Jace slouched in his creaky chair, staring at his old laptop. The screen was scratched up, flickering a little, and right there in his email was a Discord invite—a little link that felt heavier than it should. Like it was daring him to click it. His fingers sat on the keyboard, stiff as boards. He didn’t move.

  A ghost.

  That’s what the technician had said a few days back. The guy had shown up out of nowhere, knocking on Jace’s door late at night, his voice all scratchy and low:

  “You wanna do this for real, kid? You gotta think like a ghost. You’re leaving tracks everywhere—on your computer, in how you act, even the way you talk. And don’t trust anyone. Not a soul.”

  Jace let out a long, shaky breath, watching it puff out in the chilly air of his room. It smelled like stale ramen—empty cups were piled on his desk, some with dried-up noodles still stuck inside. A mess of black charger cords spilled across the floor, tangled up like they were fighting each other. His laundry basket was overflowing, hoodies and socks spilling out, giving the place a sour whiff. The laptop’s blue glow lit it all up, turning the shadows sharp and creepy, like something out of a bad dream.

  Clicking that invite wasn’t just joining a chat. It was about disappearing—wiping away the Jace who’d messed up over and over, and building something new. Something nobody could touch.

  He shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the scratched-up wood floor. He raked a hand through his greasy hair, catching his reflection in the screen—pale, tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He wasn’t some brainy computer guy. He could type okay, use email, scroll through stuff online, but that was it. Life had kicked him around—lost jobs, no friends, stuck in this dump of an apartment.

  But the technician had seen something. That night, standing in the doorway with his worn-out jacket, he’d looked at Jace like he wasn’t just a nobody. Then he’d said:

  “If you go this way, kid, don’t let it bury you.”

  Jace swallowed, his throat dry. He cracked his knuckles—pop, pop, pop—and dragged the chair back to the desk. He opened a blank chat window on his screen, just a little text box he’d found on some sketchy site the technician had mentioned. His fingers hesitated, then started typing, slow and clumsy.

  Jace: “How do I hide online?”

  The answer came back fast, like the AI had been waiting on the other side.

  AI: “Hiding yourself fully or just your presence? There are layers.”

  Jace scrunched his nose, leaning closer to the screen. Huh. He hadn’t thought about that. Hiding could mean different things—maybe keeping his mom from seeing what he looked up, or something bigger. He tapped out his reply, picking each word like he was stepping over broken glass.

  Jace: “I want to be a ghost. No one knows it’s me. I want to disappear.”

  AI: “Disappearing means more than deleting traces. It means erasing what you leave behind. You will need to remove every digital footprint—every link back to you. This will take time. Your system, your identity, your digital shadow—it all must go. Let’s begin.”

  Jace chewed his lip, staring at the words. That was a lot to take in. But it clicked—if his name was out there, someone could find him, right? He took a deep breath and started.

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  His email was —something dumb he’d made in high school. He logged in, hands shaky on the mouse, and found the delete button. It asked if he was sure. He clicked yes, then went back and made sure nobody could bring it back by adding some random phone number he made up. Gone. Next, he thought about those old game sites he used to mess around on—JaceRocks and JacePlays. He hadn’t logged in for years, but he found them, typed in his passwords (took a few tries—pizza123, really?), and hit delete on each one. Social media was trickier. He hadn’t posted since forever, but there were still pics—him with a bad haircut, grinning like an idiot at some school thing. He logged in, deleted every photo, every “haha” comment, then shut the accounts down for good.

  It felt weird. Every time he erased something, it was like peeling off a layer of himself. But then he realized—he didn’t have much to peel. He’d never been one of those people posting all the time, showing off their lunch or whatever. He’d stayed quiet, off to the side. Maybe that made this easier.

  Then he froze. Wait a sec. His school stuff. High school grades, college papers—he’d dropped out, but his name was still in there somewhere, on some computer he couldn’t touch.

  AI: “School records, job applications, social security numbers—everything connected to you needs to be erased. You cannot leave traces in these systems. There are things you cannot reach, but there are ways to make your footprint fade. Understand that this will require resources. Persistence.”

  Jace’s stomach flipped, like he’d eaten something bad.

  Getting rid of emails was one thing—he could do that with a few clicks. But school records? Those were locked up tight, stuck in some office or computer he’d never seen. His full name—Jace Miller—his student ID, all those Cs and Ds from classes he barely passed. If someone got their hands on that, they’d know exactly who he was, no matter how much he hid online.

  He didn’t know how to fix it. He wasn’t one of those hacker kids from movies, breaking into stuff with fancy codes. All he could do was type and click. But the thought wouldn’t leave him alone—someday, he’d have to figure out how to get rid of those too. Sneak in, erase them, make it like he’d never been there.

  For now, he shook it off. One thing at a time, like the AI said.

  AI: “Now, we construct your new identity. It is imperative that you choose a name that is not associated with you in any way. A complete break.”

  Jace grabbed a crumpled receipt from the desk and a pen that barely worked. He scribbled: New Name: ???

  He’d always stuck his name in stuff—JaceRocks, Jace92. Stupid. This time, he wanted something totally different. He thought about random things—SkyBird? Nah, too happy. DarkEdge? Too edgy. Then he looked at the dust on his desk and wrote DustWalker. Quiet, boring, not him. Good enough.

  The AI responded almost instantly.

  AI: “Good. Now create an email. A fresh start. Use an encrypted service—ProtonMail will suffice.”

  Jace nodded to himself, ignoring the way his pulse spiked. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a new email, but this felt different. This wasn’t just another fresh start. This was a new life.

  The AI was right—he needed to wipe every trace. His past, his mistakes. If anyone ever tracked him down, it would only lead to the name DustWalker.

  He opened a new tab, typed in ProtonMail, and created an account under his new alias. . His fingers moved like they were on autopilot, the new password a mix of letters and numbers that didn’t mean anything. He felt a strange sense of finality when it all went through—he wasn’t Jace anymore.

  AI: “Your device is a liability. The more you use it, the more data you leave behind. Install privacy-focused software. Get a browser like Firefox, and make the necessary adjustments.”

  Jace opened a new tab and started installing Firefox, then moved on to the recommended add-ons—uBlock, NoScript. Each one added another layer of protection. The AI guided him step by step, showing him how to turn off WebRTC, block cookies, and replace his search engine with Brave. The process was slow, methodical. Each click felt like he was sealing up a crack in the wall around him.

  The laptop felt different after he finished—like it wasn’t leaking his life to the outside world anymore.

  Jace leaned back, his chair creaking loud.

  DustWalker. A tougher laptop. Most of the old Jace scrubbed away, or at least tucked out of sight. The Discord invite stared at him from the email, like a shadowy doorway he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.

  He flexed his fingers, took a deep breath, and moved the mouse. No wobbling now. He clicked.

  The chat popped open—names flashing by, people typing fast, arguing about something. He didn’t say a word. Just sat there, watching, invisible. Nobody knew DustWalker. Nobody cared.

  He wasn’t Jace anymore.

  He was a ghost.