The small clinic sat tucked away in a forgotten back alley—cramped, sterile, and barely holding together. The dim fluorescent light flickered slightly overhead, casting a sickly glow over the worn-out tiled floor.
Jack sat on the only patient's bed in it, his body stiff as the old doctor finished wrapping fresh bandages around his ribs.
"Bruised ribs, mild concussion... might be some internal bleeding. If you're lucky, it's nothing major," the graying man listed off, rubbing his temple. "Damn lucky nothing's broken."
Jack could only grimace at each diagnosis from the good doctor.
The doctor leaned back on his swivel chair before letting out a tired sigh.
"What was it this time, boy? Another one of your reckless freelancer gigs? Get jumped by some monsters again?"
His assumption made Jack flinch—a sharp twinge of irritation mixing with unease.
The work field had been on a steady decline, especially in rural areas like this town in the southeastern part of the new united continent.
And people like Jack could only do so much to get a stable job... which meant he had to resort to unconventional—and mostly dangerous—freelance gigs.
Courier work through monster-infested zones, scavenging for valuable scraps in abandoned wastelands, or hunting for wild materials in untamed lands where few dared to tread.
The monsters may have been pushed back underground to the dungeons they came from, but... not all of them returned.
'Rogue monsters.'
Stragglers, remnants of past outbreaks, those that managed to slip past the eyes of the Card-Holders.
And then worse still—
Dungeons.
While their appearance was quite rare... they could still spawn ANYWHERE... bringing along a new horde of monsters with them.
In the middle of a forest, under an alleyway, even beneath a crumbling shed—no one could predict them.
Which meant even peaceful zones weren't always safe.
And even worse?
Monsters that managed to reach the surface—whether rogue or fresh out of a dungeon—didn't generate rewards when killed. No drops, no loot, and no C-Points for the M-Card users.
Unless they caused a mass incident or threatened the public... they were mostly ignored—left to fester.
And for someone without an M-Card... without any real power...
Jack was always gambling his life just to get by.
But this time, these injuries weren't from monsters... and he hesitated to elaborate on the matter.
His hesitation, though, didn't go unnoticed.
The doctor's sharp eyes narrowed. "...So, not monsters, huh?"
"...It's not that."
"Sigh... then what was it?"
Silence. Jack didn't answer right away.
He didn't want to drag the old man into his mess.
But the old doctor wasn't stupid. He eyed the young man for a moment before snorting.
"You got your ass handed to you, didn't you?"
Jack stiffened at this, which only served to confirm the doctor's suspicion.
"Figured as much," the doctor muttered, crossing his arms. "Doesn't take a genius to tell these aren't wounds caused by wild monsters—this is a classic case of someone getting the absolute crap beaten outta them."
Jack could only nod silently.
The doctor exhaled through his nose, muttering something under his breath before leaning against the counter.
"All right, spill it. Who did it?"
"…Debt collectors."
A heavy silence fell between them.
The doctor closed his eyes for a moment before sighing deeply.
"Damn idiot."
Jack didn't argue—the good doctor was right.
He was an idiot, through and through.
"Them, huh?" The doctor scoffed. "Do you even know what kind of power those money-loving thugs have now, ever since this 'gold digger' of a power system came into play?"
Jack swallowed hard at that but nodded.
He knew.
He felt it firsthand.
The old doctor could see the bitterness written all over Jack's face.
"...So they're trying to make you finally pay up, huh?"
"Yeah..."
"Why? Did you somehow get late on a payment?"
"I... tried to run away."
"Sigh... figured as much."
Jack had no response to that, which only made the old man sigh again in exasperation. The good doctor gave up on scolding the idiot before him.
But then... after a brief pause, his brows drew together— Like something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He tilted his head slightly, squinting at the young man before him.
"...Remind me again," he said slowly, "how the hell did you even get yourself into this debt in the first place, boy?"
Jack looked away, lips pressing into a tight line. He didn't want to recall that grim encounter—being caught between life and death.
But... he owed the old man at least that much.
"There was a job... few months back," he muttered, voice low. "Supposed to be a simple courier run—couple days in and out, but... I got ambushed by rogue monster..."
The doctor didn't interrupt. He just listened.
"It tore through me like nothing. All of my limbs were shredded, my lower torso was pretty much gone, and I was just slowly bleeding to death... I shouldn't have made it back alive."
He paused—swallowed hard as the vague memory of his life slowly withering away resurfaced... only to be replaced by the sterile white ceiling of the Emergency Room.
"I was lucky someone dragged me to a real hospital. One of those under the M-System's jurisdiction. They... they used a high-tier healing ability on me that regenerated... everything. Arms. Legs. Even my goddamn organs."
A bitter smile touched his lips.
"It was a true miracle on Earth... and it cost me everything."
"Emergency life-saving service, huh... sigh, what a damn scam," the doctor muttered under his breath. "Works as intended... but it ain't cheap."
"Yeah, not unless you're a registered Card-Holder, and even then, I heard it was still pretty darn expensive for them too... but I took that expensive offer just to stay alive."
"So instead of dying, you ended up in debt," the doctor summarized grimly.
Jack let out a dry chuckle to himself... before he gave a slow nod.
The doctor didn't say anything either after that. Just a heavy silence... thick, bitter, and far too familiar.
Both men sat with the weight of it—grimacing in quiet understanding.
This was the world now.
Where you could get torn apart by monsters... lose your limbs, your insides... your life—and still somehow survive...
Only to wake up buried under a mountain of debt.
A cruel kind of miracle.
Not wanting to prolong this awkward silence no more, Jack started shifting to get off the bed, ready to leave.
"Thanks for patching me up, doc..."
And as he stood up, he reached into his pocket for his wallet, but... he realized—
He had no money.
Jack could only purse his lips in frustration, shame settling in his chest... as he was now truly broke.
No... that wasn't entirely true. He did have money—a single dollar. But in this new reality they lived in, it might as well have been worthless.
He looked back at the old doctor, whose face remained impassive.
"Doc," Jack muttered, earning a raised eyebrow. "I... I don't have anything to pay you with, so if I drop dead, just… just sell my organs or something—I give my full consent and all that shit."
The doctor only stared at him. Then, after a beat, he scoffed.
"Tch. I don't want some deadbeat's organs."
Jack let out a dry chuckle, scratching the back of his head.
However, the doctor wasn't finished. He waved a dismissive hand.
"It's on the house, boy."
"...Huh?"
That… startled him. He looked up and stared at the doctor's stern expression, disbelief etched all over his face.
Another act of kindness.
Two in one day.
That was a rarity in this world.
As Jack stood there, momentarily thrown off by this unexpected generosity, the doctor let out a small huff before reaching into the cluttered drawer beside him. After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a small, crumpled note paper.
Without a word, he grabbed a pen and began scribbling something onto it—quick, precise strokes that took shape into what looked like a rough map. Once finished, he tore the paper from the pad and held it out.
Jack blinked before hesitantly taking it, his eyes scanning the simple yet clear directions drawn on it.
"There's a hole in the border wall," the doctor said, arms crossed. "Far west—near the base of the cliffs behind the old train station. If you're looking for a way out, use that."
"W-what...?" Jack frowned, eyeing him warily. "…Why are you telling me this?"
The doctor didn't answer. He only stared back at Jack's face, filled with disbelief, with his own unwavering expression.
But then, Jack finally understood... and he felt truly grateful for the good doctor's second act of kindness.
Not just for this moment—but for all the times the old man had patched him up, stitched him back together, and kept him breathing when no one else would.
Lowering his head slightly, he muttered, "Thanks, doc..."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, boy."
"...I owe you," Jack muttered again, before hurrying out of the clinic... leaving behind the old doctor with a somewhat tired face.
The good doctor watched him go... a sigh leaving his lips as he leaned back on his swivel chair.
"...Don't go around owing people, dumbass."