Krysta Tsukahara had already survived the impact. Nineteen years old, home from art school for Thanksgiving, she was conscious in the back of that Tesla Cybertruck when the electrical system failed and the doors sealed shut like a tomb. Flames spread, smoke filled her lungs, and outside she heard voices trying to reach her, but the future before her—bright, artistic, infinite—was about to be reduced to ash. She had minutes to live, and technology promised revolution had become… Continue reading…
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