The silence in the hospital room was suffocating, thick with a density that seemed to drain the very oxygen from the air. Jake stared at the sterile, mask-like faces of the doctors, then shifted his gaze to his Uncle Quân. His uncle's expression remained frozen, distant, like a statue carved from a grief Jake couldn't yet comprehend.
"What do you mean by 'erased'?" Jake snapped, his voice cracking with a mix of terror and adrenaline. "Uncle Quân, what the hell are you talking about?"
Quân didn't move. He stared at a point somewhere behind Jake's head, his eyes vacant and hollowed out by a dark fatigue.
"Answer me!" Jake yelled, his voice rising into a raw, desperate scream that made his broken ribs burn. "Where is the real Uncle Quân? Who are you people?"
The air in the room seemed to vibrate with a low-frequency hum. One of the doctors—a man with eyes as flat and colorless as polished glass—stepped forward. He didn't look at Jake with professional concern; he looked at him with the cold, detached interest of a technician checking a faulty component.
"This event is categorized as a non-interference protocol regarding innocent bystanders," the doctor said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Therefore, we will not take any direct action against you. We are merely the cleanup crew."
Cleanup crew. The words landed like a lead weight in Jake's stomach. He felt a surge of pure, primal panic. He braced himself to fight, to thrash against the IV lines, but a sudden, sharp prick in his neck cut the world out from under him. The faces of the doctors dissolved into gray streaks, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitor faded into an endless, droning hum. He was falling into a sleep so deep he wasn't sure he would ever wake up.
When Jake's eyes finally fluttered open, the sterile scent of the hospital was gone. In its place was a pungent, metallic cocktail of wet rot, damp garbage, and neon-lit humidity.
He was sprawled in the dirt of a claustrophobic alleyway, his clothes crusted with filth. He forced himself up, his body aching, and dragged his feet toward the mouth of the alley. As he rounded the corner, the breath was stolen from his lungs.
"What... what is this place?"
The city stretched out before him—a sprawling, impossible landscape where crumbling, classical stone architecture intertwined with the lethal, neon-drenched lines of high-tech cyberpunk. Massive, holographic lotus blossoms pulsed in the air, casting a flickering, blood-red glow over streets that hummed with the static of a trillion data streams. Steam vented from rusted pipes, obscuring the feet of pedestrians who wore ornate, antique-style coats fused with glowing synthetic armor.
It was breathtaking, magnificent, and undeniably dangerous. Jake felt small—a normal human boy lost in a world that had forgotten what "normal" was. He realized his greatest vulnerability was his total lack of knowledge. He needed information about this city and how to survive. He wandered for hours, a human shadow in a city of monsters, desperately hoping for a lead.
Finally, tucked into a soot-stained corner of an industrial block, a weathered sign caught his eye: BROCK BROKER SHOP.
The shop emanated a thick, grounding scent of molten iron and ozone—the smell of a forge. With a trembling hand, he pushed the door open. The interior was a cavern of scrap and light. Standing behind a counter made of salvaged engine blocks was a creature that defied description: a hulking figure that looked like a gorilla crossed with a man, sporting massive, bionic arms of reinforced alloy that hissed with hydraulic pressure. He wore a dusty, classic fedora that looked absurdly small on his broad, fur-covered head.
The beast grunted, his eyes narrowing. "What is a scrawny kid like you doing in my shop? You looking for scrap or a funeral?"
Jake's heart hammered, but he held his ground. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a jagged, torn piece of paper he'd ripped from a bulletin board outside—a crude advertisement for an apprentice. He slapped it onto the iron counter. "I heard you were looking for help."
The giant leaned forward, his mechanical arms venting a plume of hot steam. "It's a hot job, kid. If you can take the heat, you might live through the day."
"I don't just want work," Jake countered, his voice steadying. "I need information, a place to sleep, and food. That's the deal."
The giant let out a low, rumbling laugh that shook the tools hanging on the walls. "Demanding, aren't we? What can a frail thing like you give me in return?"
"I don't need breaks," Jake said, staring directly into the giant's eyes. "I'll work all day and night. You want me to pull double shifts? I'm your man."
The giant didn't wait. He slammed a hand onto Jake's shoulder—a gesture meant to be a test of strength that hit with the force of a falling anvil. Jake's knees buckled, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to collapse.
A savage grin spread across the giant's face. "I'm Brock! You've got spirit, kid. If you can't handle the work, I won't bother firing you—I'll just toss you to the scavengers out back so they can turn you into spare parts for their rigs!"
Brock roared with laughter, a sound like grinding gears, and shoved a heavy, blackened leather apron across the counter toward Jake. "Get to it, apprentice. The forge doesn't wait for anyone."