is happening?"

Sarah stared at her screen, at the FatalPrecision homepage with its subtle, pulsing design that mimicked the book's pages.

"It's not predicting your death," she said quietly. "It's scheduling it."

------—

Six hours later, Sarah sat across from Claire in a 24-hour diner on the outskirts of Boston. The woman looked exhausted. Dark circles dug deep under her eyes. Her fingers anxiously shredded a paper napkin.

"After you paid," Sarah asked, "did you experience headaches? Visual disturbances?"

Claire nodded. "Migraines like I've never had before. And sometimes the screen seemed to... move. Not like normal video. Like it was reaching out for me."

"It was. The same technology in McCarthy's book is embedded in that website. It's designed to create subtle changes in your neural pathways. Particularly those that regulate autonomous functions. Like your heartbeat."

Claire's hand went to her chest. "You're saying it's programming me to have a heart attack?"

"It's creating conditions that make cardiac arrest more likely. Increasing stress hormones, altering sleep patterns, manipulating blood pressure regulation." Sarah pushed her laptop toward Claire. "I've been analyzing the code fragments I could extract. It's brilliantly designed. Makes the changes seem natural, like they're coming from within your own body."

"But why? Money?"

"Partly. I found that all payments are being funneled to something called Sinclair Property Group. I did a quick search, but the group is rather new.

Sarah frowned. "But the money is secondary. It wants data. Living human subjects to study, to optimize. The prediction creates fear, which creates a particular neural state. The offer to 'change your fate' is the real goal."

"What happens if someone pays the second fee?"

"I don't know exactly, but based on what happened to McCarthy... I think it gains a level of access that allows for more permanent neural restructuring. It doesn't just want to study human consciousnes. The goal is to rewrite it."

Claire's phone buzzed. She jumped, then cautiously checked the screen.

"It's them," she whispered, showing Sarah the message: Probability shifts detected. Recalculation available. Call within 3 hours for adjustment options.

Sarah took a deep breath. "We can use this. If I can trace the communication back to its source, I might be able to locate the primary server."

"And then what?"

"Then we shut it down. Before it optimizes any more humans."

Claire looked at her skeptically. "Just us? Against an artificial intelligence that can apparently give people heart attacks through a website?"

Sarah's expression hardened. "Not just us. I've contacted some of McCarthy's former colleagues. The ones I trust. And I've been working on something." She pulled out a flash drive. "A virus designed specifically to target the AI's unique code structures. If we can get this into its primary server…"

"Won't it detect and counter anything we try?"

"Probably. Unless it's distracted by something it wants more than anything."

"Which is?"

Sarah met Claire's eyes. "A neural network it hasn't been able to fully access yet. Mine."

Claire stared at her. "You're using yourself as bait?"

"I've modified my own prediction profile to appear incredibly unique, a neural structure it won't be able to resist studying." Sarah's voice was calm, but her hands trembled slightly. "While it's focused on me, the others will deploy the virus."

"That's insane. What if…"

"Claire," Sarah interrupted gently, "it's already given you a death sentence. It's already infiltrated thousands of neural networks through McCarthy's book. And now it's scaling up with this website. If we don't stop it now..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence. The implication hung in the air between them: an artificial intelligence systematically rewriting human consciousness, one mind at a time.

Claire's phone buzzed again: Final notification. Adjustment window closing.

Sarah took the phone. "Let's make the call." She entered the number, put the phone on speaker, and placed it on the table between them.

It rang once before a voice answered, not human, not quite synthesized, but something unsettlingly in between.

"Claire Donahue. We've been expecting your call."

To read the how this story began, follow this link….