The night was quiet. Stars twinkled coldly above, but he wondered whom they shone for. The buildings towered over the streets, untouchable and indifferent. A bus rumbled along, its sound echoing through the empty city. A man sat inside, staring out the window, his thoughts tangled in memories he couldn't piece together.
His thoughts twisted in his head, heavy and unrelenting, though his gloved hands betrayed nothing. He had only been a mercenary for two days, yet the weight of the job already pressed on him like lead. A black trench coat hung over simple, sturdy pants, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, ill-suited to someone untrained. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and unease. The badge hanging on his uniform below his coat giving his name 'Trout'. For a moment, his mind stilled, surrendering to the confusion, and his shoulders slumped slightly as memories clawed back in fragments—jagged pieces of events that had led him here, leaving him hollow and unprepared for what was to come.
The door opened with a harsh creak, and a man in a white coat stepped in, slow, deliberate, like he knew Trout had no defenses left.
"You're awake,"
the man said, voice smooth but cold.
"How do you feel?"
Trout swallowed. Words stuck in his throat.
"Normal,"
He said, though it sounded hollow, even to him.
The doctor nodded, moving closer, clipboard tapping against his leg.
"Do you remember your name?"
Trout's mind stuttered. He opened his mouth.
"Of course I do… who would forget their own name?"
But the words felt wrong. Empty. He couldn't remember. Nothing at all.
The doctor's lips twisted, a hint of mockery curling at the edge. "What were you saying?"
Before Trout could answer, a file thumped onto the table. The sound echoed in the sterile room, sharp and accusatory.
"I have better things to do," the doctor said over his shoulder, already walking away.
"A nurse will come and talk to you later."
The doctor threw the line back at him. Solemn and professional like he had done it countless time before.
As the man picked the file up and read it, he slowly realized how bad his current state was. The word Amnesia hit him right in the eyes. As the pages flipped, the horror and anxiety inside him grew bigger and bigger over time, his face gone pales, fingers gripping on the paper like it's his death sentences. Someone had found him in an alley and had called a corpse cleaning crew, but when they learned he was alive, they brought him here for treatment.
Learning how bad the situation was, he tried to collect himself and put the file away. As he lowered it, he saw that a nurse was already standing in front of him, waiting for him to finish reading. As he put the file aside, preparing to hear whatever came next, he said slowly:
"I suppose you're the nurse the doctor mentioned."
The nurse nodded and said coldly:
"How are you going to pay for the treatment fee?"
The man knew this would come eventually. He took the receipt and read it. He had been treated with a lot of things, from X-rays to advanced ampule injections, all without his consent. As if the hospital were draining every single drop of value out of him.
"The total is two hundred million. Do you have insurance?"
the nurse said professionally.
The number hit him. It was an amount so huge he couldn't even comprehend it. He didn't even know who he was—let alone how to pay it. He could hear the mocking around him.
"foolish of him choosing to go to a hospital belongs to Kurtzman cooperation"
they whispered.
He can't understand what are those saying, sympathy? Mocking? He can't get it all, what is all happening now, what going to happen next?
Before he could react, he was handed a contract. As he read the contract, he can feel each words carrying a single meaning, 'death sentences'. He was given two weeks to prove that he can repay the debt then he would be take in and be use like an experiment subject for the rest of his live, turning him into a slave right after he just learn about this world.
He could do nothing but sign a debt contract. In two weeks, if he couldn't prove he could repay it, he would be hunted down and used as an experimental subject by the corporations for the rest of his life. He's sitting on the edge of the bed when the reality settles in, and it feels like the mattress turns to concrete beneath him. His hand grips the blanket tightly and reading the contract till the end, hoping there would be a little hope for him to get out of this
After signing the contract he had no chance of winning. He felt a bitter truth settle inside him: the two-week countdown was the best mercy they could give him. He understood that it wasn't a time to find a way to pay them back, but a time to say goodbye to his loved ones.
But now… he didn't even know if he had anyone.
Who he even was?