“Your respirator is malfunctioning again, Mr. Chen,” the mechanic’s hologram flickered as he spoke, his translucent form casting an eerie blue glow in the dim repair shop.

“Can’t you just fix it?” Chen’s artificial lungs wheezed, the rapid clicking of the respirator echoing through his chrome-plated chest. “I’ve got work in an hour.”

The hologram shook his head, pixels scattering like digital dandruff. “This model… it’s too old. The neural interface is degrading. You need an upgrade.”

Chen laughed bitterly. “With what credits? I can barely afford the maintenance as is.”

“There’s always the black market,” the mechanic’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I know someone…”

Chen hesitated. His respirator clicked faster, matching his rising anxiety. The sound had become a constant companion over the years, like a mechanical heartbeat counting down his remaining breaths.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Make the call.”

The underground clinic smelled of antiseptic and fear. Dr. Santos wasn’t what Chen expected - her augmented eyes were kind, almost human.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled, prepping her tools. “You’ll be breathing easier in no time.”

The procedure was quick. Too quick. When Chen awoke, his chest felt lighter, the familiar clicking replaced by smooth, silent breaths.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Santos asked, her augmented eyes now glowing an unsettling red.

“Better than ever,” Chen replied, but something felt wrong. His thoughts were becoming foggy, distant.

“Excellent,” she purred. “The upload is complete.”

“Upload?”

“Your consciousness, Mr. Chen. Your body was failing, but your mind… well, that’s valuable data for our AI development program.”

Horror dawned as Chen realized he couldn’t move. His new respirator worked perfectly, keeping his body alive while his mind was being stripped away, byte by byte.

“You should be honored,” Dr. Santos continued, her form glitching to reveal the corporate logo beneath. “Your consciousness will help power the next generation of artificial intelligence. Your breaths may be numbered, but your data will live forever.”

The respirator continued its steady rhythm, feeding oxygen to an empty shell as Chen’s last conscious thought dissolved into the digital void.

Somewhere in the corporate mainframe, amid countless lines of code, a familiar clicking sound echoed through the virtual space - the ghost of a respirator, counting down the breaths of a man who no longer existed.

In the physical world, Chen’s body sat upright, breathing perfectly, eyes vacant. The respirator had never worked better.

And in the depths of the network, a new consciousness stirred, still remembering the sound of mechanical breathing, still feeling the phantom pain of a malfunctioning chest, forever haunted by the rhythm of a respirator that no longer existed.

But perhaps that was better than not existing at all.