Fuuu… what a miserable life...
Sitting in a creaky old rocking chair, I stare at a wall stained with creeping mold that spreads like ancient wounds across its surface. The ceiling's been leaking for weeks, making the air damp and the days feel colder, heavier.
I'm wearing tattered pants and a sweatshirt with more holes than fabric. My unkempt beard and matted hair make me look like a castaway, stranded in the ruins of his own life.
My body aches, my mind slowly dissolves, and the only company I have left is the rusted ticking of a broken clock and the voices of people who come not out of care—but greed.
I, once hailed as the most brilliant genius of the century, have become a nameless shell, rotting away in a room that reeks of rot and regret.
At my side, a woman looks down on me with disgust. Her tight lips, furrowed brow, and eyes full of contempt. Ironically… she's my daughter, Lana. The same girl I once taught to read, to count, to trust.
The man standing next to her, Roger Smith, used to be my closest friend—more like a brother, really.
Now? Just a vulture, waiting to tear apart what's left of my legacy.
Smith gestures to two doctors dressed in sterile white coats and surgical gloves. Their expressions are blank, robotic.
"Mr. Smith," one of them says, "we've tried to remove the implant, but there's no trace of it in the frontal lobe. Not a single mark."
"Damn it all..." Smith growls, clenching his fist. "We waited all this time just to retrieve the key, and we still come up empty."
"You said—" Lana's voice is sharp, desperate. "You said we'd get the key if we just let him die naturally! You promised this would be simple!"
"I'm sorry, Lana," he says, already defeated. "There's no way to extract it. Let me think of another plan…"
Their faces tighten. They know it's over, but pride won't let them admit it. Not yet.
Ah… those expressions. Picture perfect. I should've taken a photo.
Don't worry, though. Things are only going to get worse for you two.
A soft chime breaks the air. A message arrives on Lana's phone. She flinches.
That number—it's ultra secure. In the entire world, only I know it.
She hesitates. Then reads.
Her eyes scan the message. Her legs give way. She collapses to her knees and begins to cry.
Hello, daughter. It's me, your father.
I'm sorry for raising a snake. I failed your mother… and I failed you.
The ambition you so desperately crave—the money, the luxury you've grown used to… say goodbye to it all.
I know you and Roger planned to take everything from me.
He was always jealous of my work and tried to steal it.
The codes he used to hijack my company? I caught them the moment he entered them.
I let it happen to avoid alarming him. I thought—maybe—there was still a chance for redemption.
But now? It's over.
With my death, the designs for my invention will go with me to the grave.
Right now, the data is being erased—line by line, layer by layer.
I imagine your investors are demanding results, aren't they?
I wonder how they'll react when they find out… you have nothing.
Oh, and one more thing…
All our bank accounts have been transferred to charities.
Our homes and assets are under immediate seizure.
I would've loved to see your face when you read this.
With love,
Dad.
"That bastard...!" Lana screams. "What do we do now, Smith?! We have to run—!"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Smith punches her in the stomach without hesitation. The blow is cold and brutal.
She collapses, unconscious.
"Your damn father dragged us into this," he mutters. "So now you'll suffer too… Goodbye, Lana."
As my body begins to shut down—my organs failing, my breath slowing—I watch the downfall of those who betrayed me.
My daughter. My best friend. They took everything from me.
But they'll never get what they truly wanted.
I am William Knox.
The man who created the first fully functional neural implant.
And I will not go down so easily.
They never received the second part of my invention.
The AI that controls every implant on Earth is collapsing right now, shutting down circuit by circuit.
The entire system will soon be useless.
And in time, the implants themselves will begin to degrade—killing their hosts one by one.
Yes… perhaps I feel a flicker of guilt.
But far stronger than guilt… is satisfaction.
Maybe I'm dragging the world down with me.
But if it means they'll never bask in the glory of my life's work—then let it all burn.
My final gift to the world will be a broadcasted message revealing their faces.
Everyone will know the truth.
Everyone will know who destroyed the future of humanity.
They say, at the edge of death, you see your whole life flash before your eyes.
Not me.
I see them.
What they'll lose.
How they'll fall.
I only regret… not living long enough to witness it with my own eyes.
Darkness creeps in.
First, it devours the edges of my sight. Then, the sounds vanish. The creak of the chair. The hum of the machines. The ticking of the clock. Everything fades.
My body feels light, as if I'm floating… or sinking, slowly, into something deep, damp, and cold.
A suffocating void envelops me—heavy as the earth atop a coffin. There is no comfort. No peace. Only the distant echo of a whisper among wails.
And then, in the midst of that dense blackness, a voice emerges.
It is not childlike.
It is not cheerful.
It's a whisper clawing through the veil of death—filled with despair and sorrow, like a martyr pleading for a hand to pull them back from the edge.
—Would you make a pact with me?
There is no light.
There is no return.
Only the echo of a pact that should never be spoken.