Jax opened his eyes in the Lower Sector alleyway. He felt fine. He felt perfect. But when he looked at his reflection in a rain puddle, his eyes weren't brown anymore. They were glowing hexagonal grids, and the only thing he could hear was the faint, rhythmic ticking of a loading screen.

The neon signs of the Lower Sector didn't just flicker; they throbbed like a dying pulse. In a world where "Genetic Disaster" wasn't just a title on a dusty game box but a daily medical forecast, Jax was the best "Glitch-Hunter" for hire.

The console on the table in the real world clicked. The green light turned a steady, sickly violet.

Jax ignored her, his vision blurring as the eShop’s digital ghost-code flooded his nervous system. "The client wants the source code. They want to know why the first generation mutated." "They mutated because they played God with a gamepad, Jax!"

Jax reached for the glowing terminal at the center of the disaster. As his fingers touched the glass, the screen didn't show code. It showed his own face, screaming. The "Switch" wasn't a toggle; it was a trade.