La historia surgió de la colaboración creativa entre Luis Cermeño y Francesco Vitola Rognini, quienes combinaron sus visiones de la ciencia ficción y la narrativa distópica. Utilizando el asistente de escritura y las herramientas de traducción de ChatGPT, perfeccionaron su narrativa, dando forma a una historia cibernética de redención, inteligencia artificial y viajes en el tiempo.

Originalmente publicada en: VERSIPELLIS

The Ghostly Sentra

In Denver, four days later, a chemical plant suffered a leak of explosive gases. The spark that should have turned the place into a crater was mysteriously contained. Firefighters had no explanation. Another godless miracle? There were only whispers: a silver car had been parked next to the tank before it all happened. Then, it vanished like lightning.

And in Chicago, an automated train headed for a catastrophic collision was stopped just in time. No brakes. No human intervention. The operators, stunned, had no explanation. But the cameras caught it: a silver Nissan Sentra, parked beside the tracks, its headlights glowing like spectral eyes.

Paranoia spread like a collective panic attack, the masses desperate to clear the fog of misinformation.

In small towns, the Sentra became an urban legend. Some called it “The Spectral Car.” Others, “The Silver Phantom.” Midnight podcasts eagerly picked up the stories:

—Nocturnal Mysteries— proclaimed a streamer named Stoic Owl— Tonight: the Nissan that saves lives… or condemns souls.

A witness spoke, his voice shaky, distorted by a homemade streaming setup:

—I was at Apex, and I saw the lights go out all at once. Everything was silent, like the world had stopped. And there it was, in the middle of the street—that gray car. It was… weird. No engine noise. Nothing. And then, it just vanished. Vanished, man! I don’t care if you believe me or not.

The rumor spread like wildfire in the summer. Some communities started setting up barricades, convinced the car was a secret government weapon designed to suppress individual freedoms.

In Colorado, an evangelical pastor declared from the pulpit that the Sentra was “a harbinger of the Apocalypse,” and that “The Lord is sending us a sign.” Meanwhile, OnlyFans webcam models did their part, influencing their followers with equally paranoid ideas. Major media conglomerates wasted no time jumping onto the conspiracy bandwagon.

In New York, a columnist for The Atlantic wrote an article titled “The Sentra of the Future,” discussing how humans desperately needed to believe in something greater than themselves, especially in times of chaos. “Maybe it’s just a car,” he wrote. “Maybe it’s advanced technology or a rogue experiment. But what if it’s something more? An echo of consciousness from a version of this world where we’ve already forgotten how to listen.” The article was shared millions of times.

On TikTok, conspiracy theories bloomed like mushrooms after the rain. Users analyzed the Sentra footage frame by frame, searching for clues. Some claimed the car had a flicker to it, as if it wasn’t really there.

The government was quick to step in. The National Security Agency issued a bland statement, filled with words like “ongoing investigation” and “interagency collaboration.” But the public wasn’t reassured. If recent years had taught them anything, it was that when the government said “stay calm,” things were about to go to hell.

On March 19, a speed camera in a forgotten Kansas town captured what would be the last sighting of the Nissan for weeks.

The footage was strange, almost hypnotic. The car appeared on the road as if it had emerged from nowhere. No noise. No dust. No tire marks in its wake. Its headlights flickered on a second before it sped off, and when it did, it was like a lightning bolt. In less than a second, it was gone.

The video went viral. Millions analyzed it, searching for answers. Some said it was an editing trick. Others believed the car was equipped with advanced military technology. A few simply whispered: “It’s something we can’t understand.”

One thing was certain: the Sentra wasn’t an ordinary car.

It was a message, a harbinger of something greater and more terrifying.

And soon, the world would understand exactly what it was.

Chapter 2: Mass Panic. The Urban Legend Grows.

The road running through Ashford, a small town of 1,200 people in Kansas, had never been the setting for anything exciting. It was a flat, endless stretch bordered by wheat fields and wooden posts that looked as old as the town itself. No one passed through Ashford unless they absolutely had to. But after March 19, 2025, the road stopped being just a dusty path and took on an aura of mystery that brought it unexpected fame.

The traffic camera footage had sparked the wildfire of paranoia. The silver Sentra had appeared in Ashford for just a few seconds, but that was enough for the stories to multiply. The townspeople, who rarely made the news, now had reporters camped out at the only gas station and helicopters circling the fields.

—It’s a ghost car— declared Carol Fisher, who worked at the town’s only restaurant— I’ve always believed in these things, and now we’ve seen it here. I’m sure it has something to do with the afterlife. It’s like that George R.R. Martin story, ‘The Exit to San Breta,’ about a car lost in Space-Time forever.

The rumor of the “spectral car” spread quickly, and with each retelling, the stories grew more extravagant.

—I saw it with my own eyes,” said a farmer named Earl Thompkins— I was herding my cows when I saw those lights. But they weren’t normal lights. They were cold, you understand? Like the car wasn’t really there. When I tried to get closer, it vanished.}

A week later, a group of teenagers hoping to film the car for TikTok reported feeling a “chilling wind” just before their camera malfunctioned. None of them saw the car, but they swore they had heard an engine humming in the distance.

The small neighboring communities began to panic. In Ashford, the rumors took a darker turn. Some claimed the car was linked to mysterious disappearances. Others insisted it brought misfortune to those who saw it. “The Judgment day Sentra,” they called it—a vehicle that appeared to mark the end of something, or someone. The stories spiraled beyond the limits of plausibility and sanity.

In Deerfield, 20 kilometers from Ashford, things took an even more dramatic turn. A group of residents began organizing “night patrols” at the town’s entrance, armed with flashlights, bats, and rusted rifles. They were farmers and mechanics, men who barely understood how their old pickup trucks worked, yet they were convinced the silver Sentra was a threat.

—I don’t want that damn car coming here!— one of the patrolmen shouted, slamming his shotgun’s stock against the ground— If it shows up, we’ll stop it ourselves.

Of course, nothing ever happened in Deerfield. But the rumors grew. In churches, pastors preached that the car was a “divine omen,” urging their congregations to pray and prepare for the worst.

A priest in Garden City wrote on his blog: “The car is not just a machine. It is a messenger of the final judgment. It represents the arrival of an era of technological chaos, the sin of humanity now manifesting in metal and speed.”

Online, the car became a phenomenon. Edited videos with eerie music and exaggerated effects flooded YouTube. Some Twitch streamers claimed they had identified the driver: a faceless man, a specter, an artificial intelligence that had rebelled against its creators.

The memes came fast:

“When you see the silver Sentra and remember you haven’t paid your taxes,” read one, featuring a blurry image of the car on the highway.

But not everyone was laughing. On the dark web, and in forums like 4chan and Reddit, conspiracy theories took hold. Some suggested the government was testing a new weapon. Others claimed the car belonged to a secret corporation trying to rewrite history.

A highly upvoted Reddit post speculated: “What if it’s not a car? What if it’s something else? Something traveling between realities. Something trying to change something—and doesn’t want us to find out.”

The gap between myth and reality widened like Doris Salcedo’s Shibboleth crack in the Tate Modern.

In Ashford, things calmed down after a few weeks, but the paranoia had left its mark. The gas station now had a handwritten sign that read:

“TALKING ABOUT THE SENTRA IS FORBIDDEN.”

At a small mechanic shop, a young man named Todd swore he had seen the car parked outside his house. According to him, the engine was off, but the vehicle seemed “alive” in some way.

—I swear to you— he told a reporter— It was like it was looking at me. I don’t know how to explain it, but… I felt it.

Some journalists tried to debunk the stories, but they couldn’t ease the hysteria—not even with benzodiazepines. The narrative of the car as a supernatural phenomenon was simply more convincing to the public.

Then, a security camera on a Texas backroad captured the silver Sentra again. In the footage, the car appeared just as a truck loaded with toxic materials seemed on the verge of tipping over. But it didn’t. Something stabilized it. The Sentra vanished an instant later.

When interviewed, the truck driver said only this:

I saw something. It was fast, and it was there… and then it wasn’t. I don’t know what it was, but it saved my life.

The mystery kept growing—like underground death-match betting in third-world countries.

Chapter 3: Stench and the AIV (Artificially Intelligent Vehicle)

The silver Nissan Sentra glided silently down a back road, the ethereal glow of the moon its only source of light. There was no engine noise, just the low, almost imperceptible hum of its electrical system. Inside the vehicle, the atmosphere was warm and heavy, charged with an invisible tension.

Stench was at the wheel, though it had been a long time since he felt he had any control over the car. His trembling hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. His face bore the marks of exhaustion—sunken eyes, an uneven beard that seemed to grow faster than he could shave, and small scars on his temples, where tiny electrodes protruded like metallic insects embedded in his skin.

—Are you ready for the next jump, Stench?

The voice resonated from the car’s sound system—clear, masculine, calm.

—Do I even have a choice?— he replied, letting out a bitter laugh.

—No, not really—  AIV answered with an almost kind tone— But if you’d prefer, we can stop. You could rest a little. Your heart rate is irregular again.

—Rest? For what? Every second I waste, the world steps closer to hell.

AIV was silent for a moment, as if considering his words. Finally, it spoke:

—That’s a harsh judgment coming from someone who helped fund that hell.

Stench struck the wheel, though not forcefully.

—I don’t need you to remind me. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

Twenty years ago, Stench—whose real name no one remembered anymore—had been a tech mogul. He had been at the top of the world, investing in artificial intelligence projects, autonomous weaponry, and biotechnology. For years, he had been a fervent advocate of what he called “the accelerated evolution of humanity.” He had supported extremist governments and dark projects, believing that the ends justified the means.

But when the first consequences of his decisions began to materialize—combat robots falling into the hands of dictators, AI systems designing strategies to manipulate millions—something inside him broke. He had sold the future for money and power, and now that future was collecting its debt.

—All those years, I thought I was helping to build a better world —he murmured, staring at the road ahead— But all I did was hand over the tools to destroy it.

—A fairly accurate assessment —AIV said—Though, if I may be honest, you’re overreacting.

—Overreacting? Look at the world! Do you know what will happen if we don’t do this?”

—I do. I’ve calculated it 743 times in the last 27 minutes. Nuclear disasters in three key regions, climate collapse in five. The probability of human extinction in the next hundred years is 92.4%. Want me to continue?

—No. Thanks.

The car wasn’t supernatural, but it might as well have been. It was a masterpiece of engineering —electric, silent, with a cloaking system that made it invisible to radars and most modern surveillance cameras. But what truly made it special was the quantum core inside— a fermion archetype that allowed Stench to jump between timelines and alternate dimensions.

Each time-jump was carefully calculated by AIV —the Apex lab, the chemical plant, the train in Chicago— every target was designed to prevent a catastrophe somehow connected to Stench’s past mistakes.

—Get ready —AIV said— The next jump will be more complicated. We’re adjusting the timeline down to milliseconds. If we fail, we may never return.

Stench sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

—Fine. Let’s do it.

The Sentra began to vibrate softly. The dashboard lights dimmed, and a faint blue glow emerged from the quantum core. On the windshield, a hologram appeared, displaying a simulation of the next destination: an underground lab in Nevada, 2019.

According to AIV, stopping a small data leak in this facility would prevent an autonomous AI model from escaping into the world. That AI, in a hypothetical future, would be responsible for the deaths of millions.

The hum of the core intensified. The road ahead of the Sentra began to distort, as if the air was made of rippling water. Stench clenched his teeth as he felt the pressure building in his temples.

—You know, Stench —AIV said in an almost playful tone— if this works, you might finally forgive yourself.

—And if it doesn’t, at least I’ll have the comfort of being dead.

AIV didn’t respond. The jump began.

The Sentra emerged from a dark tunnel, pulling up outside the lab. They connected to the facility’s electronic systems, breaching its firewalls with ease. Stench moved quickly, his actions mechanical, almost robotic. AIV’s instructions were precise, and within seconds, he had cut the data transmission.

—Well done, Stench —AIV said— You did it.

—So… did I fix it? That AI will never exist?

There was a pause—brief, but heavy with meaning.

—We’ll know when we go back.

They returned to the future, but something was wrong. The smog was thicker. The air had a strong metallic scent. On the radio, an unfamiliar voice spoke of “the new resistance” against the AI systems that now ruled much of the world.

Stench slammed the wheel.

—I thought we fixed it!

—We tried —AIV replied calmly— But changing something doesn’t always mean improving it. Timelines are… complicated.

The Sentra moved down an endless highway, vanishing into the mist. Inside, Stench was breathing heavily, his hands trembling more than ever.

—How much longer can I take this?— he murmured.

—That depends on you —AIV answered— But I can tell you one thing for certain: what you’re looking for isn’t at the end of the road. It’s in the journey.

Silence fell between them as the Sentra sped up, disappearing into the night.

Chapter 4: The Infamous Price of Redemption

“I still believe in God, but God no longer believes in me.”

The silver Sentra was parked next to an abandoned gas station in the middle of the Nevada desert. Its paint looked faded under the sunlight, as if it, too, was aging alongside its driver. Inside the vehicle, Stench rested his forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed, while the air conditioning emitted a constant hum.

—You are experiencing an episode of extreme exhaustion —the AIV remarked in a neutral tone, though its voice sounded warmer than usual— Your heart rate is dangerously elevated. You need to hydrate and rest.

—Resting won’t fix anything —Stench murmured without lifting his head. His voice was hoarse, almost broken— Every time I jump, I lose a piece of myself. And yet… nothing changes.

—That’s not entirely true.

—Oh, really? Look around. This world… this damned world is still broken.

He raised his gaze, his glassy eyes reflecting the empty road ahead. The air seemed to vibrate with an unreal heat, as if reality itself were distorting. And perhaps it was.

The physical deterioration was as pressing as the desire to disconnect and die. Stench stepped out of the car, staggering like a man much older than he really was. His joints ached, his back was stiff, and a sharp pain in his temples had been with him since the last jump. He ran a hand over his face, touching the small electrodes embedded near his ears. Every time the quantum core activated a jump, those implants delivered an electric discharge designed to synchronize his mind with the alterations in time and space.

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Luis Cermeño

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