“Congratulations, young man, for crawling out of one hell only to enter another.”
When Jazzy woke up, he found a note bearing these words placed on the table beside him.
He couldn’t hear a thing—the wind, the skittering of rats, the faint buzzing of neon lights. Every sound that reached his ears seemed to vanish into a bottomless abyss.
──So, this is my ending.
Jazzy thought to himself, and that was all he could do.
His last memory before blacking out was of a bullet piercing through his right ear.
In this merciless city, living well was a miracle. Simply being alive was a gift. The fact that he was still breathing proved that luck hadn’t completely abandoned him.
He scanned his surroundings. Disinfectant bottles, medical instruments, pipes, steel beams—all strewn about in chaotic disarray. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was likely in the operating room of an underground doctor.
As he sat up, he instinctively rubbed his forehead, only to bump into a nearby cart. Though he couldn’t hear the resulting clatter, it was enough to draw the attention of the room’s owner.
A middle-aged man in a white coat, his left eye replaced by a cybernetic implant, strolled into the room from the doorway. He smiled and gave Jazzy a small wave, his mechanical arm adorned with a visible neural interface.
Jazzy pointed at his ears, then at the neural interface embedded in his arm.
The middle-aged man quickly understood and sent him a connection request.
“Congratulations. If I hadn’t found you collapsed in that junkyard, the security team would’ve mistaken you for some overdosed junkie and buried you by now,” came the message through the neural interface.
“Thanks for saving me. I… I don’t have much money. The medical bill might have to be in installments…”
“No need. I don’t even have a medical license. Let’s just say this proves that medical miracles don’t always require a certificate to shine.”
“…Thank you, doctor. What should I call you?”
“BLUNT.”
“I owe you my life.”
“You may not get this lucky next time. You know that, right?”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
With that final exchange, Jazzy got off the bed, preparing to leave.
“Wait.”
BLUNT called after him. Jazzy turned around to see BLUNT holding up a small, old chip.
“I found this clenched in your hand when I picked you up from the junkyard. Is it yours?”
Jazzy stared at the faint blue glow emanating from the chip. His mind was blank, but he knew such an object could fetch a price at a recycler.
“It’s mine. Thanks, BLUNT.”
Jazzy took the chip and walked out of the basement clinic.
Climbing the stairs, he emerged into the dim glow of twilight. The suffocating urban landscape unfolded before him. Neon lights flickered, casting an eerie radiance, and massive advertisement screens churned out sensational, soulless images. He was long used to it all. Without a second glance, he made his way home.
The old chip warmed in his hand from his body heat.
