There's a specific kind of tired you only feel in New York. Not because the day was long, but because it never really ends.
Even at night, the city keeps moving—cars rolling past in uneven streams, distant sirens threading through the noise, conversations overlapping until they blur into something constant and indistinguishable. After a while, you stop hearing it. It just becomes background.
I was standing at a crosswalk when the thought came.
Red light. A row of taxis idling in front of me. A delivery guy weaving between people like he had done it a thousand times before. Someone arguing loudly into their phone. Steam rising from a vent further down the street, drifting lazily into the cold air. It was normal. Crowded. Alive.
'What if someone just walked into this crowd and started stabbing random people?'
I blinked once, more out of habit than surprise.
That was new.
It wasn't fear. Not really. More like an observation that had taken the wrong turn somewhere in my head and decided to stay.
Too many people. Too close together. No one paying attention to anything that wasn't directly in front of them. It wouldn't even be difficult.
Statistically speaking, this is a terrible place to stand. Also… very efficient.
That almost made me smile. Of all the ways to die in New York—accidents, illness, exhaustion—getting picked at random in the middle of a crowd felt less like bad luck and more like timing.
The light changed. People moved. So did I. The thought faded as quickly as it had come, swallowed by routine.
I I didn't notice him at first.
There was nothing to notice in the way people usually meant it. Just another person moving in the opposite direction, another face passing by in a city where eye contact didn't mean anything.
Except—
for a second, we did.
It wasn't intentional. Just one of those brief, accidental glances when two people look up at the same time. His face was partially covered by a mask, the kind that didn't stand out anymore. Just another normal person trying not to stand out.
There was nothing unusual about him.
Nothing memorable.
No reason to think twice.
So I didn't.
I looked away and kept walking.
Then something hit me. Not hard, Not dramatic.. Just wrong. Close enough to interrupt my step, sharp enough that my body paused before my mind understood why.
At first, I assumed it was nothing serious. Someone bumping into me, maybe. That would have been normal.
That explanation held for about half a second. Then the pain arrived—precise, delayed, undeniable.
I let out a small sound without thinking.
I looked down, more out of curiosity than panic. There was a hand. Not mine. Too close to my body, pulling away too quickly to belong there. Then came the red.
By the time my brain tried to connect the pieces, it was already too late.
As I dropped to my knees, another thought surfaced—unsteady, unfocused, but persistent.
Could this be intentional? It sounded ridiculous even as it formed. Did someone hire him?
The idea lingered longer than it should have.
A coworker, maybe. Someone I had annoyed without realizing. Someone with enough money and too much time.
No.
That didn't make sense.
I didn't have enemies
I didn't have conflicts.
I barely had conversations that lasted longer than necessary.
And even if I did—
No one I know could afford that.
The thought settled quickly.
Not because it was comforting.
Just because it was logical.
This wasn't personal.
This was timing.
Of all the places to stand. Of all the moments to exist. I just happened to be there.
Then someone noticed.
"Yo...hold up."
"Hey—what the hell—"
"Is he—?"
There was a brief pause, like the scene needed a second to register. Then understanding spread.
"Oh shit—he's bleeding—!"
"Call 911—call 911!"
"Don't move—just stay there, man—!"
Phones came out almost immediately. Not slowly. Not hesitantly. Instinctively.
I noticed one guy already holding his phone up, camera pointed directly at me. Another stood a little further back, angling his shot carefully like he didn't want to get too close but still didn't want to miss anything.
Someone behind them said, half in disbelief, half in excitement, "Yo this is crazy—this is actually crazy—"
Of course.
My legs gave in before I could decide what to do with them. I dropped to my knees, the impact against the pavement registering more as pressure than pain.
Everything felt slightly delayed, like my body and mind were no longer working at the same speed.
A woman stepped forward, then stopped herself.
"Don't touch him—just wait for EMS!"
Right. Procedure. Distance. Safety.
Someone else was already on the phone, pacing slightly as they spoke.
"Yeah...yeah—he got stabbed—I didn't see who—just send someone—we're on 8th—near the light—yeah—yeah—"
No one knelt down. No one checked.
Instead, they formed a loose circle around me.
Not too close. Not too far. Close enough to watch, far enough to stay uninvolved.
I shifted slightly, catching my reflection in the side of a parked car. My face looked off. Not dramatic.
Not pale enough to belong in a movie. Just wrong in a quiet, undeniable way.
It still didn't feel real. Not entirely.
A thought surfaced, uninvited and almost casual.
It would be funny if Spider-Man showed up right now.
I tilted my head slightly, looking up. Not because I expected anything, Just because the idea had already formed.
Buildings stretched upward. Windows. Fire escapes. Shadows. People leaning slightly to get a better view.
Nothing came.
Of course not.
'Wrong genre.'
A breath left me, softer this time. Almost a laugh.
The noise around me stretched. Voices overlapping—some panicked, some detached, some already turning the moment into something shareable.
"This dude just got stabbed in the middle of—yo—this city is wild—"
I exhaled slowly.
'At least someone's getting content out of this.'
My hands felt heavier now. Not numb. Just distant. The edges of my vision softened. Not darkness yet. Just less.
No one moved closer.
The circle held.
The city kept going.
And I slowly stopped.
...
...
Slap-
Something hit my face.
Light. Sharp. Repeated.
"Hey—stay with me."
Another slap followed, slightly harder this time.
"Open your eyes."
I frowned, or tried to. My face didn't quite respond the way I expected. That wasn't the street.
Another hit. "Don't lose consciousness yet."
I forced my eyes open slowly, like lifting something heavier than it should be. White. '
'Too white.'
The light pressed into my vision, flat and artificial. For a moment, everything blurred, then gradually sharpened.
A figure leaned over me. Mask. Gloves. No visible expression.
'Medical. Good.'
I inhaled. The air felt wrong—too clean, too controlled—but it was air. That was enough for now.
'Hospital.'
That explanation came easily. It didn't need to be accurate. It just needed to make sense.
"I got… stabbed," I said, my voice rough and thinner than expected.
The figure didn't respond.
I swallowed, throat dry, trying to ignore how strange my body felt—too light, too weak, like everything had been stripped down to something unfinished.
"Does that count as workplace injury?"
I added after a short pause.
My voice sounded off. Higher. Unfamiliar. But my brain didn't hold onto that long enough to question it. "Like insurance coverage… corporate should—"
"Subject is conscious."
The figure spoke, but not to me. Their voice was flat, clinical, directed somewhere past me.
"Cognitive function unclear. Verbal output irrelevant."
A second voice answered from somewhere behind.
"Proceed with sampling."
That didn't sound like a hospital.
I blinked slowly, trying to focus past the person above me. The ceiling was wrong.
Too perfect. Too clean.
Something metallic shifted nearby. A tray. Instruments. Not the kind you leave out casually.
My body tensed slightly, or tried to.
"Stay still," the figure said, finally addressing me directly. Not reassuring. Not concerned. Just instruction.
Something cold pressed against my arm.
A needle.
I watched it go in. Didn't stop it. Didn't react. Too slow.
A sound echoed faintly from somewhere beyond the room. Muffled. Distant.
A scream.
I went still.
That didn't belong here.
My eyes drifted sideways, unfocused at first, then slowly locking onto something reflective on the wall. A polished metal surface, just enough to catch light.
And a shape.
Someone lying down.
Small.
'Too small.'
I stared, trying to process what I was seeing. The proportions were wrong. The shoulders narrower. The frame thinner.
The face—
I didn't recognize it.
For a moment, my brain refused to connect the image with anything real. It hovered there, detached, like something I was observing rather than experiencing.
Then the pieces aligned.
Too late.
My breath hitched, shallow and unstable.
'That's not me.'
The thought landed heavier than anything before it. Not pain. Not fear. Something colder.
I tried to move. To sit up. To confirm.
My body didn't cooperate.
It barely responded at all.
"Vitals unstable," one of them said calmly.
"Subject entering shock response."
Of course.
The reflection blurred.
Or maybe my vision did.
The ceiling returned. White. Endless.
Not a hospital.
Everything started to slip again, faster this time.
My fingers twitched once, then stopped.
The last thing I registered was that smaller body.
Not mine.
Then nothing.