I never thought I'd end up here.
Twenty years old and already past my expiration date.
People love to preach "money isn't everything." Sure. In this city, money isn't everything? it's the only thing. It's the blood in the veins of every deal, every scam, every glass tower scraping the smog-choked sky.
The rich print it.
The poor die for it.
And me? I don't even have enough to buy tomorrow.
I dropped out of college thinking freedom would taste like fresh air. Spoiler alert: it tastes like instant noodles and tap water that smells like rust.
Now I'm rotting in my grandfather's collapsing apartment, where the wallpaper peels like dead skin and the pipes cough every time I turn on the faucet. Empty fridge. Empty wallet. Empty me.
The night air slices at my cheeks as I step onto the rooftop. It smells of fried oil and gasoline from the street vendors below, mixed with wet concrete after a half-hearted drizzle.
Below me, the city's alive but not in a good way. Neon lights twitch and sputter like dying fireflies. The sound of sirens blends with muffled bass from some underground club, while holographic billboards project glossy smiles over cracked streets. People scurry beneath them, their shadows long and crooked, like rats chasing a scrap of bread.
I catch my reflection in the dirty window: a skinny Chinese kid, hood up, dark circles carving hollows under his eyes. Not a tragic hero. Not a rebel. Just tired.
I mutter to the night, "Life's a joke, and I'm the punchline."
Wind rattles the railing as I lean forward. The city hums, almost daring me.
Goodbye World.
I closed my eyes but then—
SYSTEM ERROR
Life-force termination attempt detected
"What the hell?!"
A pulse of blue-white light floods my vision, cold and electric. Letters appear midair, glitching like broken neon. They're not on my phone. They're just there.
SYSTEM WARNING:Host is not permitted to quit.
Resurrection Protocol engaged.
My heart lurches. I stumble back, my sneaker skidding on the wet rooftop. The glow pulses like it's alive, casting long shadows across the concrete.
"You're kidding me," I hiss, squinting at the floating text.
Everywhere I look — the alleys, the towers, the neon billboards — it's the same story. Survival isn't about talent or goodness. It's about money. And I'm broke.
NEW QUEST ISSUED: SURVIVE
Failure Condition: Death (Not Available).
I grit my teeth. "Survive? I've been doing that my whole life. This your idea of a joke?"
The holograms don't blink. They wait, cold and silent, like a verdict. I'm breathing. My heart's still pounding. But I'm not free.
This isn't salvation.
It's a stupid sentence.